In January 1915, near Richebourg, I was one of a ration-party being led
back to the front line by a lance-corporal. The front line was a system
of breast-works surrounded by old disused trenches filled with seven
feet or so of icy-cold water.
It was a very dark moonless night, and near the line our leader called
out to those in the breast-works to ask them where the bridge was. He
was told to step off by the broken tree. He did so and slid into the
murky depths--the wrong tree!
We got him out and he stood on dry (?) land, shining with moisture,
full of strange oaths and vowing vengeance on the lad who had
misdirected him.
At stand-down in the dawn (hours afterwards) he was sipping his tot of
rum. He had had no chance of drying his clothes. I asked how he felt.
"Fresh as a pansy, mate," was his reply. "Won'erful 'ow a cold plunge
bucks yer up! Blimey, I feel as if I could push a leave train from
'ere to the base. 'Ere, put yer 'and dahn my tunic and see if that's
a tiddler ticklin' me back."--_F. J. Reidy (late 1st K.R.R.s), 119
Mayfair Avenue, Ilford._