mostly of concrete with hundreds of machine guns and field
artillery. Our heavies have for some reason made no impression on
them, and regiment after regiment has attempted to take the woods
and failed with heavy losses. Now it is up to the 47th Division to
do the seemingly impossible. Zero is at eleven. We go over then.
The best of luck and God bless you."

We were all feeling pretty sour on the world when the sky pilot
came along and cheered us up.

He was a good little man, that chaplain, brave as they make 'em.
He always went over the top with us and was in the thick of the
fighting, and he had the military cross for bravery. He passed down
the line, giving us a slap on the back or a hand grip and started
us singing. No gospel hymns either, but any old rollicking,
good-natured song that he happened to think of that would loosen
things up and relieve the tension.

Somehow he made you feel that you wouldn't mind going to hell if he
was along, and you knew that he'd be willing to come if he could do
any good. A good little man! Peace to his ashes.

At ten o'clock things busted loose, and the most intense
bombardment ever known in warfare up to that time began. Thousands
of guns, both French and English, in fact every available gun
within a radius of fifteen miles, poured it in. In the Bedlamitish
din and roar it was impossible to hear the next man unless he put
his mouth up close to your ear and yelled.

My ear drums ached, and I thought I should go insane if the racket