Blinded with gas, I blundered along, bayonet fixed, finger on trigger, stumbling over dead and wounded Germans, bumping into sharp corners of the trench, on into another gas maze, and across the second line trench. Someone pulled my coat from behind and I discovered that our men were going down that cross trench. So I fell in about the middle of the company, pumped the gas from my stomach, and by the time I was in shape again orders came that we should hold this trench, which had gradually filled with our men. It had rained all day. Racing through the trenches, dirt fell into the magazines of our rifles. It makes one furiously angry when the magazine will not work. I grabbed a rifle laying alongside a man I thought dead. He was very much awake. He quite insisted on using his own gun. The next man was dead. He had a new rifle. I felt much better. It was impossible to stay in that crowded trench. I found a large shell hole in the open, eight feet deep, with water in the bottom. With shovel and pick, I dug out enough on the side of the crater to find dry ground and tried to sleep. I was awakened by officers who wished to make me go into the trenches. I did not understand French. Those officers insisted I did. Of course, I did not. I knew they wanted the nice, comfortable place I had constructed for themselves. So, paid no attention, but covered up my head and tried to sleep. I could not. Then remembered something—I had eaten no food for twenty-four hours. So soaked hard tack in the water at the bottom of the shell hole, dined, and then went to sleep in spite of the rain, the bombardment, and the homeless officers. Next day made another attack over the top. Got into a Boche machine gun cross-fire; orders were to dig down. Noticed a large shell crater about 20 yards to the left, where a half dozen Poilu were laying in comfort below the earth level and fairly safe. Was crawling toward them on my stomach, with nose in the ground, when I felt the earth shake (impossible to hear in the never-ending cannon roar), looked up, and about 80 or 100 feet in the air, when they had rested on a teeter after going up and before coming down,—I saw a number of blue overcoats, and I looked over to the shell crater and saw it was larger, fresher and empty. However, I crawled over there and stayed till darkness relieved me. Those men were in comparative safety, while I was out in the open and exposed, yet they were killed, and I lived to tell about it. Soldiers naturally become fatalists, and will not be called till the shell comes along with his number on. They see a shell fall, a cloud of dirt and dust goes up—no damage done. Another shell falls,—a man stood there,—he goes up,—he was in the wrong place, at the wrong time,—and out of luck. Why worry? There are too many shells, and the one that gets you is the one you will never see. If it does not get you right then it is time enough to worry,—if it does you won’t need to worry.