IN TRENCHES.
_December 14th, 1914._
Here I am in my dripping dug-out, even more so than usual. The water
is up to my waist in some places. Things are moving, I think, and
perhaps our friends the Germans may shortly move also. We have been
pouring shells on the poor dears all day. This morning I was lucky in
getting hold of a German helmet. The Divisional General has been
screaming for one for days, as we wish to find out what troops are in
front of us. I have had patrols prowling about everywhere at nights
trying to catch a prisoner. Yesterday morning, for a wonder, we found
some Germans patrolling outside their trenches, and fired upon them,
but they got away. This was just at daybreak; but, going very
carefully over the ground as soon as we could in the dark, we came
upon a helmet, either dropped in flight, or else one of the men had
been hit. However, we carried it off in triumph, and so found out for
the General what he wanted to know. Thanks for your news. As to poor
Mr. Innes Cross of our regiment, who is missing, I know nothing. The
other or 2nd Battalion might tell you something. A machine gun has
been going hard at my trench for some time, off and on....
IN TRENCHES.
_December 15th, 1914._
It was our evening to go off to the town six miles away for the three
days in every twelve, which we get to steady our nerves, I suppose.
Unfortunately, some other operations had to be carried out, so we were
not able to leave, after all, and we are still here, worse luck! I was
summoned this morning to go up a road to meet the General. I found him
in a farm, having been obliged to take cover from rifle fire. After
the business was settled, I saw him off to comparative safety, and
then trudged back to our trenches, meeting a stretcher with one of our
men shot through the chest below the heart when he was on the road,
also on duty. I will say this for the men, that whilst I go off duty
with my heart in my mouth and hurry through it, they saunter about,
and no amount of checking will make them understand that it is
dangerous to idle about in the open. Afterwards they are hit--if not
seriously wounded. They are very like little children, rather annoyed,
but in their hearts, I am sure, secretly glad that they have escaped
from the awful squalor of the trenches to the comparative comfort of a
wounded man in hospital. It is turning a little colder now, which will
be really a great improvement over the sloppy weather we have been
having. My headquarters are being moved from my awful dug-out to a
house, or rather cottage, where I shall not feel the cold quite so
much; but I sincerely hope that the enemy will not find out where I
am, as they will then shell me out of existence! I must close now to
get ready to move....
IN TRENCHES.
_December 16th, 1914._
As I told you in yesterday's letter, I have moved my headquarters back
400 yards, so now I am about 700 yards behind the firing line, and
something like 1,100 yards from the Germans. We are in a house of
sorts which has mysteriously escaped being destroyed. It is protected
by a barn more or less ruined, and so the bullets miss it, and also
the shells, though they burned a building within four yards of us.
This is the house near by which I saw five shells burst the first day
I came up here. It was most weird last night as I was lying on the
floor to hear bullet after bullet strike the wall; one has come
through the window, but that was unusual. When the native troops were
in here, they lost three men killed at the front door, but I think we
have polished off that sniper since then. Sometimes the bullets glance
off the brickwork with a shower of sparks. It is very unhealthy to go
out on either side of the farmhouse. I went my rounds yesterday in the
evening. Such a time I have never had! Imagine going along a trench
just wide enough for your shoulders; your head up to the original
level of the ground, and the earth piled up on either side for two or
three feet; the bottom was soft mud with water well above the knees.
One sank into this whilst one struggled on, carrying revolver or
rifle. In my case, revolver strapped on, and holding up my cloak to
prevent it getting under my feet in my dreadful flounders. Several
times I nearly stuck for good, but just managed to get through. I
succeeded in putting on dry things afterwards, but the men, I am sorry
to say, could not do so. I asked the doctor to go and inspect this
morning, and see if there was anything he could suggest. He went off
cheerfully enough, but came back two hours later a dirtier, if a
wiser, man, and his only remark to me was: "Well, it will not last. No
men could stand that very long!" I replied that we _must_ do so longer
than the Germans. The pheasants duly arrived, and we are grateful as
ever. I have written to your Mother.