In the middle of the game Downey came running in. "Say, fellows, there's
a hell of a smell out here,--something sweet, never smelt it before,
don't know what it is." "It's gas," I yelled, "the new kind! Get on your
masks!"
We adjusted our protectors and made for the entrance. Downey began to be
overcome by the fumes and I took over sentry; the warning gas horns were
booming up and down the line like a deep-throated buzzing,--a most
unearthly and weird sound.
The gas shells were now dropping plenteously round about and one of my
pals, Dory, was instructed to assist me in relighting our lamps, as they
were growing dim; these are our feed lamps that are lit every night with
candles and placed, one for each gun, about 50 feet in front, and on
these lights the sights are trained, so that it is vital to keep them
burning all night long.
We rapidly commenced replacing the burnt-out candles, and just then we
heard the warning roar of a coming shell, but before it burst I heard a
splash; it was Dory taking a header into a shell hole full of water; I
threw myself flat.
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