I have not written for the last day or two; that is, my writing has
not been continuous as it usually is, because in billets we do little,
and have little we can do. All the guns are in the trenches, so we
have nothing to amuse ourselves with; half the battery is in with my
second in command. We have only had three killed in the battalion so
far, two men and one officer, and about half a dozen slightly wounded,
almost all on working parties, on which trench mortar batteries do not
go. If you are with the battalions you come out for four days rest,
but it is a very deceptive rest; you usually have to send large
working parties up at night-time to work on the trenches. Our rest,
fortunately, is really rest. The only things we have to do is to take
rations up to the dump for the rest of the battery, draw our own
rations, and get our mails from the Field Post Office. I have a fair
amount to do. There is a sort of Will o' the Wisp person called the
field cashier, from him a whole army corps draws the pay for its men,
and he goes to various places. His best game is to hide himself in a
wood miles away from anyone, and, then just before you succeed in
reaching him, he flits away to the other end of France; it takes about
a week to catch him, if you are lucky--I have been trying for six days
now. Another way I manage to fill up my time: Suppose I want some
rifle oil I send an indent in marked urgent. Then the indent goes to
the Practical Joke Department of the Division, and the indent is
returned to you, telling you to apply elsewhere. You apply elsewhere,
and are told to apply to the cheese department. If you are persevering
you get the right department at last, and your indent is returned to
you again with either a demand for the authority for the issue of what
you require--and by then you have forgotten what you wanted, and have
"borrowed" someone else's--or telling you that what you want is not
one trouser button, but button, trouser, one, and you let it go at
that. So the rest of my time is spent indenting and receiving indents,
and finally bearding some divisional authority in his den, and discern
him trying to find some way out of supplying you with the article. I
then smile in my most charming manner, and treat the matter firmly.
It's like answering Margaret's questions, or getting her to go to
sleep. The last "Tatler" you sent me has a large picture that will
cover a lot of boards in my dug-out. I am becoming very careful now.
When I first got in the trenches I used to get bored with a periscope,
and put my head and shoulders up and have a good look round. The
Bosches opposite us are rather sleepy. But now I am becoming quite
careful; No Man's Land isn't very interesting, so a periscope is good
enough. I take good care of myself nowadays since the little machine
episode on the road. I expected when I first went up to the trenches
to find them smelling of dead men, and to find No Man's Land a sort of
quagmire covered with dead bodies, but in front of us it is a nice
green field with no dead bodies on it; the only excitement is right on
the right of our line, where there is one dead German in the middle. I
believe a small charge is made for looking at him through the
periscope there.
There's something I notice, and that is that there are certain
magnificent gentlemen, you will have seen, who wear red round their
hats--the Staff. In England you see the red about 60 miles off. Behind
the lines here there is no mistake about seeing it. But in the
trenches, the red is carefully covered over with a nice khaki band.
The Aunts sent me a topping parcel the other night, a pair of socks,
worked by Auntie Lil, that I have on now, a cake, made by Auntie
Agnes, I have in me now, and a book and some chocolate, the last has
been censored and the other is being so. I wrote and thanked them. If
you see them please thank them again and give them my love. Fancy I
have been out here about nine weeks and I am still writing long
letters about nothing at all, and I see no chance of my falling off in
this respect, mother mine, because I know that you like to receive,
even the most ridiculous letters I send. I received letters this week
from David Smythe, who, after being rejected several times, has at
last managed to get into the Black Watch in the ranks. From Eric
Davies, who has now got a commission. From Jasper Holmes and Kenneth
Rudd. I was very pleased to receive them. Roly, I hear, has been
wounded. Pat I have not heard from for some time. I also had a letter
from Miss Crocker from Paris. Ask May to write to Miss Smyth some time
and give her my love, and ask her to write to me and send me her
address. I am thinking of you all to-night, Father in the dining
room, Charlie not in yet; you and May having your supper before you go
to bed, and Amy, probably in bed already, at Ripon. I hope Arthur is
all right again, and Lovel is enjoying himself. Good-night, little
mother; God bless you. I should like to walk in and surprise you all;
perhaps in two or three months I may do so, and find you all out at a
meeting or some other thing.
With much love to all,
From your loving Son,
ALEC.
March 7th (Tuesday).
A/101 TRENCH MORTAR BATTERY,
101ST BRIGADE, B.E.F.