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Boche to work perdition on them, a thing forbidden, it was said, by the articles of war. No general, no soldier could be proud of this work; no human person could take the joy of succeeding from these tortured deaths. Father Buckley muttered quickly at each set of unlistening ears; he was anxious it would seem to include them all in the roll-calls of the saved, to get them, in particular after such an utter ruin of things, to possible paradise.
    ‘Is that you, Willie?’ said Father Buckley, when he reached Captain Pasley.
    ‘It is, Father,’ said Willie.
    ‘Isn’t this the saddest thing you’ve ever seen?’
    ‘It is, Father,’ he said.
    ‘Who is this man here?’ asked the priest.
    ‘Captain Pasley from Tinahely.’
    ‘Of course it is, Willie,’ said the priest, kneeling to the naked form. He did not seek to cover him up; maybe he respected this simple aspect of a ruined man. ‘I wonder what religion is written in his small-book?’
    ‘I think he wasn’t a Catholic, Father. Most of the strong farmers in Wicklow there are Church of Ireland men.’
    ‘You are probably right, Willie.’
    Father Buckley knelt in close. Of course, you cannot take a last confession from a voiceless man. But there must have been some small ceremony that could be offered, because the priest was mumbling in his little singing voice.
    ‘Do you know his family there in Wicklow?’ said the priest then, rising stiffly.
    ‘I think I would know the house. The Mount it is called, I think. He used to talk about the work there. I think he loved the bit of land they have there. My grandfather will know them, I am certain.’
    ‘He’s a farmer there, your grandfather?’
    ‘He was the steward on the Humewood estate. He is one hundred and two years old now. He knows all that world.’
    ‘Well, if chance should bring you down that way, Willie, will you go in and tell them how he died? Not this dreadful end. But that everyone knew he elected to stay so that no one could say he left without orders.’
    ‘I will say it to them if I am down there because that is what happened, Father.’
    ‘It is.’
    ‘How are you yourself?’ said Father Buckley.
    They stood quite carelessly, not really thinking of their safety. They knew the Germans would not shoot today. Christy Moran opined that the gas had shocked even them. They were ashamed, he said, and would let them bury the dead. The awful gap in the line that the gas had made, which had the general shouting, it was said, back at headquarters, and swearing, was not molested again in any way by them. They did not seek to take their advantage. It was as if in the laden baskets of tragedy of this war, this one act had the weight of a boulder that no man’s strength could shift. Everyone was amazed and afrighted.
    ‘How are you yourself, Willie?’ said the priest again when he got no answer. He wanted to say that Willie would feel the death of his first captain the most sorely, that after this it would be easier, but he didn’t say it somehow.
    Willie could find no useful words to offer. He wanted to say something, at least not to show him discourtesy or roughness.
    They stood there two feet apart in all that vale of tears, one man asking another how he was, the other asking how the other was, the one not knowing truly what the world was, the other not knowing either. One nodded to the other now in an expression of understanding without understanding, of saying without breathing a word. And the other nodded back to the other, knowing nothing. Not this new world of terminality and astonishing dismay, of extremity of ruin and exaggeration of misery. And Father Buckley did not know anything but grief, and Willie Dunne on that black day likewise.
    Five hundred men and more of Willie’s regiment dead.
    As they stood there a strange teem of rain fell down from the heavens. It rattled, veritably rattled on their human shoulders.

    That evening Father Buckley was around asking if anyone wanted