I rejoined the First Battalion in March, finding it in the line again,
on the Somme. It was the primrose season. We went in and out of the
Fricourt trenches, with billets at Morlancourt, a country village at
that time untouched by shell-fire. (Later it was knocked to pieces;
the Australians and the Germans captured and recaptured it from each
other several times, until there was nothing left except the site.)
‘A’ Company headquarters were in a farmhouse kitchen. We slept in our
valises on the red-brick floor. The residents were an old lady and her
daughter. The old lady was senile and paralysed; about all she could
do was to shake her head and say: ‘Triste, la guerre.’ We called her
‘Triste la Guerre.’ Her daughter used to carry her about in her arms.
The Fricourt trenches were cut in chalk, which was better in wet
weather than the La Bassée clay. We were unlucky in having a
battalion-frontage where the lines came closer to each other than at
any other point for miles. It was only recently that the British line
had been extended down to the Somme. The French had been content, as
they usually were, unless they definitely intended a battle, to be at
peace with the Germans and not dig in too near. But here there was
a slight ridge and neither side could afford to let the other hold
the crest, so they shared it, after a prolonged dispute. It was used
by both the Germans and ourselves as an experimental station for new
types of bombs and grenades. The trenches were wide and tumbledown,
too shallow in many places, and without sufficient traverses. The
French had left relics of their nonchalance—corpses buried too near
the surface; and of their love of security—a number of lousy but deep
dug-outs. We busied ourselves raising the front-line parapet and
building traverses to limit the damage of the trench-mortar shells
that were continually falling. Every night not only the companies in
the front line but both support companies were hard at work all the
time. It was even worse than Cuinchy for rats; they used to run about
A Company mess while we were at meals. We used to eat with revolvers
beside our plates and punctuate our conversation with sudden volleys
at a rat rummaging at somebody’s valise or crawling along the timber
support of the roof above our heads. A Company officers were gay. We
had all been in our school choirs except Edmund Dadd, who sang like a
crow, and we used to chant church anthems and bits of cantatas whenever
things were going well. Edmund insisted on joining in.
We were at dinner one day when a Welsh boy came rushing in, hysterical
with terror. He shouted out to Richardson: ‘Sirr, sirr, there is a
trenss-mortar in my dug-out.’ This in sing-song Welsh made us all shout
with laughter. Richardson said: ‘Cheer up, 33 Williams, how did a
big thing like a trench-mortar happen to be in your dug-out?’ But 33
Williams could not explain. He went on again and again: ‘Sirr, sirr,
there is a trenss-mortar in my dug-out!’ Edmund Dadd went out to
investigate. He found that a trench-mortar shell had fallen into the
trench, bounced down the dug-out steps, exploded and killed five men.
33 Williams had been lying asleep and had been protected by the body of
another man; he was the only one unhit.
[Illustration: SOMME TRENCH MAP