We left this point for Camblain-le-Abbeau for another nip at the ridge from that angle, pulled into the wagon lines for two days and then got into action on the Lens-Arras road.  We laid the guns on the side of the road, camouflaging them in the usual fashion.  We were the first battalion to arrive, but within four days 100 or more batteries were there.  Our work here was to cut the wire in preparation for one of the usual raids, to blind Fritz and keep him guessing where the drive was to be launched.  We performed our work flawlessly, the boys of the infantry going over through the gaps we had made and capturing several machine guns and prisoners.

On the second day following, the Captain asked me to go into the trenches to assist him in observation work.  We found after inspection that the point we wanted to get our data upon could not be obtained from the low-lying trenches, and the Captain, wondering where we had best go, happened to get his fancy settled on a mine shaft.  “We will go up there, Grant,” he said, and together we made our way to the spot.  The climb to the top was no easy matter, and when we got there we set about making ourselves as comfortable as possible.  As soon as we had our apparatus working, the Captain commenced registering the cemetery, the tombstones of which were being carried away by Fritz to place around his dugouts.  The Captain flashed the necessary information and in ten minutes they were pretty thoroughly shot up.

The Captain then directed his attention to a trench digging party, sent his compliments to the guns—­would they kindly take care of the trench digging party, which they did.  Then we were spotted; in a few seconds we were the recipients of a blast of machine-gun fire; a minenwerfer dropped at the foot of the mine shaft, blowing the entire corner away, and it became very evident the place was ours no longer, and we started for the bottom.

In going down it was necessary for me to execute a sort of slide, as I had to hang on with my hands while my feet were going down, and the Captain, in his naturally human haste to get to a place of safety, inadvertently trod on my fingers.

“For God’s sake, Captain,” I yelled, “get off my fingers!”

“Take your damned fingers out of my way!” replied the Captain.

“How can I?  Your foot is on them!” He eased up a bit and I was able to release my mangled fingers, but Lord! he weighed about 200 pounds.

Now Captain Black was a man who was absolutely afraid of nothing in human shape; his fighting spirit is unbeatable; every man in the battery can testify to his absolute fearlessness, and I am glad to lend my humble testament to his unquestionable bravery.  However, in going down the shaft the shots were coming thick and fast, and it was the most natural thing in the world for him to tread on my fingers in his desire to avoid the sniping shell or machine-gun bullet, but my fingers were sadly in need of repair by the time we got to the bottom.