I was out with the Austin car convoying three motor-lorries with supplies for a cavalry brigade, when we were pounced upon by a bunch of German cavalry, who took us prisoners, and took everything I had except the clothes I was wearing. All our men, twenty in number, including an officer, were put back to a wall and kept there with an armed guard. I was made to turn the motor round. They put eight Germans in the car, and I had an officer with a revolver pointing at my head standing on the step. They then made me reconnoitre the villages for two hours, looking for the positions of the British troops, which they did not find, but they went mighty close at one time. Upon returning to the same spot we were put in the middle of a line of German cavalry, about 6000 strong, and taken up a steep hill to a plateau on top. As soon as it became daylight they were spotted by our cavalry and artillery, who made short work of them; but they kept us right in their fighting line to the very last, when they bolted and left us: _Private H. L. Simmons, of Addlestone_. “Poor Old Bones!” I look an awful picture. My clothing is torn to shreds. I have lost all my buttons, and it is dreadful cold at nights, but I cuddle up against the horses for warmth. Our horses are terrified, mad, but my two seem a bit at ease when I lie down beside them at night. If I leave them for a minute there is no pacifying them. You would die of laughing if you saw me now. I am writing this across the horse’s belly. He is too tired to rise, but he gives me such knowing looks at times. He is a proper chum. He is a grey, and you should see the mess I have made trying to discolour him. He has tar mixed with moss rubbed over him. Every kind of dust and dirt I could get has been rubbed on him. I have to laugh when I look at him, and the officer this morning nearly had a fit. Of course, there is a humorous side to everything. We would never live if there wasn’t. The noise is deafening. You can’t hear your mate speak unless he shouts in your ear. The bursting of the shells is appalling, but poor old “bones” lies here as if he was in the stable at home. He is dead beat, and so am I, but there is no actual rest here; it is only a lull: _A Private of the Scots Greys_. VI. BATTLES IN BEING _And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves, Dewy with Nature’s tear-drops as they pass, Grieving, if aught inanimate e’er grieves, Over the unreturning brave,--alas! Ere evening to be trodden like the grass...._ BYRON’S: “Childe Harold.” _For the Colonel rides before, The Major’s on the flank, The Captains and the Adjutant Are in the foremost rank. But when it’s “Action front!” And fighting’s to be done, Come one, come all, you stand or fall By the man who holds the gun._ SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE.