To impress upon the batteries the urgency of speeding up their corrections I continually wired them in code, “Is battery ready?” “Is battery ready?” They put out the panels “Wait a few minutes,” but I continued to wire, “Is battery ready?” We had no code for “Hurry up;” I wished many times we had, for the columns were fast approaching each other. In a few minutes it would be too late to get both columns. I realized those battery commanders had just cause to make use of an extended stream of profane language when I gave them that large correction of three hundred meters or a quarter of a mile after adjusting them to such a fine point, for, undoubtedly, they could not see the necessity for it. Fortunately they both had confidence and stayed with me. Just as the heads of the two columns began to pass each other, which was just a little north of the cross roads, the first battery put out a panel, “Battery is ready.” The airplane signal to fire was three long wireless emissions so it was only necessary now to press the key three times and the show would be on. I called the battery rapidly, but before I gave the fatal signal I thought of the warden of the penitentiary about to press the fatal buzzer that sends the doomed soul to his death. The simile naturally struck me for I had a hundred men and more horses directly in my trap. There was no way for them to escape. The deadly zone fire, with the speed of lightning, would soon crush them. I could imagine our men at their guns in the improvised battery pits, ready for the minutes of strenuous work before them, waiting for the radio buzzer to speak and command. As I looked down I could see the troops and transports were already passing each other—the road fork was filled—it was now time to act. I felt as if I simply could not bring myself to the point of pressing the key. The men and the crushing out of their lives, the blighting of the hopes of many fond sweethearts, the wrecking of many homes and the grief of many mothers were strangely enough only passing thoughts, for it had to be done—“C’est la Guerre”—they were the enemies of my country. But there was another side of the story, the horses—for if there is any one thing in my life I have always loved it is a horse. Since I was a lad I have always picked up with the worst old skate in the town just out of sympathy, and to see a man abusing a horse would draw me into a fist fight quicker than anything else. The poor horses—dumb and senseless—they were not my enemies, except from a cold-blooded standpoint regarding them as war material of the enemy.