I examined my first smoke helmet, a bullet had gone through it on the left side, just grazing my ear, the gas had penetrated through the hole made in the cloth.
Out of our crew of six, we lost two killed and two wounded.
That night we buried all of the dead, excepting those in No Man's Land. In death there is not much distinction, friend and foe are treated alike.
After the wind had dispersed the gas, the R.A.M.C. got busy with their chemical sprayers, spraying out the dugouts and low parts of the trenches to dissipate any fumes of the German gas which may have been lurking in same.
Two days after the gas attack, I was sent to Division Headquarters, in answer to an order requesting that captains of units should detail a man whom they thought capable of passing an examination for the Divisional Intelligence Department.
Before leaving for this assignment I went along the front-line trench saying good-bye to my mates and lording it over them, telling them that I had clicked a cushy job behind the lines, and how sorry I felt that they had to stay in the front line and argue out the war with Fritz. They were envious but still good natured, and as I left the trench to go to the rear they shouted after me:
"Good luck, Yank, old boy, don't forget to send up a few fags to your old mates."
I promised to do this and left.
I reported at Headquarters with sixteen others and passed the required examination. Out of the sixteen applicants four were selected.
I was highly elated because I was, as I thought, in for a cushy job back at the base.