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[Page 23]
But one kind of gets used to these dangers, & they don't concern you much after you know all the pieces of flying iron have safely passed your head. I consider my steel helmet saved me a "Blighty" on one occasion. The were shelling MacCormacks, & were after a mule amunition Transport, who were sheltering in the sunken road there. I, like everyone else, ducked into the nearest funk hole, which happened only to be a kind of fireplace in the side of the bank. The fourth or fifth shell (the previous ones had already killed one mule, & stampeded the rest) sent a piece of iron that dented my helmet & knocked it off. I also felt a sting on my arm
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