at intervals, but it was
light.

Friday, May 7th, 1915.

A bright morning early, but clouded over later. The Germans gave it to
us very heavily. There was heavy fighting to the south-east of us. Two
attacks or threats, and we went in again.

Saturday, May 8th, 1915.

For the last three days we have been under British divisional control,
and supporting our own men who have been put farther to the left, till
they are almost in front of us. It is an added comfort. We have four
officers out with various infantry regiments for observation and
co-operation; they have to stick it in trenches, as all the houses and
barns are burned. The whole front is constantly ablaze with big gunfire;
the racket never ceases. We have now to do most of the work for our
left, as our line appears to be much thinner than it was. A German
attack followed the shelling at 7; we were fighting hard till 12, and
less regularly all the afternoon. We suffered much, and at one time were
down to seven guns. Of these two were smoking at every joint, and the
levers were so hot that the gunners used sacking for their hands. The
pace is now much hotter, and the needs of the infantry for fire more
insistent. The guns are in bad shape by reason of dirt, injuries, and
heat. The wind fortunately blows from us, so there is no gas, but the
attacks are still very heavy. Evening brought a little quiet, but very
disquieting news (which afterwards proved untrue); and we had to face
a possible retirement. You may imagine our state of mind, unable to get
anything sure in the uncertainty, except that we should stick out as
long as the guns would fire, and we could fire them. That sort of night
brings a man down to his "bare skin", I promise you. The night was very
cold, and not a cheerful one.

Sunday, May 9th, 1915.

At 4 we were ordered to get ready to move, and the Adjutant picked out
new retirement positions; but a little later better news came, and the
daylight and sun revived us a bit. As I sat in my dugout a little white
and black dog with tan spots bolted in over the parapet, during heavy
firing, and going to the farthest corner began to dig furiously. Having
scraped out a pathetic little hole two inches deep, she sat down and
shook, looking most plaintively at me. A few minutes later, her owner
came along, a French soldier. Bissac was her name, but she would not
leave me at the time. When I sat down a little later, she stole out and
shyly craw