and again I was spotted. At this point a set of new dressing stations
had been established, and they were as busy as bees looking after
wounded men, and every moment of the time they were engaged in their
work the machine guns of the enemy planes were hammering the stretcher
bearers and the wounded men as industriously as though they were
attacking fighting men. It was quite evident they knew I was a dispatch
rider, and I was a target every step of the way, shells being planted
before me, behind me and on each side of me. But I knew the Major's
thought was with me every foot of the way; I knew he was counting the
seconds until I would reach the wagon lines and deliver the message--and
the only message--that would save the position; I knew he was praying
for me that very moment and I knew that every man in the battery was
doing the same thing. If I failed! It was not with me a question of my
life; I didn't care a damn for that, and every man of us, on that day
anyway, felt the same. But I must hasten with all the speed that was in
me, and I must keep my life, and my head as well, that the others might
live.

Finally, I got the horse started on a straight run, came to a bridge
crossing the Rampart Canal, but they were shelling the bridge so
violently it would have been certain destruction to have attempted
getting across. Jumping off, I pulled the horse into a ruined building,
and there in the twilight I had a splendid opportunity to view the
efficiency of the German observation work. They were making the most
determined effort to prevent any communication being sent to the wagon
lines for ammunition, and one continual stream of shells was following
me down the road; they were dropping as thickly as hailstones for the
entire distance up and down the road as far as I could see. I waited
there ten minutes and then led the horse out, walking a hundred yards
towards the bridge. Then came another burst of shells; again I stopped