THE RED FLOWER.

Auckland Star, Volume XLVIII, Issue 137, 9 June 1917, Page 13

THE RED FLOWER.

_HE STORY OF A RAID. If her imagination had been at all morbid, she might have perceived some sinister significance in the fact that she stuck in his belt a red llower from the small group of blooms in the greenhouse as a token at the moment of farewell.

It wns so rich, so vivid, on its plain "background of khaki—it suggested so clearly, with its Hat, serrated petals, a spla-li of blood. But no thought of the resemblance crossed her mind or his; nnd in the crowded confusion of the Channel crossing the flower remained unnoticed, unrcproved. By the evening he stood with only memory to cheer him within the clamour of the guns.

It happened to liim that very night to take port in nn attack, or rhther.a raid, and without any thought of danger he did thoroughly the deadly work that fell to his share. At the recall, very tired— not without, reason, as the uttnr wreckage of a few dug-outs in the raided area would have recorded —he stnrted back across the strip of intervening ground; and there it wns that he dropped, struck by a flying piece of shell just below the heart. He became aware of the warm flood soaking his shirt and tunic; saw in the pallid moonlight the dark stain; heard, amid other noises, the stumbling feet of the luckier ones pass hi in by; he tried to shout, but his voice sounded thin nnd feeble. He felt carefully in his inside pocket for the flask of brandy which he had brought from home as a precaution; it wns broken to pieces. Then, fearing to move lest Ilia wound should open afresh, he lay very still, gazing up at the misty moon, glancing now and agnin at the stain that reminded him of the red flower. It was, he grimly imagined, the crimson flower of death. "A BAD SMASH." Long before dawn they missed him, and three gallant boys braved the enemy's angry blast of shelling to come out and look for him. Gently, bidding him not speak too much, they lifted him and carried him back to the advanced dressing station.

Skilfully the doctor slit ntvay the sodden clothes, nnd made his swift, unerring examination. Then he stood back, hands on hip, and spoke candidly to his patient. "It's a bad smash, my boy. I'm afraid I can't do much to mend it."

"Tell mc the worst, doctor. I can stand it"

•'Well —your coat is absolutely soaked with brandy; you smell like a publichouse, and there are about twenty fragments of the flask distributed externally in the cardiac region. A most regrettable smash. Otherwise you're a perfect fraud, lying out in the moonlight and pretending to be a 'Mighty.' Get up. you son of a sea-cook, and make room for a deserving ease! Up with you!" "But there was blood—blood on my coat, doctor. I watched it." The doctor stooped, picked up something from the floor, and held it before his victim. It was a large drooping red' flower. "Up you get," he said. "Here's your terrible"crimson stain. You've an active mind, my boy. You can kill a man, as possibly "you arc aware, by blindfolding him, passing a lump of ice across his throat, and letting a little warm water trickle down his neck, and I've no doubt that when the hit of shell bit you on the—on the spirit department you felt pretty bad. But a little arnica will soon take the bruise out. So off with you, and have a good feed. I won't split!" Rather shamefacedly the patient put on the remnants of his coat and walked away. Biit he picked up the red flower and put it in his pocket-hook, for luck. — "W.L.R.," in the "Daily Mail."'