That evening he was buried
beside the Munster Fusilier.
CHAPTER XII (p. 149)
THE SHELLING OF THE KEEP
A brazier fire at twilight,
And glow-worm fires ashine,
A searchlight sweeping heaven,
Above the firing-line.
The rifle bullet whistles
The message that it brings
Of death and desolation
To common folk and kings.
We went back from the trenches as reserves to the Keep. Broken down
though the place was when we entered it there was something restful in
the brown bricks, hidden in ivy, in the well-paved yard, and the
glorious riot of flowers. Most of the original furniture remained--the
beds, the chairs, and the pictures. All were delighted with the place,
Mervin particularly. "I'll make my country residence here after the
war," he said.
On the left was a church. Contrary to orders I spent an hour in the
dusk of the first evening in the ruined pile. The place had been
shelled for seven months, not a day had passed when it was not (p. 150)
struck in some part. The sacristy was a jumble of prayer books,
vestments, broken rosaries, crucifixes, and pictures. An ink pot and
pen lay on a broken table beside a blotting pad. A lamp which once
hung from the roof was beside them, smashed to atoms. In the church
the altar railing was twisted into shapeless bars of iron, bricks
littered the altar steps, the altar itself even, and bricks, tiles,
and beams were piled high in the body of the church.
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