bottom, that was dignified by the high-sounding title of trench.  It was as much a trench at that spot as any bog-hole.  Its only virtue lay in the fact that if we crouched low enough into the water and mud we could escape the watchful eye of the enemy.  We stumbled along through the inky blackness toward our gun positions, shrinking our anatomy to its smallest dimensions each time a flare shot up, and I was commencing to congratulate myself that we would reach our destination without any further hurt than the elimination of the thirteenth man;—­I took a sort of sad comfort in the superstitious thought;—­but we had still another target to pass.  The Germans had made an observation point of a part of our ditch just a little bit farther along, and when we got to the spot we received a blast of shell fire that knocked us out of even our power to swear; we hadn’t the strength; as a matter of fact, we were suffering with a slight shell shock.  The dose consisted of about 200 shells, administered in quantities, first, of six at a time, then ten, then twenty-five.

One of the fellows nearest me again ventured the remark that he thought our number was up, and I just had enough vocal power left to curse him roundly for a damn fool.  “You know what happened Lawrence, don’t you?  Cheer up, you mutt!  They will never get my number.”

Throughout my three years’ campaigning I persisted in repeating that “they would never get my number,” until it almost became second nature with me, and the hairbreadth escapes I have had almost convinced me “there is something in it.”  Be that as it may, hundreds of men all around have “gone West” while I have been permitted to go through three years of it comparatively unscathed.

We finally got past the observed spot.  The trench now commenced to run into a valley, and although there was water in it to a depth of fully two and a half feet, through which we had to wade, we were glad we were alive to paddle through it.  But there was more trouble ahead.  Fritz was turning gas into the valley, and I, being in front, got the first whiff.

“Masks, on with your masks,” I roared, jamming on my own at the same moment.  In addition to the gas, our friends had succeeded in shooting up a large ammunition dump, four hundred yards farther on, and the smoke and fumes from the exploding bombs, shells and other ammunition, to say nothing of the ear-splitting din, got me speculating as to whether our 13-squad was to go the way of so many reported thirteens.  But my native optimism came to the rescue, and, with a curse, I drove the thought from me.

By this time our eyes were so blinded and stinging from the smoke of the ammunition fire that we were making our way almost by instinct, as we were half blinded, but the time-old provision of all things,—­“Never a disadvantage without a corresponding advantage,”—­came to our help.  Under cover of the smoke we were practically secure from the shells and snipers, and stumbling and staggering round the fire, giving it a wide berth, we at last got to our gun position.