Wednesday, 2nd; Thursday, 3rd December.
At eight o'clock the company musters in a farmyard, proceeding to a field north of Bucy for drill. The soil is ploughed by huge shells which daily continue to fall. Fortunately they have so far chosen a different hour from ours, thus avoiding unpleasant encounters. Here we have section school: "Count off in fours! Right wheel! Line up! Shoulder arms! Right! Left turn!—Left!"
The men manœuvre in very lethargic fashion. Even the words of command have no life in them. The sergeant shouts out—
"Right-about turn!—Right!"
He adds—
"This isn't a march at all, it's a paddle!"
Towards the end of the drill we deploy in skirmish line, and fling ourselves on our knees before a hail of imaginary bullets.
"Let each man practise the right position for charging. Fire three cartridges at the enemy debouching at the outskirts of the wood. Three hundred yards—Fire!"
The lieutenant pleads with us—