The Captain then directed his attention to a trench digging party, sent his compliments to the guns—would they kindly take care of the trench digging party, which they did. Then we were spotted; in a few seconds we were the recipients of a blast of machine-gun fire; a minenwerfer dropped at the foot of the mine shaft, blowing the entire corner away, and it became very evident the place was ours no longer, and we started for the bottom.
In going down it was necessary for me to execute a sort of slide, as I had to hang on with my hands while my feet were going down, and the Captain, in his naturally human haste to get to a place of safety, inadvertently trod on my fingers.
"For God's sake, Captain," I yelled, "get off my fingers!"
"Take your damned fingers out of my way!" replied the Captain.
"How can I? Your foot is on them!" He eased up a bit and I was able to release my mangled fingers, but Lord! he weighed about 200 pounds.
Now Captain Black was a man who was absolutely afraid of nothing in human shape; his fighting spirit is unbeatable; every man in the battery can testify to his absolute fearlessness, and I am glad to lend my humble testament to his unquestionable bravery. However, in going down the shaft the shots were coming thick and fast, and it was the most natural thing in the world for him to tread on my fingers in his desire to avoid the sniping shell or machine-gun bullet, but my fingers were sadly in need of repair by the time we got to the bottom.
When we reached the foot we got into the shell hole blasted out by the minenwerfer that had torn the corner of the shaft away. We had not yet completed our observations and Cap decided he would try the top of the slag heap. To the top we crawled, placing our periscope and telephone in position, and were nicely settled and doing good work, the Captain congratulating himself audibly on his bright thought in selecting this spot, when his congratulations were cut short by a shell smashing the periscope glass, followed by a minenwerfer striking the bottom of the slag heap, making another huge excavation and causing the slag at the top to roll down from under us, taking us with it. But the Cap was not to be driven away so easily. "Come on, Grant, let's try it again," and up we went again, and again another large shell at the bottom of the pile caused a cave-in, and down we rolled. Still the Captain had not enough, and up we went a third time. The same thing happened again, the shells tearing away a large hole at the bottom of the slag heap, causing the slag on which we were standing to give way and carrying us to the bottom. By this time the shells were showering the entire place and Captain Black reluctantly decided that it was no go, and we gave it up.
It was during the stay of my battery on the Lens-Arras road, during the Vimy Ridge preparation, that I again personally encountered Fritz in the form of his spy system. One night after the guns had been oiled and prepared for their next job, and we were all busy cleaning up the ammunition for the work in hand, I was accosted by a couple of British officers, a Captain and a Major.
"Sergeant, would you kindly help us to a drink of water?" said the Major. "Certainly, sir," I answered, saluting; "if you will wait here a moment I will get it for you."
"Thank you," they replied, and I went for the water. Returning I found the Major with one of our shells in his hand and the Captain examining the gun.