I have another letter half written to you, but the tablet it was
written on is left at my billet, and, as I rather forgot where I left
off, I hope I will not leave a gap. To-day is Monday, 22nd. As you
know, or will know when I finish the other letter, Friday and Saturday
we moved, and rather marched up, billeting Friday night and on
Saturday night--I won't go into details. On the march we saw an
aeroplane being shelled--a very pretty sight--white puffs of smoke
bursting all round it; one bit of shrapnel fell quite near us and made
one of the brigade sergeants quite excited. I am writing this in
comfort in bed in my dug-out, though my eyes keep trying to close; I
am a bit tired, but I shall get a good night's sleep, I hope. It is
now nearly eleven. On Sunday morning I came up early to prospect round
the trenches, and to take over from the battery we were relieving. I
prospected and then returned back to bring the battery up.
To get to the trenches we go first along the road up to a deserted
village the Germans shell when they have nothing better to do. They
were shelling it when I came out in the morning. I have often heard
shells described as sounding like express trains coming through the
air. They are almost as difficult to describe as the noise of the
bullet. It's a far quicker noise than an express train. It sounds like
a taxi going at about a hundred miles an hour and then bursting; a
bullet sounds like someone cracking a very loud whip just in your ear,
and a bit noisier than that when it is close to you. A machine
gun--there is one going now--sounds like a very noisy motor bike,
exactly like one, shells and bullets both whistle as well as they are
going on. Well, I must get on, I brought my men in in the afternoon.
After you get to the deserted village, you start up the communication
trench, twisting and turning for about 1,000 yards, you pass the
second line, and so on up to the firing line. The trenches we are in
are rather wet, but quite pleasant. Directly we arrived in I found
dug-outs for the men and myself, or rather pinched them, and put my
guns in position. I will carry on to-morrow, I hope; till then,
good-night. It's to-morrow now, and nearly the day after; in fact, it
is the day after. You will be glad to know that the trench mortar man
is the only one who gets a chance to sleep in the trenches; that is,
to have a decent sleep. This morning I got up at 11-0, when my servant
got me tea and a fire. Here is a plan of my dug-out:--
[Illustration]
It is quite a comfortable place, but rather cold now the brazier is
out. I will describe it. The whole is made of wood with a wooden
floor, just like our hut, only a smaller edition. It is about five
feet six inches high, and stands on the ground level in the firing
line, earth piled on top and all round it. The bed is made, I don't
quite know how, but it is wood with canvas stretched across it, like a
sort of hammock, and I have my valise, sleeping bag, blanket, fur
coat, &c. I sleep in everything except tunic and boots. The pictures
are post cards. It is lighted by your candle. It has been snowing the
last two days and everything is cased with snow. I mess with "D"
Company of the Scots--we have quite a nice dug-out.
The first night I arrived I climbed over the parapet with another
officer to examine our wire. It has to be repaired every night. The
German trenches are about 70 yards away in some places and as much as
400 in others. It is rather exciting wandering about in front of the
line, as lights go up every now and then and show a bright white light
in the air for a minute or two like a rocket. When one goes up you
fall flat and pretend you are a sandbag or a milk-can or a rat. You
may meet Fritz on the same job sometimes; I always have a bomb handy
to give him a brotherly welcome.
Well, I arose at 11-0, washed myself, and messed about, sent down for
rations and sandbags, &c. The German artillery is just firing, or
perhaps it is our own. You hear a bang and then a buzz over your head
a long way up. They are probably firing at something a good way back.
Rather bad form to fire at night time, I think; I hope no one sends
for me to do a little straffing. Having arisen at the early hour I
mentioned I nosed round and noticed some of the wretched Germans were
having the cheek to work by day time, throwing earth out of their
trenches. You could see on the snow on the parapet, so I sent them
four rounds with my compliments and they then saw their mistake and
stopped. I then watched their return of compliments with a battery of
field guns; they were quite cruel to a small bush a hundred yards
behind our line. I thought it rather a funny object to vent their
spleen on. Yesterday I inspected the whole of the brigade trenches to
see where I could make myself unpleasant to Fritz, and to-day we
started making a beautiful emplacement in the salient. I messed as a
visitor with "B" Company to-night, and so to bed. To-day it is
Thursday, I think. Yesterday I had a very exciting day, rather too
exciting in parts. I got up at 8-30 in time for breakfast, and went
down to see the second in command of the Scots, and stayed at
headquarters for lunch. In the afternoon we worked on another
emplacement and got it nearly finished. We have to be continually
working on the trenches--that is, the Infantry have to. My men do some
work every day making emplacements, as those already in the trench do
not come up to my standard at all, and we need a lot more to move the
guns about. The life is either rather too exciting or ideal. It is
usually a sort of picnic; at least, for the battery. We can't do any
firing as I have not got my own ammunition at present. The men get up
at any old time, they brew tea most of the day. In the morning they
don't do much. Then they cook their dinner. In the afternoon they work
on emplacements and some go down for rations; they have to carry it
all a mile or two, and it takes a long time, mostly through trenches.
Then they brew tea again. At night one is always on duty as a sentry
over the guns. In the ordinary course of events their life and mine is
just a picnic. Well, yesterday after lunch we worked, and then I had
tea with the company I mess with, after which, at about 6-30, Kitton
and I started out. By the way, the men all have to stand to arms for
an hour or more at dawn and dusk. After stand-to in the morning, they
get rum. I think I am the only man in the trenches who does not
stand-to. Kitton and I went to see the Brigade Major, and they made us
stay for dinner; we did not want to, as headquarters mess are all nice
and clean and we were simply filthy, I had not shaved and was filthy
dirty. I will tell you what I wear. Starting at the extremities:--Long
pair of gum boots--they are an Army issue, and come up to the thighs,
one pair socks, trousers (more intimate details censored), sweater,
tunic, fur coat, what skin I don't know, it is something like squirrel
in colour, grey--also an Army issue; and either a waterproof cape,
coming down to the calves, Army issue (free) or my Thresher and
Glenny.
