That afternoon Colonel Morrison sent for me.  “Grant, run to Colonel Curry and find out how strong the Forty-eighth Highlanders and the Third Brigade are, and how soon he can get the men together for attack.”  “Yes, sir,” and I started.  I was running along the top of the canal bank in broad daylight and in the open, expecting every second that one of the missiles from the shower that was pattering the ground everywhere would get me.  In that race through that bullet-swept zone I felt a common bond of kinship with the Irish soldier who was running as fast as his legs could carry him from the Battle of the Wilderness in the American Civil War and General Sherman, noticing him, turned his horse in the direction of the fleeing soldier and halted him up.

“Here, you soldier, what are you running away for?”

“Because, Gineral—­because I can’t fly.”

How I longed for wings!  The Colonel later recommended me for a commission and many times since have I wondered how he would feel about that recommendation if he ever learned the real state of my feelings at that moment.  He did me the honor of requesting Colonel Morrison to permit me to enter his unit and Colonel Morrison did me the additional honor of refusing to let me go.  I had gotten a somewhat painful scalp wound on the way over, and I made my way to the French dressing station in a half-unconscious condition.  The French doctor nearly completed matters by spilling the iodine in my eye and nearly blinding me.  Some dope was then administered that brought me to my full senses shortly after.

When I was getting fixed up at the dressing station—­I had a hard time as the wounded men were swarming everywhere—­I saw two women in the station carrying baskets and speaking to the soldiers.  They seemed to be peasant women, but spoke very good English.  They left after some little time and wended their way up the road; but something in their appearance directed attention to them and they were watched!  After they had gone a little bit up the road one of them was seen to open her basket and let a pigeon go.  They were at once arrested, handed over to the French police and taken to Ypres.

The work of the gendarmerie was unexcelled; they were everywhere they were needed; had it not been for their lightning-like acumen and prompt service, the Lord only knows what would have become of us poor Britishers in that country, as we were practically at the mercy of the spies, not knowing who was who.

The two women were taken to Ypres and were treated to their deserved fate—­shot.  But the pigeon did its work.  Within an hour after their arrest the hospital was shelled; it was packed with patients and in one of the wards one of those flying ministers of death exploded, leaving not a single living man.

CHAPTER IV

MY HORSESHOE WORKING