The effect on me personally was at first a sort of atrophy of my senses—a feeling came over me that if this was to be my end, well let it be a quick and complete finish, no blinding or maiming or other drawn out agony. Next a sensation of extreme hunger, which at the time I felt inclined to pat myself on the back for, as indicating heroic indifference to my surroundings, but which later I learned, to my disappointment, is a well-known manifestation of “funk,” a form of nervous dyspepsia—“fringale,” the French call it. But gradually these impressions wore off, and I looked around with curiosity to see how the young soldiers around me bore themselves. Several were in a state of absolute terror at each explosion, and were wringing their hands and ejaculating under their breath “Oh, Dio—Oh, mamma!” whilst others sat stock still and gazed in front of them in moody silence. Our chauffeur was very much upset and made no attempt to disguise it; so much so, in fact, that I wondered how on earth he would be able to drive us back; his nerve seemed to be quite gone, and his face was ghastly white. Suddenly a soldier rushed down the steps calling out frantically that the sergeant was mortally wounded and asking if anyone had any brandy. No one had any, and I made a mental note never again to be without a flask of it in my pocket. The poor fellow was lying just outside the dug-out with his leg badly smashed up by a big fragment of shell. He was losing consciousness and kept sobbing and crying out for his mother. Fortunately some stretcher-bearers were near by, so in a very few minutes he was bound up with an improvised tourniquet to stop the hemorrhage and hurried off to the nearest ambulance station, though I doubt whether he ever reached it alive. We returned to the dug-out as the firing shewed no signs of abatement; but my companion began to get fidgetty, and at last said we might have to stay there for hours if we waited till all was quiet, and suggested our risking it and making a start. Of course I could only agree; but the chauffeur was not so anxious. He was, if anything, still more upset by what had just happened; however, a few kind but forcible words brought him to his senses, and with an effort he managed to pull himself together. So we all went out somewhat anxiously to see if the car was still in existence, and found that, fortunately, it had passed through its ordeal of fire unscathed and had not been touched. There was no time to lose, as may be imagined, with shells bursting all round us, but as might have been expected, because we were in a hurry to get away there was an irritating delay, and this delay was directly the cause of an incident that now occurred, and which might very easily have had a fatal result. The car had to be turned round, not a quick operation at the best of times, and especially in a narrow road, but under fire, a decidedly nerve-testing job.