I had a run for my life that day. A chum of mine who was with us had a cock-fowl in his valise that morning from the farm; he had wrung its neck but he had not quite succeeded in killing him; and, as we ran, this bird began to crow. As for myself, I had no equipment; I had run having left it in the bottom of the trench. It is quite funny as I come to think of it now--the old cock crowing as we ran; but it was really terrible at the time. We were absolutely overwhelmed, not only in our particular spot but all along the line, and had to concede nearly one thousand yards to the enemy. We were also very unfortunate in losing our Brigadier, General Bulfin, wounded on the cross-roads by a piece of shell, I believe; also our Brigade Major, who was killed with another piece from the same shell. I am sure every man in the Brigade felt very keenly the loss of the Brigadier; it was he who took us out from Aldershot, and not a better General or a braver or cooler soldier under fire ever stepped on field of battle. Most of my Regiment being gone and the remainder mixed up with other Brigades which had formed another line, two chums and myself went to a farm-house fifty yards behind this newly made line. There we had a field battery; and, after getting a little rest, started out to find the remnants of the Regiment. The enemy were still shelling, and the battle was still going on; but by nightfall, not finding any of them, we came back to the old house and found the battery gone. We decided to rest there for the night with some more stray men of different Regiments. Just in front of us, and in rear of the line, lay a wounded German. We decided to bring him in, and did so: he had been hit in the mouth, half of his tongue having been taken away. The poor fellow was in agony, every now and then lying on the ground and kicking. One of our men volunteered to take him back to the field ambulance, and did so.