After dinner, and a talk with the Brigade Major about instructions, &c., for the battery, we set off down the road back to the trenches. When we got to the village you can either go up the communication trench or miss the first 500 yards or so of it and go up the road taking your chance of machine guns. Being rather late we chose the road. But, unfortunately, we had not gone 200 yards up it when tut-tut-tut-tut-tut-tut (say that as fast as you can and then say it faster and get father to sneeze it) a wretched machine gun got right on to the road. With our usual politeness we gave the road up to someone who seemed to want it more than ourselves, and dived into some R.E. stores at the side, while the wretched gun went on for 2 minutes, the bullets ricocheting off the road and ripping into the wood in which we were hiding. The only thing you could see of me were: (1) That upon which I sit down, and (2) my legs. I didn't mind about them, as a wound in them would only have meant a few months leave. At last the thing stopped, and we, strange to say, returned to the village and went along to the communication trench when plop, bang, smash (four sneezes from father, the new housemaid dropping the dinner tray and the chapel-keeper dropping the plate, will give you some idea--get them to try), four shells fell 50 yards away on our left. We were then halted by a sentry, one of my own battalion. Meanwhile, I saw the whole sky lit up as all our heavy guns were letting themselves go a bit; I suppose they knew the machine guns had been unkind to us and were trying to show their sympathy. The sentry challenged, I replied with our names and ranks. He glibly replied "Pass friends, all's well." As we were passing him to go to the C.T. (communication trench) I noticed something funny about his face, so I asked him what was the matter with it. He answered that he was wearing a gas helmet. I asked him if it was for amusement, or because he thought his face would frighten the passers-by. He answered that there was a gas attack on. Then an infernal din broke out, artillery, rifles, machine guns, &c., Very lights. I can tell you we got our helmets on pretty slick. Of course, Kitty (that's Kitton) had forgotten his (he's getting the other battery in the brigade, a Scot--a topping chap), but as I had two I lent him one of mine, keeping the prettiest, a blue and white striped one, for myself. Then we proceeded up the C.T. Well, you have never worn a gas helmet. It smells like ten hospitals and nearly suffocates you. I could not breathe out of mine at first and the windows got misty, but it got all right soon. You can imagine what it was like, nearly suffocated, hardly able to see or hear, and slithering about in army rubber boots on the ice in the bottom of the C.T., catching my cloak in everything, never knowing who was coming towards us, whether it was a fat, greasy Fritz or what it was, not having the faintest idea what was happening in the front and the