I was in the firing line, and my mate next to me had one of his fingers shot off and a bullet through his head. How I got hit, I was bandaging his head up. I was caught in the neck just below the jaw, and the bullet came out of my mouth. It knocked all my teeth out on the left-hand side, and went through my tongue and lip. I ran about a mile and a half before I could get it done up. The doctor said I was a very lucky chap to be alive. I can hardly speak or eat. Dear mother, do not let this upset you. I shall soon be better: _Corpl. Emery, Royal Lancashires_. In Luck! We were guarding a road where it was expected they would retreat; and they did. The first lot that came along was a Maxim limber. I accounted for the driver about 400 yards away, off the left shoulder, and someone else accounted for his mate, but still the horses came galloping along towards our ranks, so I thought I would try my arm at stopping them. I did, and got well repaid, for I took them into a farm close by, lifted the German wounded off, and went through his kit. I found a clean change of washing--badly needed, for we had not had a change since we left Chelsea--and something more: a bottle of champagne, three loaves of bread, six pots of jam, and a rabbit; so you can bet I backed a winner: _Private J. Stearn_. Mighty Cool Both the French and the British troops display marvellous coolness under fire, but I think the biscuit for coolness ought to go to the battalion of infantry of the French line which we found eating its breakfast by the roadside under a heavy German fire last week. In our own regiment it’s not unusual to see men playing cards under fire while waiting for the order to advance. I know of a case where one of our chaps was just going to win the trick when the Germans sent along a shell that hit every man of the card party, killing one and wounding three. When one was being taken off on a stretcher he called out, “It was the Germans won that trick”: _Private R. Duffy_. Three Times I have had occasion to thank God three times for as many escapes from death. The first was when we were forced back by artillery fire. A shell fell right under my horse, but failed to explode, being probably what is called an over-timed shell. Anyway, it was an escape! The next time was when we were shelled out of a village. My horse was grazed by a fragment of shrapnel and lamed, and a sharpshooter missed me, but the bullet went through my rifle-bucket and flattened itself on the nozzle of my rifle. The third time was when we had a most trying time in a village and were bombarded by eight German guns. The houses were demolished like packs of cards, but Providence looked after us, and after six hours of mental agony we had to retire one by one across a pontoon bridge; the other bridge had been blown up by the Germans: _A British Cavalryman_. A Marvellous Escape