I have had occasion to thank God three times for as many escapes from
death. The first was when we were forced back by artillery fire. A
shell fell right under my horse, but failed to explode, being probably
what is called an over-timed shell. Anyway, it was an escape! The next
time was when we were shelled out of a village. My horse was grazed by
a fragment of shrapnel and lamed, and a sharpshooter missed me, but
the bullet went through my rifle-bucket and flattened itself on the
nozzle of my rifle. The third time was when we had a most trying time
in a village and were bombarded by eight German guns. The houses were
demolished like packs of cards, but Providence looked after us, and
after six hours of mental agony we had to retire one by one across a
pontoon bridge; the other bridge had been blown up by the Germans: _A
British Cavalryman_.