The following article, which was written by Colonel Sandilands as a brief review of the period during which he commanded the Battalion, appeared in the April Number of The 79th News, 1916:—
A YEAR'S COMMAND.
It is now just a year since I took over command of the 7th Battalion, but in some ways it seems like ten years since I arrived at Chiseldon.
Out of the 1000 men serving then, how many are there still with us in the trenches?
Whatever officers and men there may be, must recall at times the old days which we spent so happily together. The training on the Downs, the long dusty march to Park House: these are now things of the past.
As we wade about in mud and water, it seems like a dream to think of Tower Hill, where we used to lie amongst the trees, well concealed from Generals, and eat our dinners from the cookers, which in those days were strange machines of unknown habits.
The Highland Brigade Championship; the Officers' Riding School; the gramophone in the Canteen; the sixpenny novels; Officers Mess garden, which never produced a blade of grass; finally, the Sunday when we got our orders to go to France, the suppressed excitement of the Channel crossing, our triumphant march through Boulogne with pipes and drums in full swing—how many of us are still alive who remember these days?
It is amusing now to think of the difficulty we had in taking over billets at Houle, and the deadly silence in which we marched from Gonnehem, on the night when the regimental dog was lost, with his tartan coat and regimental badges.
How many men are still left from those who rushed out of the houses at Brèbis to see the shells bursting, and who dug at Maroc in the firm belief that they were exposed to untold dangers? What letters used to be written home in those days to fond mothers, describing the hardships, the terrific shell fire, and the groans of the dying. No doubt these mothers were moved to tears at the thoughts of what their sons were suffering, little knowing of the peace and quiet of the trenches at Maroc and Quality Street.
But if the same mothers could have seen their sons in the trenches at Hulluch in October, they would have good reason to weep. Liquid mud up to one's knees; the parapets consisting of half-buried Germans; a perfect hail of shells at intervals throughout the day and night!