LITMIR.BIZ

       Chapter 2

       ‘Mud caked to his eyebrows’

      28 November–19 December 1915

      28th November ’15

      I see that last evening I boasted that it would take more than rats to disturb us. I was badly mistaken. They beat us – easily. The trouble was that Buntingⁱ had laid my bed across a favourite run of theirs and they did not intend being put off it by a mere intruder like myself.

      They ran over my legs, body, chest and feet, and I was adamant. But when they started on my face I must own that I slavishly surrendered, fell to cursing horribly and finally changed my lying place. Thereafter I fared better but Murray dropped in for it. They ate his iron ration and, evidently liking some, which incidentally proves that they are but lowly people, knawed [sic] through Prince’s pack and ate his also. I can tell you they are some rats, these.

      Well we are here at last, in the fire trenches and are learning our job under the hospitable care of the East Lancs.ⁱⁱ We are in the fire trenches and I can hardly express how strange it felt to stand on the fire slip for the first time, look out over the plain and see the Bosche trenches just ahead. And it has all struck one as so apparently safe. There is nothing to be seen bar sinuous lines of chalk mounds on the hill-sides. Nothing at all. One hears bangs, or the occasional popping of a Maxim, but one sees absolutely nothing and it is hard indeed to realise the danger, the more especially that our kind friends the East Lancs treat it all so jovially and in such casual fashion. I would not at first believe that the wily Germany lay tucked up just across there. It is only the fact that five men have been hit this afternoon has made me realise it at all.

      The last three were out on a reconnoitring patrol when suddenly some bullets pinged past our listening post, the men heard a shriek and in a minute or two the patrol came staggering back. Quite cheerful they were, but a sergeant with a bullet through his foot made their going bad. The Bosche keeps pretty wide awake, evidently.

      We are attached to B Coy [of the East Lancs] and the OC of it is a Lieutenant Salt.ⁱⁱⁱ And well worthy of his [MC] he is. He is really quite a boy and his officers more so but he is older than many in soldiering. He is anyway a great deal older than myself. He has been at it since Mons,^iv has been three times wounded and now wears the Military Cross. Yet he is most unassuming and diffident of imparting advice. I think he is a fine young fellow and a typical example of the British subaltern.

      Murray and I have a dug-out to ourselves. A most pretentious place, lined with gathered silk and possessing an iron bed with a spring mattress. Corn in Egypt. A comfort-loving Frenchman built it for himself when they held the line. They say it leaks. I do not know, since now it is only freezing. But be that as it may, I am much obliged of my unknown pal, the Parisian decorator.

      29th November ’15

      This has been a wet day. Some wet! They were quite right about our dug-out. It does, leak, some leak! In fact a wash out, literally a wash out. It has defeated Murray and myself and we are here in the sandbagged mess-room very cold and very much smoked from the damp wood on our fire, endeavouring to get a wink of sleep before our several turns of duty. But to return to the rain. It has teemed, the trenches are ankle deep – some places calf deep – in mud and water and the communications trenches are rushing streams of brown water. The men are wet through but stick the job like Britons and I do hope for their sake that the weather may lift with the morning.^v

      The Coy has taken over the line tonight on its own for the first time and we are all very bucked about it. The men have done Al and the East Lancs are pleased with them. I am glad indeed, because nothing tells a regiment’s efficiency so truly as the unsought opinion of other regiments. The guns have been strafing today no end but up till now we have dodged the show. It may be ours again tomorrow, though. One never knows.

      Tonight I messed with the CO [of the 1st Bn, East Lancs]^vi down in Mesnil. He is a fine man and seems to have the happy knack of griping without strafe. He put on a regular beano for dinner, soup, fish, joint, sweets, coffee, dessert. I haven’t seen the like since our lunch in Amiens and I did it full justice. It is marvellous how the poor live!

      30th November ’15

      It has been fine today and the sun has even shone. The trenches have therefore dried up considerably and everyone is more comfortable. This morning I had some twenty rounds at the Bosches but whether with luck or not it is impossible to say. I did, however, find two definite ranges and was able to register these.

      At this evening’s ‘stand to’ the Germans started heaving more torpedoes at the Jocks^vii on our right and one of my fellows, L/Cpl Rodman,^viii had the good luck to spot the place where they light the beastly thing. I at once reported it and the heavies are going to give them a dousing tomorrow morning. If it is successful, it will be most welcome and I hope, if only for Rodman’s sake, that it is. This evening later there has been a regular exchange of knocks between the artillery. Ours won easily. It was some sight and I was delighted that I witnessed it.

      The Bosches brought down one of our aeroplanes within their lines today. Bust ’em. Never mind, it’ll be our turn again tomorrow.

      1st December ’15

      We are out of the trenches and back in our dear, draughty but dry billet in the château stables. It has been a good day full of interest but we are all tired and weary from lack of sleep and are therefore thankful to forsake the excitement of the firing line for the quiet and comparative safety of our present sanctum.

      About 11 a.m. the Bosches started on our left sector with ‘whiz-bangs’ and concentrated these in the vicinity of Coy headquarters. They must have dropped thirty round us before noon. At the same time, they sniped us like old boots but we gave them back as good as their own at the latter game and, when our guns commenced, they dealt it out thick and plenty to the Bosche in shrapnel, light and heavy ordnance. It was all right. The shooting of our gunners is markedly superior to theirs. We drop right on the spot every time but they invariably waste from six to a dozen rounds feeling for theirs. When the good time comes that we have unlimited shell supply, Bosche is in for a thin time indeed. Also our fellows put the wind up several of their snipers, popping bullets all about them till they felt the neighbourhood unhealthy and quitted.

      It is exciting work, sniping. In fact one must curb the tendency lest it should become a fascination. The Second-in-Command of the E. Lancs^ix and myself put in a couple of hours this morning at it and had quite a bit of fun worrying the Bosches in their trenches. One fellow was walking across the open 2,000 yards off, when I spotted him and let go. You never saw a chap move quicker in your life. He ran for a tree and jumped behind it and I let him have four more there. Whether I got him or not I don’t know but he didn’t move for the next half-hour. I know because I waited so anxiously for him.

      Last night, or rather at 1.30 a.m. this morning, I got outside the barbed wire to look for a listening post which had lost itself. Naturally I didn’t find it. You seldom do, but I got lost myself instead. It was some tour and a bally Bosche Maxim which kept traversing our front added not a little to my perturbation. Three times I had to fling myself down in the wet grass, bury my nose in it and grovel whilst the damn thing went chattering over me. It is remarkable with what speed one learns to introduce celerity into ‘adopting the prone position’. The bally post came in at the end of the bottom of the lines and narrowly missed being shot for its pains.

      We

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