Five signal-corps men, attached to the 2nd Cavalry Brigade, were badly poisoned, but managed to get back as far as the big square at Ypres. They were in such a sorry state that a passing officer advised them to lie down on the broken cobbles of the Grande Place until an ambulance could be sent for them. They stretched out in a pathetic row, and had not lain there long when a Black Maria lit at their feet, shoving them half a dozen yards over the stones still in line, every man of the five dead, killed before he knew of the coming of the shell. All day shattered men were brought to the divisional dressing station near the château gates. The wounds from the shells were terrible. A wounded sergeant of the Cheshires refused a ride from east of Ypres in an ambulance, cheerily saying that those who _could_ walk should do so, and not occupy space required for those more severely hurt. He carried back his full kit, tramping sturdily along with a grim smile on his fine face. At the dressing station a nasty bullet hole in his shoulder was disclosed, which would have laid many a man flat on his back. "Good man, of the old school. New ones can't touch 'em," commented a grizzled hospital orderly, as the Cheshire sergeant passed out of the room. A Tommy, with bright eyes peeping from a purple bit of face all but hidden by a mass of white bandages, insisted on telling his story to anyone who would listen. "He has told his bally yarn half a dozen times, sir," complained a hospital orderly to the doctor. "I told him he was not to talk, but he just can't keep his bloomin' mouth shut, he says." "Nasty wound, too," remarked the doctor, as we watched the talkative individual. "Bullet went clean through his face, in one cheek and out the other, and carried away every one of his upper teeth." But his injury had apparently increased his volubility. We could hear his tale as he poured it into the ear of a gunner, wounded in both legs and unable to escape. "You see the ol' gas stuff got us bad, some on us," he explained. "But I got this 'ere bloomin' smash in the jawr, and that took up so much o' me bally time I didn't pay no attention to no gas, you believe _me_! I warsn't the only bloke lyin' there. They was a fair lot o' our chaps near me. "The snipin' was cruel. Some o' the poor blokes that was bloomin' well shot already got 'it agin. I was jest thinkin' mine was comin' when wot oh! 'ere comes three big Prooshuns, tall as 'ouses. Good-day, Bill, says I to meself. You next! It'll be the butt for _your_ nut from these 'ere lobsters. "But not a bit. They ups with me and carts me over to a 'ouse. Leastwys it _wor_ a 'ouse, wonct. An' wot do _you_ think! Them Prooshuns give me a bloomin' fill o' cold coffee, like Christians!