braver spirits commenced to deliberate on the suggestion. Why not go
up-stairs? At last half a dozen of us decided to embark on the risky
enterprise. We were three miles from the enemy, to be sure, but a German at
three miles seemed to us then something formidable. Many a good laugh have
we had since, in trench and out, at this expedition considered with so much
careful thought!

We crept up the shaky steps one by one. We crawled along the upper floor,
skirting the gaping shell holes in the woodwork. We raised our hands and
shaded our eyes from the glare of the light. We scanned the horizon. We had
an idea, I think, that we'd see a German blocking the landscape somewhere.
We were three miles away. What was three miles to us?

We were deeply engrossed when there came a terrific crash. It seemed almost
under our feet ... Rp-p-p-p-p-p bang, BANG! The next thing I remembered was
landing at the foot of those narrow stairs, the other five boys on top of
me. That is a feat impossible of repetition. When we disentangled
ourselves, got to our feet and gathered our scattered wits, we found the
men who had remained below tremendously excited. Their hair was on end;
their eyes were like saucers. "Who's killed, fellows," they yelled, "who's
killed?"

Of course no one was hurt. Our own battery was just dropping a few over the
Boches, but it was our first experience under fire. Behind the building a
battery of our six-inch howitzers was concealed. When they "go off" they
make a fearful racket; very likely any other bunch of fellows, not knowing
the guns were there, would do as we did. I don't know. At all events, we
stayed very quietly where we were thereafter.

Later in the evening we found out the true and inner meaning of the excited