After dinner, and a talk with the Brigade Major about instructions,
&c., for the battery, we set off down the road back to the trenches.
When we got to the village you can either go up the communication
trench or miss the first 500 yards or so of it and go up the road
taking your chance of machine guns. Being rather late we chose the
road. But, unfortunately, we had not gone 200 yards up it when
tut-tut-tut-tut-tut-tut (say that as fast as you can and then say it
faster and get father to sneeze it) a wretched machine gun got right
on to the road. With our usual politeness we gave the road up to
someone who seemed to want it more than ourselves, and dived into some
R.E. stores at the side, while the wretched gun went on for 2 minutes,
the bullets ricocheting off the road and ripping into the wood in
which we were hiding. The only thing you could see of me were: (1)
That upon which I sit down, and (2) my legs. I didn't mind about them,
as a wound in them would only have meant a few months leave. At last
the thing stopped, and we, strange to say, returned to the village and
went along to the communication trench when plop, bang, smash (four
sneezes from father, the new housemaid dropping the dinner tray and
the chapel-keeper dropping the plate, will give you some idea--get
them to try), four shells fell 50 yards away on our left. We were then
halted by a sentry, one of my own battalion. Meanwhile, I saw the
whole sky lit up as all our heavy guns were letting themselves go a
bit; I suppose they knew the machine guns had been unkind to us and
were trying to show their sympathy. The sentry challenged, I replied
with our names and ranks. He glibly replied "Pass friends, all's
well." As we were passing him to go to the C.T. (communication trench)
I noticed something funny about his face, so I asked him what was the
matter with it. He answered that he was wearing a gas helmet. I asked
him if it was for amusement, or because he thought his face would
frighten the passers-by. He answered that there was a gas attack on.
Then an infernal din broke out, artillery, rifles, machine guns, &c.,
Very lights. I can tell you we got our helmets on pretty slick. Of
course, Kitty (that's Kitton) had forgotten his (he's getting the
other battery in the brigade, a Scot--a topping chap), but as I had
two I lent him one of mine, keeping the prettiest, a blue and white
striped one, for myself. Then we proceeded up the C.T. Well, you have
never worn a gas helmet. It smells like ten hospitals and nearly
suffocates you. I could not breathe out of mine at first and the
windows got misty, but it got all right soon. You can imagine what it
was like, nearly suffocated, hardly able to see or hear, and
slithering about in army rubber boots on the ice in the bottom of the
C.T., catching my cloak in everything, never knowing who was coming
towards us, whether it was a fat, greasy Fritz or what it was, not
having the faintest idea what was happening in the front and the
firing line we were making for, unarmed except for the moral effect
our gas helmets would create by their hideousness.
However, I soon managed to breathe out and to see a bit. Then I
noticed the position of the Very lights and saw we still held the
front line, so we felt reassured, especially as we could hear the
topping sound of our own shells whizzing over our heads, about the
most comforting sound I have ever heard. When we came to Battalion
Headquarters we found that the gas was off and gladly took off our
helmets and tried to push on to the firing line. But we had awful
difficulty, as about 800 men, who had been in working parties working
on the trenches, were coming down, and the whole way up the C.T. we
were sniped and shelled, the shells bursting all round us within a few
yards, but, thank goodness, none going into the trench. The men coming
down seemed to think the end of the world had come were almost on
their hands and knees. We tried to encourage them a bit, but they did
not like to stand up, though they were not likely to be hit unless a
shell came into the trench. At length we arrived at the safety of the
firing line; really it is quite the safest place unless you are
several miles back. They practically never shell the trenches unless
there is an attack coming off, because they can do so little damage
without shooting off hundreds of rounds. In the firing line we found
things quieted down, no attack being made against us and things
generally normal. The alarm had come from our right. There was an
attack away up North, and probably the alarm had been passed right
down the line. I think we were successful in the attack I mention. At
about 3-0 a.m. I got to bed.
I arose this morning at about 11-0. Fuller fried my breakfast on the
brazier and I had it in bed. Then I washed my feet, rubbed them with
anti-frost bite, had a good wash and shave, brushed my teeth and hair
and went to lunch feeling very fit.
Had tea this afternoon at our Battalion Headquarters and am now going
to bed at 1-10 a.m., having been scrawling this rubbish for about an
hour; breakfast in bed in the morning, I think.
I am afraid this letter has been a long time coming, but somehow I
always seem to have something to do. There are two noises I can hear
now, one the squeak of a rat, but I know he won't come in (at least, I
hope not), and two, the crack of a sniper's bullet, which I know has
no chance of coming in. As the papers would say, "Situation normal on
the Western Front." We get absolutely no news, you know more of what
is going on in France than I do. We heard that the division on our
right were in action the other night, but, although it was four nights
ago, we don't know whether it is true.
Father's and May's letters to hand, for which many thanks. Father
gives me a lot of news. I had not heard of the fall of the place he
speaks of, I suppose the Russians took it--good work. I do hope Lovel
comes home, don't tell him too much of what I say about the artillery.
There are two things of which we absolutely cannot get too much--1,
candles; 2, cake. I have about one and a half of ordinary candles a
day.
Much love to all,
From your sleepy and loquacious Son,
ALEC.
P.S.--Don't believe all I say.
A/101 TRENCH MORTAR BATTERY,
101ST BRIGADE, B.E.F.