I still remained
an onlooker, but changed my position on the banquette.
"He must have been dead a long time," said the sanitary man, as he (p. 146)
flung handfuls of lime on the body, "see his face."
He turned the thing on its back, its face up to the sky. The features
were wonderfully well-preserved; the man might have fallen the day
before. The nose pinched and thin, turned up a little at the point,
the lips were drawn tight round the gums, the teeth showed dog-like
and vicious; the eyes were open and raised towards the forehead, and
the whole face was splashed with clotted blood. A wound could be seen
on the left temple, the fatal bullet had gone through there.
"He was killed in the winter," said the sanitary man, pointing at the
gloves on the dead soldier's hands. "These trenches were the
'Allemands' then, and the boys charged 'em. I suppose this feller
copped a packet and dropped into the mud and was tramped down."
"Who is he?" I asked.
The man with the chloride of lime opened the tunic and shirt of the
dead man and brought out an identity disc.
"Irish," he said, "Munster Fusiliers." "What's this?" he asked, taking
a string of beads with a little shiny crucifix on the end of it, from
the dead man's neck.
"It's his rosary," I said, and my mind saw in a vivid picture a (p. 147)
barefooted boy going over the hills of Corrymeela to morning Mass,
with his beads in his hand. On either side rose the thatched cabins of
the peasantry, the peat smoke curling from the chimneys, the little
boreens running through the bushes, the brown Irish bogs, the heather
in blossom, the turf stacks, the laughing colleens.
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