I have had some experiences, but I think the saddest was the digging out of a number of men from a kind of subterranean passage or cave, which had fallen in and buried about thirty of the Camerons. The other night information was brought to the camp that the Cameron Highlanders had met with a disaster, and I was sent off immediately with a party of our chaps to go to their assistance. We were taken to a spot on a hillside, which reminded me of the caves of Cheddar, and which had been shelled. The turf and earth were thrown up in all directions as the result of a bombardment. There were several large and small caves, and one of them had been used as a hiding-place by the Camerons. No doubt this was spotted by the Germans, for they directed their guns on it, and it collapsed. The poor fellows were buried underneath many tons of earth. This happened early in the day, and although several attempts had been made to extricate the men, very little could be done, as the bursting of the shells on the same spot drove off the small rescue parties. I had to leave before the work was completed, but I helped to dig out two dead officers and several men. The position of these caves was well known to the Germans, for they had previously occupied them, and no doubt took a fiendish delight in smashing them up when they saw the Camerons take shelter in them: _Sapper G. A. Bell, Royal Engineers_. An Irish Rifle There was a young chap of the Irish Rifles. He was kneeling beside a wounded man of the Gloucester, keeping off the Germans, who were circling round like carrion birds. He had been hit himself, but was gamely firing at the enemy as fast as his wounded arm would permit. We went to his assistance, but they were both worn-out when we reached them, and, greatly to our regret, we had to leave them to be picked up by the Red Cross people. That was hard; but if you tried to pick up every wounded man you saw you wouldn’t be much use as a fighter, and as we were under urgent orders to take up a position from which to cover the retreat, we had no time for sentiment. They knew that, and they weren’t the men to ask us to risk the safety of the army for them. “Never mind,” the rifleman said, with a faint smile on a ghastly face, “the sisters will pick us up when it’s all over, but if they don’t, sure, then we’ve only got once to die, and it’s the grand fight we had, anyhow. What more could soldiers ask for?” When we came back again one of the men was there sure enough--stone dead; but his mate had gone, and whether it was the Germans or the Red Cross people that got him I wouldn’t care to say: _A Trooper of the Irish Dragoons_. The Worst Part