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 order not to go outdoors or on the roof.  It was a simple device to keep us from exploring the boulevards of the city.  We might have been tempted to do that, for we had seen none of the charming French girls as yet, and they are—­tres charmante.

About six o’clock that evening we got the customary—­the eternal—­bully beef and biscuits.  At seven we were ordered to advance to the front line trenches.  Our captain gathered us around him.  He wanted to talk to us before we went “in” for the first time.  He was, possibly, a little uncertain of our attitude.  He knew we were fighters all right, but our discipline was an unknown quantity.  Captain Straight, I understand, was American-born, from Detroit, Michigan.  We liked him.  Later we almost worshiped him.  We took all he said to heart.  We listened intently; not a word did we miss.  I can repeat from memory that pre-trench speech of his.

“Boys,” the captain’s voice was solemnity itself.  “Boys, to-night we are going into the front line trenches.  We are going in with soldiers of the regular Imperial Army.  We are going in with seasoned troops.  We are going in alongside men who have fought out here for weeks.  We’ve got to be very careful, boys.”

Our captain was obviously excited.  We strained closer to him.

“You don’t know a darn thing about war, lads ...  I know you don’t.”

We fell back a pace somewhat abashed.  We had been under fire that very afternoon; but the captain (fortunately) did not know it.

“You don’t know the first thing about this war.  You’ve not had opportunities of asking about it from wounded men.  Now, boys, I know exactly what you are going to do to-night when you get in those trenches.  You’re going to ask questions of those English chaps.  YOU ARE NOT.”  He emphasized every one of those three words with a blow of one fist on the other.

“You are not.  Why, men, you know what the authorities think of our discipline.  How are we to know that this is not a device to try our mettle.  How are we to know that those boys already in are not there to watch us, to report our behavior ... and, by heaven, men, if we don’t make a good showing perhaps they will report unfavorably on us; perhaps we will be shipped out of here, shipped back to Canada, and become the laughing stock of the world.”