They went into the line on a frontage beyond the actual Passchendaele village and on the far side of the ridge looking down on Jerry trenches. Watery mud again everywhere ... a further protection of sandbags around the legs was not a success; trench feet became more and more prevalent and the germs of trench fever placed Martel, Robin and a long roll on the casualty list.
Eight days of it, followed by arduous fatigues and working parties in the reserve lines. Trenches upon trenches in relays were with difficulty cut into a spongy soil, having apparently one fixed intention, e.g., to clog on to the spade in gummy lumps. Redoubts were constructed under directions from R.E.'s and a series of strong points run up at brief intervals.
When Jerry decided to come over he would have an ample reception. The weather had developed a finer, milder tone, enabling the occupants of enemy observation balloons to peer down on the mass of men engaged in rapid construction of several reserve lines of defence. At times the fit would take him to play on these exposed areas with his artillery, raining on the troops a brief fierce barrage, blowing men, horses and waggons to fragments in all directions, and playing mad havoc amongst partially-completed earthworks ... but the work went on.
Another eight days in! Night raids, patrols—casualties. Jerry came over once in the early morning—he went back!
A party of R.E.'s moving up from the south-ard brought with them tidings of what had occurred near St. Quentin.
"Jerry started 'is little game. Came over in thousands," The speaker was overwhelmed with eager inquiries.
"Anythin' doin'?", "Did we wash 'im out?", "Wot 'appened?"
"One at a time. Smashed in our line on a fifty mile front."
"WOT!" shouted in chorus.