Our battalion arrived in a French village late on the night of
September 25, 1915, after marching all day in pouring rain. To add to
our troubles no billets were available (the place was teeming with
reserve troops for the attack at Loos).
We were told to find some sort of shelter from the rain and get a good
night's rest, as we were to move up to the attack on the morrow.
My chum, a Londoner, and I scouted round. I found room for one in an
already overcrowded stable; my chum continued the search. He returned
in a few minutes to tell me he had found a spot. I wished him good
night and went to sleep.
In the morning, when I came out of the stable, I saw the long legs of
a Guardsman (who proved to be my chum) protruding from a dog kennel.
Beside them sat a very fed-up dog!--_F. Martin (late 1st Batt. Scots
Guards), 91 Mostyn Road, Brixton, S.W._
[Illustration: "...A very fed-up dog."]