if a fellow gets one
in the leg, he will get hit again before he can crawl away. We were
nicely started down the road when all at once the machine guns started
to crackle. I took one jump and landed, rifle and all, in a ditch full
of water. Most of the boys came with me, but I couldn't help laughing
at some of the reinforcements. They took refuge behind trees, just as
if a little tree would stop a machine gun bullet. Of course we told
them, but not till one or two of their number got hit did they realize
their danger. The Germans were shelling the trenches that we were
going into, and now and again they would send over some high-explosive
shells and sweep our road with shrapnel, so we had a few more
casualties.

Well, at last we reached the trenches, and McMurchie and I stopped to
help a fellow that was hit. By the time we got in our boys had
relieved the 29th, who had been holding it ever since we left. Well,
just as Mac and I jumped into the trench, we heard some one say to our
Sergeant, "The officer wants you to send a couple of men for the
bombing-post on the road; the two that were holding it have just been
killed." Donnslau turned around and spied us making tracks up the
trench. "Goddard and McMurchie, you will take charge of the
bombing-post at the end of the trench: Sergeant Oldershaw will show you
where it is." Mac was ticked to death, and I followed him looking as
happy as I could--but, say, I wasn't feeling a bit heroic. We went on
the post and Fritzie shelled us there for two days, and it sure was a
marvel that we didn't get hit. I remember, we were lying on the
cobblestones in the middle of the road--the idea being to stop any
Germans that might be sneaking down that way. Sometimes when things
got too hot the Sergeant would call us into the trench and let us stay
there for awhile. While in the trench we would go around whistling;
and he was always cooking up tea or something. We always burned
candles for this, and when our supply ran out he went and borrowed from
the officers. Nothing seemed to bother him, and he would watch the
shells bursting overhead--big black shrapnel and "woolly bears." When
the latter burst they make a noise like a ton of bricks being dumped,
and Mac would watch them with a smile--once when we were sitting in the
mud, and I suppose I was looking about as cheerful as a dying duck in a
thunderstorm, Mac remarked, "In spite of orl 'is trials and privations,
the Briti