Late one afternoon our section (thirteen men) was all together. Four of us were playing cards in an effort at distraction, for we were nearly insane from the lack of drinking water. For two days we had had to eat our bully beef and biscuits dry. We made it up that we should play a game of "phat" (a common card game among the Tommies), and that the one with the lowest count would have to take the section's water bottles and fill them at the brook. This--to use a Yankee expression--was a "cinch" for me, or at least I thought so at the beginning of the game; and so did the others, who, because of my record as a winner at the game were of the opinion that I couldn't lose. However, toward the middle of the game I became nervous. So far I had taken only two tricks. Things got worse as the playing progressed, and it wound up with me the loser. Without a word, they collected the thirteen bottles and hung them on my left shoulder like decorations on a Christmas tree. Silently I made off. I reached the brook without mishap. I had almost half of the bottles filled when--zip--a bullet struck very close to me. I tumbled into the water, pulling the bottles with me, and, in a lying position, continued filling them. This was not what one might call a comfortable or a convenient position in which to fill water bottles. They filled very slowly indeed. As soon as they were full, I placed them on my shoulders; rose, dripping, from the water; and made for our line. I had not gone more than twenty paces when a bullet struck close at my heels. I jumped and looked upward, hoping to fool the sniper into thinking he was firing too high, causing him to set his sight for a shorter range. The next shot fell shorter still. I looked up again and hastened my pace. A third shot visibly struck a rock and enabled the sniper to correct his range. Almost immediately after came another bullet, which I knew had got something about me. Instantly I flopped down and lay still. There was more scattered firing from the German lines and I was trembling with "nerves." At last, I could not stand it longer. I was afraid the sniper would fire at me again--not an uncommon practice with the boche sniper, who, when he drops his man, usually sends over a make-sure shot. So I sprang to my feet and rushed for the trenches, arriving there in safety. When I got into our section I found my pals sitting around and looking very gloomy. Upon seeing me they greeted me with: "Ye've been a h---- o' a time awa'. We were juist beginnin' tae think we'd lost our watter bottles." When I unloaded my cargo I found that two of the bottles had been pierced by a bullet. Each man of the section made a thirsty effort to lay hands on his own bottle. I was left with the two damaged ones besides my own. Then they told me how a shell had exploded and killed two of the card players--the owners of the damaged bottles. The water that was left in these was distributed among the others.