"It is surprising how inaccurate shell fire can be. For every ten fired eight or nine miss the mark. In a field behind the village church there is not six yards that has not a ploughed up hole in it. And yet the church, as such, is not longer recognisable except for its tower. The trees also in the neighbourhood and the telegraph poles are half of them slashed up - not one of them fails to have some sign of damage or gash. Yes, they seem to have peppered every square yard of this place, and yet long as we have been in the trenches only a bare half-dozen men have been struck.
'It's an ill wind that blows no one good.' The men even rejoice at times to see the house where they draw wood and water from come down piecemeal. A well-placed shell makes the job of these hewers of wood and water so much the easier.
In the trenches we split the day up by meal times - and they come close to one another - and we sleep and sit about so much that we are getting fat and sleek. I have been made Mess President of No. 4, with orders to see that members don't get overfed. We had such a tiring succession of cocoa that it as quite a relief to find a new liquid in café au lait, made out of condensed milk.
So we pass the day, and evening comes on. We look at the rifles and lay them on the parapet, take precautions about a nasty bank along the road where the Germans might crawl up and throw bombs. In another trench one of our men was on sentry, when he felt a touch on the end of his rifle. He fired, there was a groan, and he crept over to find a dying German, who had lost his way, I expect, scouting.
We have our two hour shifts at night, and drowse the rest of the time. About five o'clock, with luck, our servant, if he has woken up, brings us some Oxo, and then you go round kicking the men to make them stand to arms. As day grows bayonets are inspected and those passed round which have been hit by bullets. There were three one night - one snapped off completely.
The next day is a repetition of what has gone before; there is the usual after-breakfast serenade, and after writing some letters, and a few short snoozes, we start counting the hours until we will be relieved. The men are always packed up and ready to move off a good hour before. Then we wait - of course the relieving regiment, the G.G.'s, are late - you are generally warned of their approach by the sound of muffled oaths and grousings. An Officer leads them, and wants to know why we have fires; then a man passes, 'Well, Mick, we would have had four days C.B. for a glow like that.'
I lead my relieving platoon into their position, blundering and squeezing past my heavily packed men - and how two men with packs on pass one another - well you must hear from them and what passes, and have some idea.
There is just the same delight in showing your next position with all its little special corners and whims to the next lot, as a schoolboy might show his bird collection to a visitor.
At last the G.G.'s settle down - we unfix bayonets and start filing out. The order goes down ahead of you and however slowly the first man walks, the last man is sure to run - it is fated never to be otherwise. After forty four yards of communication trenches we get into the road - skirt the Jack Johnson holes, if we don't fall into them, miss the broken down trees and poles - and so walk in single file for a while or so while the spent bullets are flying over and through you. One always seems to smack the wall of a cottage just as we pass it, and it makes me jump - if no one else.
It is strange, but we always have more casualties coming up to the trenches than we do while in them - from these spent bullets. It is rare if we get through without one man being killed, generally just by the little cemetery where two of our brave officers are buried who fell on Feburary 1st.
On reaching the main road again by a circuitous route about a mile behind the firing line, we form up in the dark as well as we can and then slog home. Then it is you notice you are swinging about and can't walk straight, and the men also seem all over the place in fives and sixes. You try talking to them, but it seems no good - so you just lump it and plod along, only to be roused up when a bright motor light appears ahead, or a battery of artillery want to pass you from the rear.
At last, as your legs get more unsteady, one, and then more lights appear, and you get into Bœuvry. The men shake together, and you are home sooner than you think. Rations and a tot of rum are served out, then we look after our food The stairs seem steep, and when we get into the electric light and see the supper, I realise for the fist time I am tired, and possibly so much that I have to leave my letters ot the next day. There is little talk at supper. Directly it is over, Capt. Young and I are off to our billets at the tailor's shop, to the bed on the floor in my sleeping bag.
I didn't wake till near nine o'clock, so it must have been close on twelve hours. I got up leisurely, went across to the mess, and from the window we could see the men making their morning wash at the village pump, surrounded by the ladies and children of the place. All the square is muddy cobbles, with much piled up, in certain places, a sure trap for the unwary at night, as it is knee deep - and I had fallen into one the night before; luckily there were no men about, otherwise there must have been stories of drunken officers flying about; and we are desperately strict on this - it is a court marshal for every case, and a sentence of nothing less than six months hard labour.
In to breakfast walks Harmsworth, looking as fresh as he ever did. His right arm is tucked in his coat, and he tells us he has had his arm poisoned, the reason being that two nights ago he threw a bomb - German - which exploded prematurely. A bit stung his arm up, but he thought nothing of it until he found his arm swollen. A doctor says a nail is lodged in somewhere, so he was soon packed off for a month.
He is a very jolly man - about twenty - always happy and keen. He boxed for Oxford last year, and, considering he has spent all his life in hotels and big houses, he is wonderfully simple and hard. I liked him more than anyone; he had such a go about him, and didn't care for no one."
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