The fiercest fighting took place when the Germans tried to force a passage of the river at various points. As they came up the fords--every one of which was commanded by our artillery and bodies of picked French and British riflemen--they were galled terribly by the rifle fire, and we kept plugging them with shells as fast as we could. For a while it didn’t seem to be of any use, for as one man fell another stepped forward to take his place, but he only struggled on a few yards before falling in his turn before the hellish fire we poured on them. They had evidently made up their minds to get the pontoons into position regardless of cost in lives. The first party got theirs in position nicely, and then came rushing across like a swarm of bees rushing out of their hives to see what was wrong. A shell from a French battery hidden on our left dropped right on to them, and the thing went toppling into the river with its human load, being carried downstream under a heavy rifle and shell fire. The same thing went on the whole day, until we were sick of the sight, and mists of blood were floating before our eyes, and the cries of the drowning and dying men were always ringing in our ears. That was the daily programme as I saw it until I got hit and was sent home. Only at one point did they manage to cross the river, and then they had to face a bayonet charge from the Allies’ infantry, who rushed on them with rare joy and hurled them back into the river: _A Driver of the Royal Artillery_. War--and Peace! It was a jolly hot shop. A lot of the chaps of the section of ---- Battery were wounded. I cannot explain everything, only when those shells were bursting all around us and over us, and the rifle and machine-gun bullets were dropping and whizzing round us, a lot of us thought of home and other things. We had to man-handle our guns out, while the other batteries drew their fire. We had one officer left. We were complimented by the colonel, who repeated General French’s and General Gough’s orders that they were proud of us for the cool and brave way in which we worked the gun under heavy fire. Our colonel, poor old chap, nearly cried. He said: “Needless to say, lads, I am proud of you too,” and he walked away. He could not say any more. I don’t want to be in another action like that. The prettiest sight I saw out here was one hot day when we were retreating. We were all paraded, tired and hungry. We went through a little village. At the end of the village there was a little convent, and the nuns in their long grey uniform and white headdress, with crucifix hanging on their breast, were distributing wine and fruit to us as we marched through. They were lovely little women; and the way they came out went straight to my heart. They looked so good, pure, and holy. It is a picture I shall always remember: _Gunner Osborne, Royal Horse Artillery_. Hard Going!