I wanted to see Anderson. He was only 40 yards away by a short cut over ground. I took the short cut—we were not allowed to use it by day—and had the uncomfortable feeling that even in the dark I was under enemy observation. It was the meanest 40 yards I had ever done since as a lad of 12 I hurried up the lane to my father’s door pursued by an ever-nearing ghost that had my shoulder in its clutches as I grasped the latch. But I went in now as then, whistling. Anderson and Rerat were there. They had a word of comfort to tell; that General Gouraud had planned to meet artillery with artillery and that our fire was bursting on the enemy forces massed to attack us in the morning. Just then a nearer crash resounded. The major spun in his chair and fell; Rerat clasped his knee and cried, “Oh, Father, the Major is killed.” The Major picked himself up sheepishly as if he had committed an indiscretion; Rerat rubbed a little blood off his knee apologetically as if he had appeared with dirt upon his face at drill; and I expressed jealousy of him that he had gotten a right to an easy wound stripe. Just then a gas-masked figure opened the door and announced that there were two wounded men outside. That came under my business and it was a relief to find something to do. I followed the messenger—it was Kenneth Morford—one of two good lads the Morford family gave to the service. Around the corner I came on Jim Kane badly hurt in the legs. Kenneth and I lifted him and carried him with difficulty through the narrow winding trench to the First Aid Station where we left him with the capable Johnny Walker and went back for the second man. It was Schmedlein—his folks were parishioners of mine—and he had it bad. I was puffing by now and blaming myself that I had not followed Major Donovan’s rules for keeping in condition. As I bent to the task I heard Phil McArdle’s voice, “Aisy now, Father. Just give me a holt of him. Slither him up on my back. This is no work for the likes of you.” I obeyed the voice of the master and slithered him up on Phil’s back with nothing to do but help Jim Bevan ease the wounded limb on our way to the dressing station. Corporal Jelley of H—a fine soldier—and Private Hunt of E—he had a cablegram in his pocket announcing the birth of his first born—had been killed by the shell that struck in front of our dugout, and my friend Vin Coryell wounded. We found later that some men of Company H who had been sent to the French for an engineering detail, had been killed—Corporal Dunnigan, whom I married at Camp Mills; Patrick Lynn, Edward P. Lynch, Albert Bowler, Russell W. Mitchel, Patrick Morrissey, James Summers, Charles W. O’Day and Walter M. Reilley. Company G had also suffered losses during the bombardment: Paul Marchman, Theodore Sweet, Harold Cokeley, Patrick Grimes, Patrick Farley, killed; with Corporal Harvey J. Murphy and Charles J. Reilley fatally wounded.