At last “B” Co. had distributed itself on the ground, and was preparing for a dismal wallow until morning. In spite of wet, mud and chill some were already asleep. We were just within the artillery zone, and the jar and grumble of the guns ahead was occasionally punctuated by the roar and scream of one of the heavies nearer by. This, however, was only normal artillery fire, such as we had been accustomed to at St. Pol and Lattre St. Quentin, and we settled down to wait for the big show. Some of the more energetic started to pitch their pup tents. Just as I dozed off, some idiot shouted “Gas!” Our long hours of gas drill, and many vivid and gruesome lectures on the subject, promptly bore fruit. In fact, the good seed shot up like Jack’s beanstalk. The cry was re-echoed by a dozen, then a score of startled voices. Everyone reached into the familiar canvas satchel that he cherished on his bosom, donned his mask more or less expeditiously, and sat expectantly awaiting developments. In the midst of the rumpus I heard Lt. Foulkes’ voice from the road bawling for the company commanders. I thought sadly that the lad had probably lost his mask, or the gas had caught him suddenly and he was raving. However, for sake of auld lang syne, I took a long breath, and shouted, “Whatsmatterwhydontyouputonyourmask?” I replaced my mouthpiece, and started blundering toward Louis’ voice, hoping I might be in time at least to view his remains. During the next two minutes I walked on every man in “B” Co. at least once, and probably on most of “A” and “C” Cos. Then Foulkes roared my name within five yards of me. “Where’s the gas?” I demanded. There wasn’t any gas. CHAPTER VI ST. MIHIEL AND LIMEY SECTOR The Major was waiting for us up the “road.” He informed us that the 156th Brigade was the alert brigade. We were not to pitch tents nor unroll packs, but lie on our arms ready to reinforce the front line division should occasion demand it. The barrage was due to start at 1 A. M.; at 5 A. M. the infantry was to go over the top. I waded back with this gladsome news, and we lay in the mud and wet leaves and shivered and wished we could smoke, and waited for the show to start. Word had passed that there was a big French railroad gun about 30 yards away, and a pleasant time was anticipated by all. At 1 A. M. the sullen jar of the usual cannonade was shattered by a tremendous crash. And that crash lasted solid for four hours. I shall not try to describe a real A-1 barrage to men who have been there.