I
remonstrated with him and told him that bad as it was it could not be
anything like Mons, and to my amazement he stopped his moaning all at
once and said with a twinkle in his eye, "Let's beat it to the dugout;
the doc won't see us." We took the chance and started. On the way Fritz
shot up the road and with a spring like an india-rubber man, Scotty
jumped behind a tree. We finally reached our destination and Scotty
proceeded to get something to eat. He lit a fire while I brought the
water. The cookhouse here was in the house of a farmer who had vacated,
and as the smoke coming from the chimney got thicker every moment, I was
apprehensive lest Fritz would see it and send over a shell message, but
Scotty pooh-poohed the idea.
Dinner was almost ready when--Kr-kr-kr-p! Kr-kr-kr-p! Bang! and a shell
shot clean through the joint. The concussion threw me to the floor,
covering me with lime and plaster-of-paris from the walls and ceiling. I
got up and looked around for the cook. The hero of Mons had been knocked
down, with the stove on top of him, and he was lying in the corner
praying like a good fellow.
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