The Army Runners are picked men, of great courage and endurance. Their duties are most important, and they have to carry them out in circumstances often of the utmost danger. The story of our picture (a true one) is of a British runner, mortally, wounded, falling dead in the act of handing to an officer the message which had been entrusted to him. He had indeed been faithful unto death.” The following beautiful story brings vividly before, us how these men live and die: ―
“Gone to His Death”
The Rev. O. S. Watkins gives the following pathetic description of the death and burial of a motor-cycle scout. He says: ―
“No men are braver, and very few render more important service, than the motor-cycle scouts. They are, many of them, students from Oxford and Cambridge. Their intelligence, knowledge of languages, and general resources are a great asset to the British Army. Their work, however, is perilous in the extreme. One of these had lost his way, and had actually ridden through two villages occupied by the Germans when, at Douai, a bullet found its way to his heart. When the Germans retired from the village, the villagers carried him tenderly into a cottage, straightened the fine young limbs, and covered him with a clean, white sheet. They placed a bunch of newly-gathered flowers upon his heart. He was carried, to his last long rest by the old men of the village―the young men had all gone to the War—and as they passed through thee village, the women came from the houses and laid flowers upon the bier.
“Slowly they climbed the hill, with many a halt to rest the ancient bearers, while ahead boomed the heavy guns, and at their feet they could see the infantry advancing to action. At last the hill-top was reached, crowned by the little church, with ‘God’s acre’ all around. They laid him in the hastily-dug grave, the peasants―with uncovered heads―listening reverently to the reading of the burial service in a language they could not understand. Before the service was finished shrapnel shells were bursting over the hill-top, and the peasants quietly moved to the partial shelter of the wall, still with uncovered heads.
When the final ‘Amen’ was said, the Chaplain stood for a moment gazing down into the grave and thinking of all the brilliant possibilities wrapped up in that splendid young fellow ‘gone to his death,’ when one of the old men, forgetting his fear of the guns, came forward to the graveside, and cast earth with unconscious dignity upon the body lying there.
“‘You are a brave man,’ he said, and our friend. You have given your life for our country. We thank you. May you sleep well in the earth of beautiful France.” And the old men under the shelter of the wall added ‘Amen.’
“Thus they go—the grand old Field-Marshal, ‘neath the weight of years, the brilliant General, in the full tide of useful service; and the young man, his life-work scarce begun! Thus they go, and the flower of our nation’s manhood with them.”
You cannot read this without tears; without thinking of the brave young lives gone from earth forever. Gone to their death—dying bravely for their earthly king and country―but leaving behind them as they go breaking hearts and sorrow that cannot be appeased. Oh, brave young lives! Thousands and teas of thousands like you on the battlefield today, are we caring for you? Are we loving you as, we ought? What shall we say to God about you by-and-bye when we stand before Him? You, “faithful unto death” in your work; we, some of us, at ease at home, and often thoughtless in our estimate of your splendid needs. Oh! if we could help your grand, fearless manhood to be given to Christ! Oh! if we could know you died with the name of testis on your lips.
Oh! God, we cry to Thee, Thou eternal lover of the souls of men! For the sake of Thy beloved Son, Who died that we might live, grant that to thousands of these dear fellows on land and sea the knowledge of a Saviour’s love may he given; so that when the earthly wreath of victory has faded in their dead hands, they may be crowned in heaven, “more than conquerors” through Him Who loved them.
In the presence of these heroic dead, I appeal to the living now. Never, be ashamed to follow Jesus, or to confess His name. Upon, the battlefield of Calvary He fought the most awful conflict the world has ever known. He goes alone I have watched the gathering of His foes I have seen the unfurling of the banners of hell, and I have listened to the awful battle cries of demons, that rang around, Him as He faced them all. He stands alone―God’s Man, and God’s beloved Son. He is Lord of angels, but no-legions of angels surround Him now. He is King’ of kings, and Lord of lords, and yet He is crowned with thorns, and robed with the purple robe of mockery.
All His followers have left Him. One has betrayed Him. One has betrayed Him with a traitor’s, kiss; another has denied Him with oaths and curses; and all “forsook Him and fled.” The whole world is against Him. The devil is there with the serried legions of the damned. The angels of God Are there, silent witnesses of a conflict in which they cannot take part. High priests, scribes and pharisees are there. Ten thousand voices rave around. His cross, “Away with Him! Crucify Him!” Jews and heathen mingle together in one common hatred of the Man Who came to redeem the world. And so He died―alone―the grandest death the world has ever known. He was “faithful unto death,” and before He died the message was given to earth, and heaven, and God, from those closing lips, “It is finished”; and the shout of a Conqueror was heard in heaven, while the darkness of awful tragedy lay athwart the world.
Through weakness and defeat,
He won the meed and crown―
Trod all our foes beneath His feet,
By being trodden down.
Bless, bless the Conqueror, slain,
Slain in His victory; Who lived,
Who died, Who lives again,
For thee, my soul, for thee.
Let us crown Jesus in our hearts, Lord of all. Many brave soldiers and sailors do.