FHB.

    At 4 a.m. on the morning of March the 21st 
1918, I was on guard with a batter of 18 
pounders at a place called Vandelles" on the 
Somme battlefront between Cambrai and St. 
Quentin.  The night had been quiet, but
there was menace in the silence, and my 
imagination had convinced me that the war 
would never end.
    There was little to be seen at that hour 
though I knew that the guns were waiting in 
their shallow pits floored with bricks salvaged 
bricks from houses which once stood there.
    I knew too, that all around was desola-
tion; there were no houses, no shops, no 
trees nor civilians within miles - only men 
in more or less drab khaki uniforms.  The only 
lights visible came through the tiny slits in the 
metal masks of the siege lamos on which the 
gun-layers laid their sights.
    Dawn broke misty and cold.
    Suddenly, all hell seemed to be let loose.
    S.O.S. flares were thrusting into the sky, 
and I raced into the signal put to report.
    Soon enemy shells were falling on and 
around the gun position, but we were busy 
preparing to retaliate, and somehow that 
seemed to make things less annoying than 
being bombed, for instance…
    During the day I felt a heavy blow on the 
left side, at the time I thought I had 
been struck by a brickbat, or a clod of earth.
    Later on, however, I found that a small 
piece of shrapnel from a bursting shell had 
pierced the steel filter box of my gas-mask 
and fallen down inside it.  Fortunately for 
me, my gas mask had saved me from a nasty 
wound, though of course, it was not 
intended for that purpose!
    However, prior to that incident an order 
came through from H.Q. for us to pull the guns 
out of the gun-pits.  This was ominous, and 
could only mean that we must prepare to 
retreat.
    During the day, limbers bringing up 
ammunition came from the wagon lines, and 
each time that happens we hoped that they had 
come to pull us out, but night fell and we were 
still firing.  Through the night I and 
a fellow gunner named Bill Blight manned a 
gun, and were sending shells into the dark 
void in front of us until dawn of the 
22nd. when  we knocked off and went sight-
seeing – with a rifle, and found small 
groups of infantry in trenches behind our 
guns.
    About 10 a.m. on that morning, the 
limbers came bumping along behind the 
galloping horses, and Bill Blight and I 
exchanged glances.  Would this mean more 
shells, and were we to remain to the last, 
without hope?
    To this day I can remember the feeling 
of tremendous relief we gunners felt when 
the trails of the guns were hooked up to 
the limbers, and horses, limbers and guns 
were racing along the track to the highway.
    The drivers must have felt a similar 
relief, for this would be their last journey 
to that gun position.
    From then on, we seemed to be setting 
up out battery and withdrawing without a 
shot being fired, and after a week we 
gunners were getting blistered feet from 
tramping along behind the G.S. wagons.
    Finally, we passed through Albert 
and Amiens and we came to rest at a place 
called Estree Wamin.
    For us, the great retreat was over.
    By falling back, General Sir Hubert 
Gough, with the Fifth Army, had contained 
the attack.
    The enemy had not broken through.