Jock Hunter and I were still “muckin’-in” pals, sharing our rations and troubles alike. Very soon the party broke, each man making for his allotted place to rest. I can recall so vividly the feeling that came over me as I lay down on that straw. It was identical with that which I had felt after coming back from a charge that had been a touch struggle! I fell asleep sighing and wondering how soon it would be when my letters would find no claimant for them!
We passed the next day writing letters, scraping the mud off our clothes, and at rifle inspection. More men joined us. One of the new arrivals lent me his razor, and I performed, what was, to me, the awful task of shaving. It made me feel like a new man, and they said I looked it. We were told that we would no doubt have a few days’ rest, and then move to Dixmude or some town with a name like that. We were instructed not to leave our billets, and told that whenever we heard a boche plane overhead we should make for cover, or stand perfectly still with our backs to the walls of the farm houses, without stirring, until the machine was out of sight. That day we noticed a few of Fritz’s sausage balloons in the direction of the firing line.
That night our officer, Lieutenant McRae, came round fully equipped; one look at him was enough; we knew there was to be no more “dossing” in the soft straw for us.
“Fall in at the double, men! We have to take over a new section of trenches not far from here.” Such was the greeting he gave us. We got into “harness” all right, but how we grouched and “cussed”!
After lining up on the muddy road with the remainder of the battalion, the usual order was issued: “All fags out; no talking!”
We started off, wading through mud; with every now and then an occasional halt and more grouching in the ranks. With three hours of this to our credit, we found ourselves zigzagging round little hillocks along narrow muddy cart roads. We passed a concealed battery of small howitzers. Some of the English chaps noticed that we were “jocks” (the name the English give the kilties) and began cheering us up with:
“Down’t wish y’ enny ’arm—but ye’r gowin’ ta ’ave an ’ell of an ’ot tyme, you Jocks!”
We had ploughed our way through the mud only a few hundred yards beyond the battery when my nostrils sensed that there must have been some killing going on in the vicinity. A little farther on we came to an open section and turned to the right just before making a small incline. I could see a few wrecked transport wagons and dead horses. We remained behind a hillock and were told that we were near the enemy. We were about to enter trenches which lay quite close to the German lines our officer told us, adding that we could have reached this point from our billets in half an hour, but that it was necessary for us to make the exceedingly long détour. Most of us knew that this was the direction in which we had seen the sausage balloon, which brought back the memory of the heavy firing.
We got into the natural ditches, which served us as trenches. We did not relieve any troops at this place, and there were no signs of any having been here, but on both flanks at some distance off, there were regiments entrenched. The situation was not one in the least to be desired. We were practically on an open space.
We were just in the act of starting work with our entrenching tools when all at once—“s-c-ch-eew!”—and the sky was alight with a flare rocket. There was no necessity for orders to hug the earth; we just simply flopped on our faces. Then it seemed as if the whole of the German artillery opened fire. We did not dare even to look up for quite some time. However, it seemed that we were not the party at which the firing had been concentrated; one by one our boys ventured to peep over in the direction of the flashes. The whizzing and groaning of the shells overhead was terrific, but they passed high. During the flashes, I looked over the open space in front of us. We were occupying a sort of high ground with slight mounds. To our right flank the country seemed more regular.