Traffic was now fearfully congested on account of some tanks that were
taking cover in the sunken road for their attack in the morning, and a
shower of shells dropping here and there along the road did not add to
our comfort. We passed through Courcelette Valley and came to a small
bridge crossing a trench; this particular bridge was the subject of hot
shellfire, as it was the only point where traffic could cross for about
a mile to the right or left, and Fritz was well aware of the fact. When
half-way across, a shell exploded, killing my horse, and the animal
rolled over with me on its back, twisting my leg. For a while I thought
my number was up; in a few moments I was able to get up behind Downey.
We had reached the end of our journey, got to the gun, delivered the
piston rod and reported to the Captain. He instructed us to stay there
for the night and told Downey to tie up his horse in one of the German
gun pits; then Downey was ordered to go on S.O.S. sentry duty. He had
our sincere sympathy, for the rest of us were just breaking into the
little old game for the balance of the night (morning).
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