We compelled the Major out of loyalty to his native heath to give us Down in the Heart of the Gas House District. Just then the Adjutant of Colonel Arnoux stepped in to give us the news that the attack was certain and midnight the hour. So we toasted France and America and departed for a final inspection of positions. Everybody is as well fixed as he can be made and I have picked this as the handiest central place to await developments. _July_ 15th, 1918 It was 12:04 midnight by my watch when it began. No crescendo business about it. Just one sudden crash like an avalanche; but an avalanche that was to keep crashing for five hours. The whole sky seemed to be torn apart with sound—the roaring B-o-o-o-m-p of the discharge and the gradual menacing W-h-e-e-E-E-Z of traveling projectiles and the nerve racking W-h-a-n-g-g of bursts. Not that we could tell them apart. They were all mingled in one deafening combination of screech and roar, and they all seemed to be bursting just outside. Some one of us shouted, “They’re off”; and then nobody said a word. I stood it about 20 minutes and then curiosity got the better of me and I went out. I put my back against the door of the hut and looked up cautiously to see how high the protecting sand bags stood over my head, and then I took a good look around. I saw first the sky to the south and found that our own guns were causing a comfortable share of the infernal racket. The whole southern sky was punctuated with quick bursts of light, at times looking as if the central fires had burst through in a ten-mile fissure. Then when my ear became adjusted to the new conditions I discovered that most of the W-h-e-e-z-z were traveling over and beyond, some to greet the invaders, some to fall on our own rear lines and back as far as Chalons. I crawled around the corner of the shack and looked towards the enemy. Little comfort there. I have been far enough north to see the Aurora Borealis dancing white and red from horizon to zenith; but never so bright, so lively, so awe-inspiring, as the lights from that German Artillery. I stepped inside and made my report to Lieutenant Young, who was busy writing. He called for a liaison man. Harry McLean—just a boy—stepped out of the gloom into the candle light. He looked pale and uneasy—no one of us was comfortable—but he saluted, took the message, made a rapid Sign of the Cross, and slipped out into the roaring night. A liaison man has always a mean job, and generally a thankless one. He has neither the comparative protection of a dugout or fox-hole under shelling, nor the glory of actual fight. Our lads—they are usually smart youngsters—were out in all this devilment the whole night and I am glad to say with few casualties. Every last man of them deserves a Croix de Guerre.