Walking was now becoming exceedingly painful and we proceeded slowly. I choked the groans that would rise to my lips and felt a cold perspiration pouring freely from my face. It was easier to get along by taking hold of the sides of the trench with my hands than by being supported by my guide. A party of bombers or carriers of some description passed us. We stood on one side to let them go by. In those few seconds my wound became decidedly stiffer, and I wondered if I would ever reach the end of the trenches on foot. At length the communication trench passed through a belt of trees, and we found ourselves in Cross Street. Here was a First Aid Post, and R.A.M.C. men were hard at work. I had known those trenches for a month past, and I had never thought that Cross Street could appear so homelike. Hardly a shell was falling and the immediate din of battle had subsided. The sun was becoming hot, but the trees threw refreshing shadows over the wide, shallow brick-floored trenches built by the French two years before. The R.A.M.C. orderlies were speaking pleasant words, and men not too badly wounded were chatting gaily. I noticed a dresser at work on a man near by, and was pleased to find that the man whose wounds were being attended to was my servant L----. His wound was in the hip, a nasty hole drilled by a machine-gun bullet at close quarters. He showed me his water-bottle, penetrated by another bullet, which had inflicted a further, but slight, wound. There were many more serious cases than mine to be attended to. After about five or ten minutes an orderly slit up my breeches. "The wound's in the front of the hip," I said. "Yes, but there's a larger wound where the bullets come out, sir." I looked and saw a gaping hole two inches in diameter. "I think that's a Blighty one, isn't it?" I remarked. "I should just think so, sir!" he replied. "Thank God! At last!" I murmured vehemently, conjuring up visions of the good old homeland. The orderly painted the iodine round both wounds and put on a larger bandage. At this moment R----, an officer of "D" company, came limping into Cross Street. "Hallo, L----," he exclaimed, "we had better try and get down to hospital together." We started in a cavalcade to walk down the remaining trenches into the village, not before my servant, who had insisted on staying with me, had remarked-- "I think I should like to go up again now, sir," and to which proposal I had answered very emphatically-- "You won't do anything of the sort, my friend!" R---- led the way, with a man to help him, next came my servant, then two orderlies carrying a stretcher with a terribly wounded Scottish private on it; another orderly and myself brought up the rear--and a very slow one at that!