That night was quiet, and our patrols and wirers were busy in No Man’s Land; rain fell during the night, and breakfasts were very late in the morning.
The following description of a typical day in the front line is for the edification of those who have never been there; how we longed to bring some of our stay-at-home acquaintances out there and rub their noses in Flanders mud—the real stay-at-homes, the profiteer, C.O., agitator, striker—the folk who, in accordance with what Lewis Carroll called “the glorious British Principle of Political Dichotomy,” were doing their best to nullify our efforts in the fighting line!
The day begins at “Stand to,” about an hour before dawn, when the Officer and N.C.O. on duty go round rousing every one with a hoarsely-whispered, “Wake up, there—Stand to!” reinforced by a shake as each man comes slowly up out of the wells of sleep and stumbles to his feet, rubs his eyes, grabs his rifle, and mounts the fire step. The Company Commander rouses the signaller, or vice versa, and every one sniffs the cold night air and hopes that “Jerry” won’t come over this morning.
Slowly the darkness thins; faces become visible, then sandbags, then duckboards, then the screwposts supporting the wire in front; suddenly a lark stirs, mounts up and bursts into his fervent song—the dawn has come, and the Company Commander gives the word “Stand down,” which is passed along and acted on promptly, so that in a minute only the sentry on each post is left on duty. For we no longer hold the line continuously—our numbers are too small—but with a certain number of sentry posts, each consisting of an N.C.O. and, when possible, six men—more often four—some posts being Lewis gun posts, others bombing posts, others riflemen only. This line of posts, weak as it is, is strung out between and in front of a series of “strong points” containing machine guns and an infantry garrison lodged in deep mines, while behind us is the support Company ready to come up in case of need, and reserve troops further back; in addition we have the guns, which we can always switch on in a few seconds by telephone or sending up a rocket; all these things give us confidence, weak though we feel ourselves to be.
About this time there appears in the trench an Officer from the reserve Company, followed by sweating men carrying knapsack food-containers and dixies. The word “Breakfast up” is hardly needed, as already a man from each post is waiting with both hands full of mess tins to draw the bacon and tea for his post—bread and dry stuff was issued by the Company Quartermaster-Sergeant the night before. The sentries are excluded from the ensuing munching until such time as a chum, his meal swallowed, is available for relief; never for an instant, by day or night, must that vigilant watch over No Man’s Land cease.
The Officers crowd into the Company Headquarters or crawl into their own “caboosh” and eat their food in privacy, the same food as the rest but on a plate, sometimes with porridge and eggs, privately purchased, in addition—the Army issues the same ration to all ranks, but extras can be bought at canteens in YPRES.
After breakfast comes cleaning and inspecting rifles, while the Company Commander, who has already had a look round and detailed the day’s work to the Company Sergeant-Major, completes and sends down by runner to Battalion Headquarters his Trench State and account of ammunition expended; then adjusting his tube helmet and box respirator and tightening his belt carrying his revolver and glasses (it is a standing order that everyone must wear his equipment all the time in the front line), he sets out to inspect his lines, finding, if he knows his job, a cheery word for all and sundry, and receiving often better than he gives, taking stock of everything, strafing slackers, and generally tuning up for the day, well knowing that, if he misses anything, the Commanding Officer or, worse still, the Brigadier, will spot it and strafe him!
Each sentry post has its standing orders pinned up on a board, with a duty roster showing each man’s work through the 24 hours, and ensuring that each gets eight hours in which he may try to sleep, and a sheet for intelligence, which is collected by the Intelligence Officer every morning when he visits the sniping posts.
“Dinners up” is the signal for a general break and a repetition of the breakfast scene, but the food is stew or roast meat and potatoes or rissoles. At 1 30 p.m. casualty returns and special indents have to be at Battalion Headquarters, and at 3 30 p.m. a report on the situation and direction of wind (this latter with reference to possible gas activities). Having to render this report in the middle of a strafe, some sorely-tried Officer is said to have written, “Situation——, Wind vertical!”
Long before this we have all washed (or dabbed) our hands and faces in shell-hole water and shaved as best we can, and an inspection of box respirators has been carried out by the Officer on duty; feet are also inspected and rubbed with whale oil to guard against trench-feet, then work is resumed till tea, after which it is time to stand-to again for another hour.