That walk across the fields to the support’s position was certainly a thriller. As I came out of the woods and started across the open, the shells were going just overhead and bursting in the field to my left, along a line about 50 meters away. After I doped this out it was easy enough to plan my route so as to avoid them. I found the platoon commanders and their sergeants in their dugout--quite luxurious it looked, lighted with a candle and comparatively dry. They thought I was wounded, as my hands, arms, trousers and gas mask were all spotted and spattered with blood. I ordered a detail from the 2nd platoon to report to me at once for ration and stretcher carrying parties, and the 4th platoon to report as soon as the barrage lifted to relieve the 3rd on the line of outguards. As soon as the carrying parties were ready, I started back with them. Sgt. Levy was placed in charge of the carrying parties, and they were soon on their way. The men knew nothing of the country; it was pitchy black, the shelling was still heavy, and they were wet, weak and miserable. It was very hard to make orders understood, and everything was wrong at once. Besides, there was the possibility of a counter-attack or raid by the Boche. In about half an hour the shelling died down and the 4th platoon came up. When they were posted, while inspecting the outguards, I stumbled over a body. As I could not see the face, I cut off the front of his gas mask pouch where the name of the owner was printed. Next morning I saw it was Kindt, of the 3rd platoon. He had been killed instantly by a small piece of shell through the heart. As I got back to Co. Hdq. it was getting light. I crawled into our hole, which had a shelter half over it, and lit my pipe--the old black briar I have in my face now as I write. Before I had taken three puffs I fell off to sleep. A few minutes later Sgt. Robbins woke me with the news that the ration detail had returned. I had been breathing through my pipe which made me very sick and dizzy for awhile. It was too light then to get the rations out to the outguards. The ration detail was lying about on the ground, dead beat, among the pots and cans. Sgt. Wilson and his cooks had worked all the day before to make up a good chow, and Wilson had come up with it himself, though that was no part of his duty. It almost broke his heart to be too late. I tried to eat some, but everything tasted like blood. Someone in the rear--not Sgt. Wilson--had the idea that we needed coffee worse than water and so while we had plenty of strong, thick, cold black coffee, we only had water that was left in our canteens. Our upset stomachs refused the coffee; I used mine to wash the blood off my hands and wrists. Robbins shaved in his.