I warned Downey, who was behind me, and he avoided the trouble, but we had to keep a tight rein on our thoroughly frightened animals. It was impossible to get them past the dead horses until some others went by and then, leading them by the bridle, we got by.
Traffic was now fearfully congested on account of some tanks that were taking cover in the sunken road for their attack in the morning, and a shower of shells dropping here and there along the road did not add to our comfort. We passed through Courcelette Valley and came to a small bridge crossing a trench; this particular bridge was the subject of hot shellfire, as it was the only point where traffic could cross for about a mile to the right or left, and Fritz was well aware of the fact. When half-way across, a shell exploded, killing my horse, and the animal rolled over with me on its back, twisting my leg. For a while I thought my number was up; in a few moments I was able to get up behind Downey.
We had reached the end of our journey, got to the gun, delivered the piston rod and reported to the Captain. He instructed us to stay there for the night and told Downey to tie up his horse in one of the German gun pits; then Downey was ordered to go on S.O.S. sentry duty. He had our sincere sympathy, for the rest of us were just breaking into the little old game for the balance of the night (morning).
In the middle of the game Downey came running in. "Say, fellows, there's a hell of a smell out here,—something sweet, never smelt it before, don't know what it is." "It's gas," I yelled, "the new kind! Get on your masks!"
We adjusted our protectors and made for the entrance. Downey began to be overcome by the fumes and I took over sentry; the warning gas horns were booming up and down the line like a deep-throated buzzing,—a most unearthly and weird sound.
The gas shells were now dropping plenteously round about and one of my pals, Dory, was instructed to assist me in relighting our lamps, as they were growing dim; these are our feed lamps that are lit every night with candles and placed, one for each gun, about 50 feet in front, and on these lights the sights are trained, so that it is vital to keep them burning all night long.
We rapidly commenced replacing the burnt-out candles, and just then we heard the warning roar of a coming shell, but before it burst I heard a splash; it was Dory taking a header into a shell hole full of water; I threw myself flat. In adjusting our lamps we had to remove our gas helmets, and after waiting some time for the expected explosion and hearing none, I looked up; white fumes were rising from the ground at about the spot the shell had entered; there had been no explosion of splinters.
This particular shell is very thin, is fired with great velocity, and when meeting resistance it breaks and cracks and the white gas fumes like steam come floating out. "What do you think of that, Grant!" from Dory in the shell hole; "I thought the blankety-blank was a Jack Johnson." His thought had cost him a soaking and the reflex action of his thought was strongly in evidence during the balance of our watch.
The remainder of our lonely duty was not enhanced in pleasure by the contemplation of scores of stretcher bearers carrying out men who had been caught unprepared by the gas and who were choking and suffocating from its effects.
So earnestly pernicious is the gas device as a fighting weapon that it is a matter of common talk among the boys that Fritz, when he invented his contrivance, must have been in direct communication with his Satanic Majesty.