Between The Crosses Row On Row

Prologue

December 3, 1917

The rituals had been observed. The appropriate scriptures quoted. A consoling and uplifting message had been provided acknowledging the sacrifice made. The shortened lives had been dutifully mourned. Both during the service and afterwards, tears in their abundance had been freely shed with needed embraces given. Hands offering reassurance had been extended and then taken. Grim faces had been forcibly shaken off. In their stead, expressions of reluctant acceptance donned. At its conclusion, the promise of rebirth to those who had offered their utmost to God, King and country had been reaffirmed.

This was the second funeral in the village during the past week, the first being of a much higher order with the majority of the ceremony and observances performed in a much larger church and before a greater and more distinguished audience. Yet tradition held sway, as it did throughout England, and the deceased had been returned to the village to be interred with his forebears, just as with the other two who had been buried here today, joining with their ancestors in what would be their final earthly abode.

All that could be expressed had been given voice to. All that could be done had been accomplished. The mourning parents, the brothers and sisters, the wee ones, the extended family, the friends and acquaintances, the neighbours—all had departed. Yet one remained by the graves of the two brothers set side by side in the greying of the late afternoon and the chill air. Their deaths had been tragic, unneeded—as was true of all of the fallen in the Great War—and there would be more, many more before it finally came to its conclusion—if ever it should. But the greater travesty was the fact that all the brave and eloquent words centred on the theme of their martyrdom were a lie.

No. The truth had been hidden, obscured and denied any form of possibility. Just as it had been for the one who had died the same day as these two but whose rites of passage into God's kingdom had preceded theirs. No. The one standing alone in the village cemetery knew the truth. Their deaths had not come by war and through the arms of combat. No. They had all been murdered!