11.0 p.m. Enemy fired six rifle-grenades from F10/5. The approximate position of the battery was visible from the FORT, and Lewis gun fire was brought to bear on it, which immediately silenced it. 11.30 p.m. Enemy fired several trench-mortar shells and H.E. shells on junction of 78 Street and RUE ALBERT (F10/6), a few falling in our front line trench by the MATTERHORN. No damage was done to our trenches. 12.45 p.m. Our T.M. Battery fired 12 footballs, and our Stokes gun 32 shells at enemy’s front line trench in F10/5. The enemy sent a few canisters over, but then resorted to H.E.’s. Our artillery retaliated. Our Stokes gun continued to fire until enemy was silent, no reply being sent to our last 6 shells. 7.45 a.m. Enemy fired several rifle-grenades and bombs. Our R.G.’s retaliated with 24 R.G.’s. (b) _Progress of Work._ { 30 yards of parapet thickened two feet. F 10/6 { 25 yards of fire-step built. {20 coils of wire put out. { 20 yards of parapet thickened two feet. F 10/5 { 2 dug-outs completed. {20 yards of fire-step built. J. B. P. ADAMS, Lt., O.C. “B” Coy. CHAPTER XI “WHOM THE GODS LOVE”--(_continued_) As I write I feel inclined to throw the whole book in the fire. It seems a desecration to tell of these things. Do I not seem to be exulting in the tragedy? Should not he who feels deeply keep silent? Sometimes I think so. And yet it is the truth, word for word the truth; so I must write it. In the Straw Palace next morning Davidson and I were sitting discussing last night, when the doctor looked in. He started talking about Vermorel sprayers (the portable tins shaped like large oval milk-cans, filled with a solution useful for clearing dug-outs after a gas attack). One of these was damaged, and I had sent down a note to the M.O. about it. “How’s Robertson?” I asked at once. “He died this morning, Bill--three o’clock this morning.” “Good God,” I said. “Pretty ghastly, isn’t it? Two officers like that in one night. The C.O. is awfully cut up about it.” “Robertson dead?” said Davidson. And so we talked for some minutes. The old doctor was used to these things. He had seen so many officers fall out of line. But to us this was new, and we had not gauged it yet. You might have thought from his quiet jerky sentences that the doctor was almost callous. You would have been wrong. “Well, I must get on,” he said at last. “So long, Bill. Send that Vermorel sprayer down, will you, and I’ll see to it, and you’ll have it back to-night, probably.” “Righto.” And the doctor and his orderly disappeared down the Old Kent Road. Davidson and I talked alone. “It must be pretty rotten being an M.O.,” he remarked.