There is a certain grave near Peronne, and in it rests a German machine gunner, and though the cross over the grave testifies to the valour of the dead man it also is witness to the chivalry of the men who buried him there. The men were Australian soldiers, brave Diggers who advanced to the attack and after making rapid strides they were held up by the fire of a solitary machine gun that stood immovable in the rout as a rock in running water. Round it the retreating army was withering like snow in a thaw, the whole line bending, cracking and floating backwards.

Still this gun kept hurling its lead against the advancing Diggers, cutting great gaps in their ranks. For a full hour it kept up its murderous fire, staying the Australians and causing them to halt. In vain they streaked out to the left or right, wormed their way along folds in the ground or took cover in natural hollows and advanced from there when the fire ceased for a space. But the moment a head showed or a khaki clad body came into view the gun found voice and swept its missiles of death across the field.

Suddenly it became silent. The advance was resumed and the gun was located. Here was found a solitary German lying dead beside his weapon with a bullet wound in his head.

"A brave man!" said the Australians, looking at the dead man who alone and unaided held up their advance for an hour. "We'll bury him!"

And there and then in the emplacement which he had guarded till death they buried the German soldier and on the cross over the man is written "Erected by the —— in admiration of a soldier."

The officer who conducted our party spoke of another grave which is near the same place, and which bears on the headstone:

"Here lie two Huns who met a Digger."

And near it, in terse and forcible language is inscribed on a second headstone:

"Here lies the Digger."

Whether this is true or not is impossible to say. The officer who told me of it merely got the story of the affair from some other man who had not seen the headstones, but who heard of them from a mate. In this way is rumour carried from mouth to mouth on the field of battle. But if the story is true, it shows the grim humour which is the soldier's; if not true, it shows the same humour as it takes form in the imagination and makes itself manifest in dug-out drollery and war mentality.

The Somme is a land of ruins and graves. These graves are everywhere by the Amiens-St. Quentin road, by the road from St. Quentin to Cambrai and the road from Eitenham to Bray. Not alone by the roadside are the brave resting, they sleep in folds of the earth, on little hillocks, in the shade of broken spinneys, by the banks of canals and on the verge of disbanded trenches. Over one heap of earth can be seen a bayonet topped with a helmet or cap, over another a rifle with its barrel stuck in the ground. Crosses stand to unknown soldiers, British, French or German, crosses with names stand singly or in clusters, telling of the men who have given up their life in the great war. None of these are secure from the leprosy of time; the wind, weather and rain turn them black or green, blotting out all record or detail. The grass and weeds grow up around them, covering them and hiding them from the eyes of men. The French graves have their red rosettes, the British graves their black lettering, and amongst these latter many Australians are buried far away from the land that gave them birth.

In the churchyard of Peronne are several crosses telling of British soldiers buried there. The inscriptions on the crosses are written in German and all are couched in a similar manner:

"Here rests in God, Private —— of the —— Regiment."

"The only kindly thing I've ever seen done by the Germans," said an Australian officer who was with us as we looked at the graves.

A Soldier's Prayer