t happened. One of the
wounded was in such bad shape that the only possible chance to save
his life was to get him back to a dressing station without delay. The
communication trenches were washed out and the only way was down that
ill-fated Devil's Elbow road. The officer in command called for
volunteers to carry the man out, remarking that, as it was Christmas
Eve, he did not think even a German would shoot at a wounded man or
unarmed stretcher-bearers. All hands offered to go and two were
chosen. The officer went with them and they started down the road. The
minute they reached the fatal bend, where they came in sight of the
German lines, a shot rang out and down went the first man. Another
shot and the second was down, while a third dropped the officer, who
was trying to assist the fallen. I could see each shot strike in the
water alongside the road and could tell just about the spot from
whence they came so, although we had absolute orders never to fire
from that position unless attacked, I immediately swung the gun around
and commenced to "fan" that particular spot, at the same time calling
to our signaler to get the Sixteenth Battery on the wire and call for
S. O. S. fire. (Each yard of enemy line is covered by the guns of some
one of our batteries which, when not firing, are kept "laid" on their
particular section of parapet.) Within a few moments the battery
opened up but not before at least a half dozen machine guns in our
front line had been hoisted upon the parapets and were ripping
Heinie's sand-bags across the way. During this proceeding the wounded
men were recovered from the road, but, unfortunately, both the
volunteer carriers and the man originally wounded had died. The
officer, although painfully injured, recovered.

In retaliation for this trick, our heavy guns wiped out at least five
hundred yards of German trench. It was the most artistic job of of
work I have ever seen. From a point approximately two hundred and
fifty yards on either side of this murderer's nest we utterly
destroyed every vestige of a parapet. How many of the assassins we
killed will never be known, but our hearts were filled with unholy joy
when we could distinguish bodies or parts of enemy's bodies among the
debris thrown up by one of the big 9.2 shells.

CHAPTER X

A FINE DAY FOR MURDER

"Say, kid, want to go sniping?" called out a lank individual as he
came over the bridge at "S-P-7" one morning in December, 1915.