But to-day (July 1) the distant sound of the guns is once more stirring me as it did on my first morning in Flanders over a year ago. The rumble is more persistent and continuous than it has ever been. Yesterday my work took me down to the line, and I witnessed some pretty ‘strafing,’ but it is only back here at head-quarters that the true meaning of things is borne in upon me. Whichever side of the hill I stand, and according as the breeze varies, the thud and roar is continuous—it comes from three points of the compass. It is useless to speculate, but, whatever may happen in the future, this, at least, is a black day for Germany—the voices of the mighty guns of Britain and of France are raised in such a chorus as was never heard before. _‘DO’-NO-WHO’._ It is over a year ago since an Irish private, known to his pals by the above rather obvious contortion of the proper name of Donohue, was brought into hospital. He came with a convoy of British who, nearly all, were suffering from gas poisoning as well as wounds. Those being the early days of ‘the gaz,’ as Do’-no-who called it, arrangements for its defeat were not yet altogether successful. After all, who could then have foreseen such a devilish invention of war? However, the poor, panting, choking, indeed in some cases retching, men who came to us had been given some kind of protection. Each one clung still to his particular mask, limp, blackened, flimsy affair that it was. Poor old Do’-no-who’s condition was pretty desperate. You could hear him breathing fifty yards away. He was sustained from first to last by the most indomitable fighting spirit I ever came across. During a struggle of several days’ duration there was only one order which he utterly declined to obey. Nothing would, nobody _could_ keep him from talking—even in his sleep. I am bound to say it chiefly took the form of endless ejaculation. As, for instance, when with intense difficulty he managed at first to gulp down a little champagne, it was like this—‘Isn’t that fine now?’ ‘Grand!’ or ‘That’s killin’ the divil’s own gaz’—a word at a time between every sip. Soon realising that every known resource was being tried to relieve his sufferings, old Do’-no-who did his level best to respond to it and to cheer us on. ‘Och, I’m finely now,’ or ‘It’s only the gaz that’s hindering ye’s all,’ he would say, with a sorry attempt to smile. But sometimes there would be anxious moments, when he would lie back only partially conscious. Then it seemed as though he was engaged in some most exciting and exhausting struggle. Little exclamations of despair or joy in turn would escape him. ‘Sure this gaz’ll defate me!’ ‘Deed it will that!’ Then, after renewed panting, the perspiration would pour down his cheeks, and ‘I have it!’ ‘Isn’t it weighty now?’ and the puff! puff! puff! greater than ever made one wonder what huge burden he thought he was lifting.