Those who have never experienced actual warfare cannot imagine how terrible are the horrors of life at the front. Picture for a moment a great multitude of men whose sole occupation is slaughter--some with smoke-blackened faces toiling in the earthworks, discharging their heavy field-pieces which day and night dispatch their death-dealing missiles into the shattered town yonder, while hordes of Cossacks and Russian grenadiers engage the enemy at every point; the rattle of musketry and artillery is deafening, the rain of bullets incessant, and on every side is suffering and death. And you are a war-correspondent, a spectator, a non-combatant! You have travelled across Europe to witness this frightful carnage, and paint word-pictures of it for the folk at home. At any moment a stray bullet might end your existence; nevertheless, you must not be fatigued, for after the toil of the day your work commences, and you must find a quiet corner where you can write a column of description for transmission to Fleet Street. Such were the circumstances in which I was placed when, after a six months' absence from England, I found myself before Plevna. The brief December day was drawing to a close as I stood, revolver in hand, near one of the great guns that at regular intervals thundered forth in chorus with the others. I was in conversation with Captain Alexandrovitch, a smart young officer with whom I was on very friendly terms, and we were watching through our field-glasses the effect of our fire upon the town. "Now my lads," the captain shouted in Russian, to the men working the gun. "Let us test our accuracy. See! one of Osman's officers has just appeared on the small redoubt yonder to encourage his men. There is a good target. See!" Scarcely had he spoken when the men sprang back, the great gun belched forth flame, and the shell, striking the enemy's fortification, took part of it away, blowing the unfortunate Turkish officer into fragments. Such are the fortunes of war! "Good!" exclaimed Alexandrovitch, laughing; as, turning to me, he added, "If we continue like this, we shall silence the redoubts before to-morrow. How suicidal of Osman Pasha to imagine his handful of lean, hungry dogs capable of defence against the army of the Great White Tzar. Bah! We shall--" The sentence was left unfinished, for a bullet whistled close to me, and a second later he threw up his hands, and, uttering a loud cry of pain, staggered and fell, severely wounded in the side. Our ambulance and medical staff was on that day very disorganised, so, instead of conveying him to the field hospital, they carried him into my tent, close by.