oad which led into the village, and as they seemed
unlikely to desist, we decided to make a dash for it. The horses were
a bit nervous, but behaving very well under the trying circumstances.
(With us were some limbers bringing up ammunition.) Shells were
exploding all around us. It would never do to stand still.

The dash up that hundred yards of road was an unpleasant experience.
As we made the rush, the gunners tearing along "hell for leather" and
the others galloping ahead on their plunging horses, we heard the dull
whistle and the nearer roar of two shells approaching. Instinctively
we leaned forward. We held our breath. When a shell drops near, there
is always the feeling that it is going to fall on one's head. We
flattened ourselves out and urged our horses to greater speed. The
shells exploded about thirty yards behind us, killing two gunners and
their mules, while the rest of us scrambled into the village and under
cover.

In the darkness, we found what had once been the shop of the village
blacksmith, and in the forge we tied up our horses. It was bitterly
cold. It was either make a fire and trust to luck that it would not be
observed, or freeze. We decided on the fire, and in its grateful
warmth we lay down to snatch the first hours of sleep we had had in
nearly three days. But the German gunners were most inconsiderate, and
a short time afterward they dropped a small barrage down the road. The
front of our forge was open, and we were obliged to flatten ourselves
on the ground to prevent the flying splinters from hitting us. When
this diversion was over, we stirred up our fire, and made some tea,
just in time to offer some to a gunner sergeant who came riding up. He
hitched his horse to one of the posts, and sat down with us by the
fire. The shell-fire had quieted down, and we dozed off, glad of the
interlude. Suddenly a shell burst close beside us. The poor beast,
waiting patiently for his rider, was hit in the neck by the shrapnel,
but hardly a sound escaped him. In war, especially, one cannot help
admiring the stoicism of horses, as compared with other animals. One
sees examples of it on all sides. Tread, for instance, on a dog's
foot, and he runs away, squealing. A horse is struck by a large lump
of shrapnel just under its withers, and the poor brute trembles, but
makes no sound. Almost the only time that horses scream--and the sound
is horrible--is when they are dying. Then they shriek from sheer pain
a