The beauty of these hedges in blossoming time is charming and the buds were now coming out, their fragrance filling the air with sweet nectar.  To our right was a large farmhouse, of two stories and a gable roof, and the nearest gun to the house was not over 30 feet off.  The house was occupied by a farmer, his wife and two young children, a boy and a girl.

The farmer’s demeanor toward us was that of a systematic grouch and his appearance did not belie his disposition—­as surly and sulky looking as a whipped criminal.  He would stand in the doorway, watching us continually, as if he feared we were going to steal his house from over his head, and about the only thing he would say was to warn us not to destroy the hedge.  But our love for the shelter, to say nothing of our love for the fragrant blossoms, made this injunction needless.

Over on the other side of the house, 40 feet to the right of it, was another hedge behind which was a French battery of .75’s.  This battery had been through the Marne and they were veterans of the finest order, the very cream of the French artillery service, and their Captain was an educated gentleman, speaking English as fluently as his native tongue.  They had come up from the Champagne district to reinforce the position at Ypres and their battery also consisted of six guns, each gun capable of 24 shells a minute.

In appearance these guns are the last in the world to give one the impression of supreme efficiency; when we saw them coming down the road we wondered what they could be and were amazed when informed that they were the famous .75’s that had made the work of the French guns ring throughout the world; we couldn’t at first bring ourselves to believe that these were the famous guns until we saw them at work, because there is nothing in the general aspect of the piece to make one think that they are any better, if as good, as our old field pieces.

The secret of these magnificent guns lies in the buffer and in the ability of the muzzle of the gun to cool off; after discharging 24 rounds they are just as ready to discharge another 24 as when they started, while in the case of our pieces we have to let them cool, and 15 or 18 per minute is the limit of our effort, because any more would cause them to jam from the heat.  There is no gun on earth that can compare with the .75’s.

Our ammunition was supplied to us at this spot over a road running between our wagon lines, half way between Flamingad and Breevland, about a thousand yards away, but they had to go in a roundabout way, traveling fully 800 yards out of the direct route on account of the ditches.  It was a physical impossibility for the horses to bring up sufficient ammunition for the guns during the night, and they had to make the perilous trip many times during the day, and with the German shells pounding the road every foot of the way, their fire being guided by the wireless directions from their planes, the number of horses that had their lives smashed out on this road was something enormous.  At one spot is the famous Hell’s Corner, so named because of the fierce fire that continually rained upon it, and here I counted 40 dead horses, as fine looking animals as ever were harnessed.  Such is the toll of war.