(39)
Saturday, June 12th, ’15. 6.45 P.M.
... We have really ‘upholstered’ this ‘booby’ of ours very smartly—We
have a table and 2 chairs (ammunition boxes) and have adorned the walls
with pictures (of actresses) out of a Magazine and the photo of a
Frenchman’s ma taken out of a rubbish-heap behind! The whole concern is
only about 8 feet by 6 in dimension and de la Mare—myself—and my most
worthy Crump live in it.... We sent Crump off on an expedition for _food_
the other day and he was clever enough to buy us 18 eggs, 2 bottles Vin
Ordinaire, 2 lbs butter, 3 loaves bread, and a bottle of milk—and bring
all these up through miles of communication trench without breaking an
h’egg! Imagine him slushing through mud holding the bundle of eggs before
him!...
This is really very cosy—and if undisturbed by our friends 150 yards
off will continue to be so. We’re going to ask for leave, ‘Moneybags’
and self—to bomb these blighters out of a small trench which they have
jutting from their line—in other words a ‘salient’ in their line. This
will be more to our liking than sitting being shelled, I’m thinking!
After this rain—it will be a ‘sticky wicket,’ but a slow overhand bowler
with a hand-grenade should beat the Teuton Batsman—at any rate the
_fielding_ will be good—although I shouldn’t like to be silly-point!;
that’s my silly point!
(40)
June 14.
For those who can look at this sort of warfare in the right way there are
enormous advantages—I feel as if I had lived a century!
(41)
June 14th, 1915. 1 P.M.
MY DEAREST M. & DADDY,—Got the Chronicle, letter and ‘Land and Water’
this morning—also all those letters which went wrong when I was in
hospital! I had a ripping letter from Auntie also and a note from
Daisy—also the fruit etc: from G.M. so I didn’t do badly. Amongst the
lost letters was one from Shane and his wife; several from you both, and
a note from Rooke. Shane seemed pretty cheery—he wrote from Salisbury.
Have you seen anything of him lately? Well—you all seem to be reading my
muckins—the whole contingent at No: 7—the ‘droppers in’ and car-riders
etc: so I will extend my descriptive efforts a bit, for as far as I can
see the papers talk a lot of rot and give people a very poor idea of the
general doings, round _here_ at any rate. Some day I am going to try
my hand at a few short stories (shut up laughing!) on the Sniper, the
‘Jack Johnson’ and several other objects of interest—when I have the
energy—which is not often. The programme is eat, sleep, and work, and
there is not much energy left for writing, though any amount of time
_and_ scope. For instance, I simply can’t be bothered to write in Pen and
ink—this is a very untidy output!
Enough of this: now let me give you an idea of what the French trenches
which we are occupying are like.
First there is a barricade of earth thrown up—about 10 ft. wide by 3
high—the cavity left being the actual trench. Between this mound of earth
and the trench is a wall of sand-bags—three to four thick by 10 high.
This gives a man 6 ft. of standing room with a stepping stone on which to
stand for firing purposes. Behind and jutting out from this parapet are
erected what we know as ‘traverses,’ or thick walls of sandbags 15 ft.
long by 12 ft. wide (about) to protect the flanks of the trench; thus:
[Illustration]
Behind all are communication trenches, the purpose of which lies in the
name and does for ‘dug outs’ etc:
This is the outline of any trench, German, French or English, so there
is no harm in showing you. Now _these_ trenches are all broken down and
in a filthy mess, and we are building them up as quick as we can. The
French seem to have had no idea of trench-work. My platoon occupies about
25 yards of trench, but it is very small—only 32 all told. Night and day
we work—only allowing a certain portion to be at work at one time, and
having another certain portion told off for sentry duty. I have been
studying the German trenches (150 yards off now) this morning with my
glasses (Uncle Charlie’s) and see they are hard at work on theirs also.
And so there you have us—a picture—two parties—150 yards apart—both
digging for all they are worth and picking each other off at every
opportunity—both entirely at the mercy of the other’s artillery—both
having their letters from home and national papers urging them (if
anything ever did) to do great things. This strikes me forcibly this
morning—quiet for the last hour as your study itself—and _isn’t_ it an
absolutely unique situation? There are many brave men over yonder just
longing for a ‘scrap’ like we are—perhaps they haven’t quite got our
spirit, but still your Bosch is no weakling. And this situation exists,
with few exceptions (I mean hand to hand struggles) for 400 miles of
frontage! Of course these are all truisms—but—dash it! do the people in
England realize that if that 150 yards was taken and a few more miles
were rushed after that by our friends across the way—_anything_ might
happen. Of course this is all ‘supposing’—but—_what_ a pity we aren’t
fighting this war on the borders of Scotland! No—the Germans will never
break our line, but neither have we broken theirs and people seem to
think that that is a foregone conclusion. However Italy, as you say, will
put matters on a more promising footing.
Last night I had to post a listening-patrol from my platoon out in
front. It was a pitch dark night, so I had a roam round (safe as houses
at night)—I got quite close to old man Fritz and only retreated quickly
because I came across the remains of a struggle between French and
German—_not_ very enticing. The men I took out with me lay down (they are
old hands at the game) close to the ground amongst the _clover_, which
abounds here and affords excellent cover—and closer still when they sent
their infernal lights up which give everyone away for a long way round.
It is exciting, in a mild form, out in front, as the Germans are just
over the lip of the hill and can creep up their side and put out their
patrols so that you have two little parties listening for each other’s
movements at only about 30 yards distance. I thought I had been and gone
and done it when I saw something jolly like a man in the grass. It was a
dead ‘Froggie’—that was all!
Since I talked of its being quiet, the Huns have started their
little game (so cheerful for the _bowler_!) of pelting us with
trench-mortars—and it is just about time our artillery got onto them.
These mortars they bring up into the first line trenches and so range
at about 200 yards—imagine the size of the projectile. Now I hope this
letter hasn’t too much ‘frightfulness’ in it—It may interest you and any
aunts or ‘droppers in’ there may be!
The C.O. (Jones) is coming along—he is a calm one—one of those trench
m’s burst just behind him just now: their effect, of course, is very
local. Just at the end of my stretch of trench are the old emplacements
where the Canadians lost and retook their guns. Truly a historic piece of
ground this—This is the very trench from which the French ran when first
the Gas was employed—that is why there is such an enormous amount of
equipment and hundreds of broken French rifles lying about.—The Germans
have been in it _also_, so there will be some pretty times when the
_ghosts_ of this place have a look in later on! Outside our booby-hutch
there is a topping little look-out place from which on sunny mornings I
try my luck with a rifle—I made Fritz keep his head down this morning
alright!
Ah! the French have got at them with shrapnel—that will help matters—(you
must excuse these little side-allusions—a little hard to keep my
attention fixed you know!).
Ah! Boom—Boom—Boom—the guns are waking up all along—now things will
probably keep alive until sundown when night will come on, each side will
send out its listening-posts, there will be a big exchange of rifle-fire
(there always is about 8 P.M.—9 P.M. when we ‘stand to’), and another day
of this extraordinary existence both sides are leading will be over.
I could rattle on like this for pages—but have run short of paper (send
me out a _big block_).
So toodle-oo pip! pip!!
Love to you all.
Ever your own loving son,