The Germans are an awful lot of bad shots with the rifle, but they are good with the artillery, and that is where we have suffered most of our losses. There have been very few to speak of who have fallen through rifle fire. To tell you the truth, I do not seem sometimes as though I was on a battlefield at all. I go blundering along as if I was on the dear old sea front at Bridlington, and I find that is the best way, for, as sure as I am living, the less you think of it all the better. We do our best, and trust in God. You need not trouble much about me, for I am as happy here as I am at home. It is no use being otherwise, and it is like being on guard at home: _Pte. C. Gledhill, Coldstream Guards_. The Pictures! Every morning we go within 300 yards of the place where the shells are bursting. First you hear the shell whistling about a quarter of a mile away like a Gabriel horn, and the nearer it gets the louder, then it bursts like 120 tyres bursting together. At first it frightened the life out of me. I was digging some potatoes in a garden, and one burst about 200 yards away. I left the potatoes and hopped it--I did the fastest 100 yards on record. When you hear a shell coming it is best to lie flat--it’s quite amusing to see everybody drop to the ground. It reminds one of the pictures: _Pte. Noel Withers, Army Service Corps_. Healing Nicely! I got shrapnel in the face, and it entered just by my eye and came through my mouth, splitting my face open and fracturing my jaw. Lucky for me my sight is not gone. My face is stitched up and healing nicely, but I’m afraid I’m disfigured for life. The beggars were not content with that--they shot me through the left forearm and fractured the bone. I’ve got it in plaster of Paris. I am glad to say I am not in much pain now, and I am as strong as an ox. I had to leave everything on the battlefield, including my pipe and the pouch you gave me. Your photo, taken at Paddington, I had in a waterproof case with some more: _A Private of a Field Battery_. Dazed, but There All the officers stood round us the whole time, including one young lieutenant who had only just joined the battery from England, and was under fire for the first time. The captain was wounded, but he stood up and cried out, “Go on, lads! I’m not killed yet.” We went on. But another hail of shells came, and the captain fell. We all knew we were in for it; but we cracked jokes as we loaded and fired. One by one the fellows went down. Those left shook hands with one another, and just said, “So long, old man!” My chum at my gun bent down to look through the aperture of the gun shield. A shell came and caught him in the forehead. He tumbled up against me as he fell. Then they got the shells on our limbers. I can’t describe the sight as our own shells exploded on the spot. There were only ten of us now. We had never received the order to clear out, and we stuck it dazed: _A Gunner of the Royal Field Artillery_. “A Mad Crew”