When night came we decided to endeavour to escape from our perilous position, and just outside the door we found a German sentry, who seemed to be scouting for British fugitives. We passed quite close to him, but didn’t stop to say “Good-night.” How we did it I can’t for the life of me tell you, but we did it, and then made off as we thought towards the British lines, but to our disgust found we were going right into the German lines. We decided, therefore, to anchor there for the night and get away in the morning. We found this was the German Headquarters Staff, so that we can say we dined with the German generals that night, the only difference being that they were inside and we were outside; they were having wines, &c., and we had swedes and no &c. In the morning we had to dodge sentries, but found that presented little difficulty. We decided then to travel south-west, with the sun as our guide. To do this, however, was impossible, for in our wanderings we had day after day to dodge German troops, who were continually marching across our tracks. We can hardly describe what happened during this time, but the harrowing sights we saw will never be effaced from our memories. Our condition was terrible, for we were at one time reduced to five biscuits between three of us, and these had to suffice us for three days. Sometimes we were afraid to drink water because we heard it was poisoned. At last we met the British. Private Alexander Andrews, of the Royal Scots, spoke of the deadly havoc of the shrapnel:— But the German infantry could not hit the place they belong to. We could not help hitting them. We saw them first about 800 yards away, and they came along in bunches just like a crowd leaving a football match. Our Maxims simply struck them down, and I will guarantee that for every one that fell on our side they lost ten or twelve. It was “rapid firing,” and we gave it them hot. None in our trench was killed, and we had only five or six, including myself, injured with shrapnel. A piece of shrapnel struck me on the top of the left ankle about half-past seven o’clock, cutting through my boot and making me feel a little queer. I bandaged it up, and went off with the others when the order came to retire about one o’clock on the Monday morning. Mons was in flames by that time, and the German big guns had been blazing about all night. We had been in a tight corner—two regiments against thousands, as most of us believe—and I would like to say a word for our captain, Captain Hill Whitson. In the trenches on the Sunday night, August 23, he was walking about with his revolver, ready for anything, and cheering us up while the shrapnel played about our position. Well, as I said, we had to retire. We went back three or four miles. The first regiment we saw was the Gordons, and I took particular notice that they had a German prisoner in the front of their ranks.