The redoubt was in the Cuinchy trenches, and that old cellar was really a delightful headquarters. The first time we were in it we found a cat there; on the second occasion the same cat appeared with three lusty kittens! These used to keep the place clear of rats and get sat on every half-hour or so. I soon learned to get used to smoke; on one occasion the smoke from our brazier became so thick that Gray, the cook, threatened to resign. For all the smoke gathers at the top of a dug-out and seems impossibly suffocating to anyone first entering; yet it is often practically clear two or three feet from the ground, so that when lying or sitting one does not notice the smoke at all; but a new-comer gets his eyes so stung that it seems impossible that anyone can live in the dug-out at all! (Gray, by the way, was not allowed to resign.)”
Here follows a letter describing the front trenches at Givenchy:
“7th November. On the 29th we marched off at 9.0 and halted at 11.0 for dinner. Luckily it was fine, and the piled arms, the steaming dixies, and the groups of men sitting about eating and smoking formed a pleasant sight. Our grub was put by mistake on the mess-cart which went straight on to the trenches! Edwards, however, our Company mess-president, came up to the scratch with bread, butter, and eggs. Tea was easily procured from the cookers. Then off we went to our H.Q. There we got down into the communication trench, and in single file were taken by guides into our part of the trenches: these guides were sent by the battalion we were relieving. I told you that all the trenches have names (which are painted on boards hung up at the trench corners). The first thing done was to post sentries along our company front: until this was done the outgoing battalion could not ‘out-go.’ Each man has his firing position allotted to him, and he always occupies it at ‘stand to’ and ‘stand down.’ We were three days and three nights in the trenches. Each officer was on duty for eight hours, during which he was responsible for a sector of firing-line and must be actually in the front trench. My watch was 12 to 4, a.m. and p.m. Work that out with ‘stand to’ in the morning and also in the evening and you will see that consecutive sleep is not easy! On paper 6-12 (midnight) looks good; but then, remember, dinner at 7.0 or 7.30 according to the fire, while you may have to turn out any time if you are being shelled at all. For instance, one night I was just turning in early at 7.0, when a mine went up on our right, and shelling and general ‘strafing’ kept me out till 9.30, after which I couldn’t sleep! So at midnight I was tired when I started my four hours, turned in at 4.0, out again for ‘stand to,’ 8.0 breakfast, 9.0 rifle inspection, and so it goes on! That is why you can appreciate billets, and bed from 9.0 to 7.0 if you want it.
Imagine a cold November night—with a ground fog. What bliss to be roused from a snug dug-out at midnight, and patrol the Company’s line for four interminable hours. It is deathly quiet. Has the war stopped? I stand up on the fire-step beside the sentry and try to see through the fog. ‘Pip-pip-pip-pip-pip’ goes a machine-gun. So the war’s still on.
‘Cold?’ I ask a sentry. ‘Only me feet, sir.’ ‘Why don’t you stamp your feet, then?’ This being equivalent to an order, Tommy stamps feebly a few times until made to do so energetically. Unless you make him stamp, he will not stamp; would infinitely prefer to let his feet get cold as ice. Of course, when you have gone into the next bay, he immediately stops. Still, that is Tommy.
I gaze across into No Man’s Land. I can just see our wire, and in front a collection of old tins—bully tins, jam tins, butter tins—paper, old bits of equipment. Other regiments always leave places so untidy. You clean up, but when you come into trenches you find the other fellows have left things about. You work hard repairing the trenches: the relieving regiment, you find on your return, has done ‘damn all,’ which is military slang for ‘nothing.’ And all other regiments, it seems, have the same complaint.
‘Swish.’ A German flare rocket lights up everything. You see our trenches all along. Everything is as clear as day. You feel as conspicuous as a cromlech on a hill. But the enemy can’t see you, fog or no fog, if you only keep still. The light has fallen on the parapet this time, and lies sizzling on the sand-bags. A flicker, and it is gone; and in the fog you see black blobs, the size and shape of the dazzling light you’ve just been staring at.
‘Crack—plop.’ ‘Crack—plop.’ A couple of bullets bury themselves in the sand-bags, or else with a long-drawn ‘ping’ go singing over the top. Why the sentries never get hit seems extraordinary. I suppose a mathematician would by combination and permutation tell you the chances against bullets aimed ‘at a venture’ hitting sentries exposing one-fourth of their persons at a given elevation at so many paces interval. Personally I won’t try, as my whole object is to keep awake till four o’clock. And then I shall be too sleepy. Only remember, it is night and the sentries are invisible.
‘Tap—tap—tap.’ ‘There’s a wiring party out, sir. I’ve heard ’em these last five minutes.’ Undoubtedly there are a few men out in No Man’s Land, repairing their wire. I tell the sentries near to look out and be ready to fire, and then I send off a ‘Very’ flare, fired by a thick cartridge from a thick-barrelled brass pistol. It makes a good row, and has a fair kick, so it is best to rest the butt on the parapet and hold it at arm’s length. Even so it leaves your ears singing for hours. The first shot was a failure—only a miserable rocket tail which failed to burst. The second was a magnificent shot. It burst beautifully, and fell right behind the party, two Germans, and silhouetted them, falling and burning still incandescent on the ground behind. A volley of fire followed from our waiting sentries. I could not see if the party were hit; most of the shots were fired after the light had died out. Anyhow, the working party stopped. The two figures stood quite motionless while the flare burned.