I pray his safety to
the end. They all went, one after the other. The last to go was Hugh. July,
1916, on the eleventh day he was killed. Dear old boy, it is unrealizeable
yet. You won the military Cross and you won yet another undying honor. You
were sniped in the glory of completing a fine piece of work. Your six feet
of glorious young manhood lie deep in French soil. Good-by, Hugh!
Peter was reported missing. All of us who were left alive tried every means
of which we knew and of which we heard to find a trace of him. We got none.
At last I decided that an advertisement in a daily paper would bring
replies from wounded soldiers. I advertised in _The Daily Express_. The
advertisement appeared on a Wednesday, and on the Thursday morning I had a
letter from a young Canadian soldier of the Third Battalion who was in the
Royal Herbert Hospital at Woolwich. He told me of knowing something of what
may have happened to Peter. The possibilities were that he was blown up in
company with a trench full of other soldiers. There is little reason to
doubt this awful ending to a young life; there is no evidence of anything
else.
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