Ploegsteert sets in ruins about two miles northwest of Armentieres; there were no buildings that Fritz failed to level with the exception of the tower, which they used for registry purposes,—­a reference point in artillery technology.  We were stationed on this sector for eight months, and our stay here was more or less of a recreation; battle firing was only intermittent; and on the days that we did speak to Fritz, we rarely sent over more than 10 to 12 messages.

Our battery was in a hedge here and we were having our wires cut several times, causing us considerable trouble and annoyance.

Butler, one of my pals, was started out to make the necessary repairs.  He left on his dangerous mission, crouching along and taking advantage of every bit of shelter on the way, but several ping! pings! warned him that he was treading on danger ground.  He kept at his work, busily hunting for the break in the wire, with the sniping pills passing his ears continually.

Crawling along on his hands and knees, with the wire running through his hand, he came to a little bush, where it slipped away from him, denoting that there was the break.  At that moment the sniper got him in the leg, but he held to until he repaired it, and was in touch with headquarters, reporting that he had mended the break, when the wire was again cut.  The bleeding from his wound now made it necessary for him to mend that break first, and he bandaged it as quickly as his nervous fingers would work.  Again he took hold of the wire, crawling and stumbling along until he again came to the break, and again mended it.  He was being closely watched now, as the bullets were whistling about him ceaselessly.  Again he turned his attention to his wound, adjusting the bandage, and he noticed a British soldier crawling toward him on his hands and knees.

“Hello, matey, what you doing out here?” he asked.

“I’m mendin’ me bloomin’ leg now,” Butler answered.

“Well, if you hadn’t been out here you wouldn’t have got it.  Why didn’t you stay in your trenches?”

“Someone’s got to repair the wire,” said Butler.  He was growing perceptibly weaker from the loss of blood.

“Oh, repairing the wire, were you?  Well, don’t repair any more”—­and Butler had just time to see him level his revolver and then he dropped unconscious.  The bullet had hit him in the thigh.  But his communication had reached headquarters that he was wounded and it was not long before the stretcher bearers came out and found him.  They took him to the dressing station, where it was found necessary to amputate his leg, but he parted gladly with his dented member when the O.C. told him that his grit and endurance were a splendid example for the entire unit,—­“Aye,” he added, “and for the whole Empire.”

* * * * *

Service was being held here in the field one Sunday morning and an incident occurred that makes me shake every time I think of it,—­not so much at the incident itself as in the surrounding circumstances.  In the midst of the service, a buzzing overhead announced the presence of German hawks and a dropping of bombs further announced that they had seen us and intended paying their respects.