One day I was in front of my horses with my back to the enemy, just putting on my nosebags, when a shell from somewhere fell between the horses and put the whole six on the ground. I was pulled up in the air by my horse, and he dropped on his back dead. The wheel-horses were struggling, and my wheel-driver was lying dead with his face blown away. I did not get touched, but no sooner did the devils see that their shells were effective than they opened fire with the whole lot of their big guns, twelve in all, and I don’t know how many machine guns. The din was horrible, shells screaming and whistling around me, and the pop-pop-pop of the Maxims. I ran round to the gun and tried to get it unlimbered, but the horses were struggling in the wheel harness and I could not move it. Then I felt a twitch in my arm. I saw blood on my sleeve, and the hole where the bullet went in. The use of my arm was gone. I did not know what to do. I dropped down and crawled out of the firing line. Another fellow came along with a wound in his hand, and we sat there talking together till we were picked up by an ambulance: _Driver G. Chiswell, Royal Horse Artillery_. Stuck to Him I was told to go back to the farmhouse and cut the horses loose. I did so. Then God answered my prayer, and I had strength to run through a line of rifle fire over barbed wire covered by a hedge, and managed to get out of range, and then I fell for want of water. I had just about two teaspoonfuls in my bottle; then I went on struggling my way through hedges to a railway line. When I got through I saw a man of the Royal Irish with six wounds from shrapnel. I managed to carry him about half a mile and found water; then he was as happy as if he were not wounded. I stuck to him although he was heavy and I was feeling weak and tired. I had to carry him across a big field of turnips; when half way I slipped and we both fell. I had a look back, and could see the fire mountains high. I then saw one of my own regiment, and with the help of two Frenchmen we soon got the Irishman on a shutter to a house and dressed him. We got him away from the village, which was being shelled, and then met a company of Cameronian Highlanders and handed him over to them: _Pte. G. Kay, of the Royal Scots_. Anchored!