IN BILLETS.
_December 5th, 1914._
No letters to-day. Report says that the Germans have blown the railway
up, but I do not think so. It is much more probable that one of the
bridges has broken through overwork. As a matter of fact, they did
blow up some bridges at the beginning of the war, and the French had
to put in temporary ones, and these are most likely giving way now. It
is very cold, with hail and sleet. I should think the trenches will be
worth seeing when we go back to them to-morrow. I only wish the war
was over, but one has to put up with these things. I see from your
letter that you are sending us a plum pudding from Rostrevor House. If
this is so, please thank your aunt for her kindness. It will be well
received. As to the comforts for the men, those you sent by post have
arrived, but not all coming through the forwarding officer. In any
case, they are amply supplied now, and only require things which are
not given by Government, such as gloves, cigarettes and matches, and
the two latter they often get from friends. I had a gigantic
consignment from the York Street Linen Mills in Belfast, and wrote to
thank the directors. Please send me a cake of Toilet Soap, Pears or
any sort will do--not too big--if it will go in my soap box. I had a
pleasant little dinner last night on Ration Beef at the General's. He
told me, with regard to the shooting of General Delarey in S. Africa,
that it was now said the Government out there meant to shoot Beyers as
well, as they were both supposed to be in the swim to raise a
rebellion, but I cannot believe it. The other guest was Col.
Wedderburn, who is the Hereditary Standard Bearer of Scotland, and is
in charge of a Militia Battalion out here. He is a very nice fellow
too. I am off to try to see General Keir of the 6th Division.
IN BILLETS.
_December 6th, 1914._
I have had the Regiment at church, and now I am dashing off a note to
you before I change and get into my old clothes. You will be glad to
hear that Sir John's chamois leather waistcoat fits me quite well. I
tried it on here, because it is "unhealthy" to stand up in the
trenches. I went over yesterday and saw Gen. Keir, whom I served under
in South Africa. He commands a Division in this war, and is another
old friend of mine, like General Inglefield. The road I took was
paved with cobble stones in the middle, and on each side was a sea of
mud, a specimen of what they are like about here, as there is no stone
in the country, only clay. It was very nice getting out on horseback
again for ten or twelve miles, even along such a road as that. All the
French farmhouses have more artistic fronts than ours; smart shutters,
etc., give them an imposing appearance, but it begins and ends there
fairly well, I think! The town in which we are is the same as a poor
part of Belfast might be--a long paved street; mean houses, and shops
on either side, with dirty little slums running off to the right and
left. Then here and there you come to a better class of house looking
rather out of proportion. I suppose these are the remains of the old
ones, when it was a village occupied by some prosperous doctor or
tradesman. However, I have not been able to find out if there are any
gentry in the place. Our hostess is the widow of a French officer, but
she appears to live in the kitchen! I asked the Mess sergeant whether
the French people did anything curious in their cooking, and he at
once said, "Yes; they never eat any meat, only vegetables and pork!"
Our Divisional General, a Guardsman who is a great stickler for
everything being quite right, was horrified the other day when
crossing a bridge to see a Special Reserve sentry of the "Black Watch"
with his rifle between his knees and his face buried in a bowl of
soap. Of course, his job was to watch the bridge and to present arms
to the General. So the latter sternly asked him if he was the sentry,
and he received the affable reply: "I am; and I am vera cold." History
does not relate any more! Well, I must give you my best wishes with my
present for Christmas. It seems a long time off yet, but you know how
slowly the post goes. I really think I have had no letters from anyone
since I arrived here excepting yourself.
IN TRENCHES.
_December 7th, 1914._
I am sorry to tell you that on the way to the trenches we lost poor
Captain Allgood, whom you will remember. I had ordered everyone to
return, wished them good luck, and was waiting to see that they were
all in whilst the Germans were sniping us, when someone came and
reported to me that a man had been shot through the shoulder by the
same bullet which I afterwards heard was believed to have killed Capt.
Allgood. The stretcher-bearers brought the latter in, and I sent for
the doctor at once, but he could only pronounce him to be dead also!
He was shot through the heart, and fell down remarking: "I am hit, but
I am all right," and never spoke or moved again. He leaves one little
daughter and his young wife. I did not like taking him out here on
account of his being married, and now he really has been killed. I
have just written to his wife, though I have never seen her. Still,
that is part of a Colonel's business. Poor Capt. Allgood! He looked so
peaceful lying on the stretcher. We are rather miserable in the
trenches, as we have to live in a sea of mud. I think it is worse this
time than ever. I have been busy getting it shovelled out and trying
to cheer everyone up. Yesterday when we were coming in, the Germans
started shelling the village we had to go through. I moved round it by
another road and saved my men, and sent a message to the G.O.C. saying
that I had been obliged to do this. Last night I received a telegram
from Sir Henry Rawlinson that the Germans were expected to attack.
They did not, fortunately, but they are now playing on us with their
machine guns. So we are very busy! A cheerful life!
IN TRENCHES.
_December 9th, 1914._
Just a line to try and keep up my regular custom of writing to you
every day whenever I can! A shell descended yesterday in the cottage I
run across to for my meals. I had just left, but I fancy there were
still enough people on the spot to be badly frightened. The Guard over
me from the Lincoln Regiment all fell or were blown down by the
explosion. Little Mr. Wright also was surprised. However, only Major
Baker's servant was hurt by a blow from a broken tile which cut his
chest, and another man was hit by a flying brick. After that I was
showing the General and other celebrities round the trenches. In one
place they really had a most amusing time, running down a very muddy
ditch crouched up double, whilst stray bullets flew about, and the
shell burst fortunately just 200 yards beyond us. Nasty stuff, too; a
tree about 50 feet high was caught by the explosion and cut off just
half way up. We go back to our shell-swept area for 3 days, though
whether we are much safer there I do not know, but we certainly are
more comfortable. Here with the rain there has been a steady drip into
the dug-out, and added to this the trenches have fallen in, and they,
of course, are ankle deep in mud. Mud is everywhere; on my face, on my
coat, and up nearly to my waist. I hear that the hostess of our last
billets turned rusty with the next people, and refused to let them
into her house, so had to come under the correction of the Provost
Marshal. I thought she would get into trouble. Your postcard was very
amusing. I heard from General Macready[5] two days ago. The guns are
booming away, but the sniping has decreased to-day.