Two hundred of us went into a big château, where we were told we would be quite safe, and we sat down to a meal of tea and biscuits. We were just in the middle of it when a patrol of German cavalry scouts discovered us, and as we were eating, a shell struck the roof of the building, smashing it into fragments. Then there was the greatest excitement as the men scurried out of the building. As the shells were getting very busy we lost no time in retreating from that place, and took up our position in a field about 200 yards distant. There were a lot of wounded around, and we were lying on a slightly elevated ridge in the field. We had only been a short time in this position when we saw the Somersets getting badly cut up. We went to the assistance of the Somersets, and succeeded in checking the Germans’ advance. We began to go forward and went at them with the bayonet, when they turned and fled. We were just 150 yards away when they packed themselves into motor-cars that were waiting on them and drove off, but before they went we managed to capture five of their machine guns: _Pte. T. O’Dea, Seaforth Highlanders_. “Made Good!” Our last action was the worst. Men fell like corn before the reaper. I tell you truly, I never expected to get out alive. The Germans must have lost thousands, but they were ten to one, so we had to retire. The shrapnel and hail of lead and bullets--I see it all now, and I was one of the last to leave the field. I won’t say more, only I got a bullet through my right leg, but still kept on twenty yards or thereabouts. I got a great piece of shrapnel shell in my neck--laid me senseless. I came to again, and, as if possessed, ran for my life through it all and “made good.” It’s wonderful how you can run with a bullet through your leg. I have not been long at it, but fellows say that they saw more in the last four days than they did in three years in Africa. That’s the truth. Ah, well! I’m not grumbling. I’m not disfigured or maimed like so many poor fellows, so let’s rejoice over all. Some of our engagements lasted thirteen hours, and the last--and worst--ten hours. So tired, must sleep: _A Lance-Sergeant of the King’s Own Yorkshire Light Infantry_ A “Terrible Time”