In the garden several lonely graves are piled high with old boots, straw, American agricultural implements, rotting sacks and rubbish of every description, pieces of shells, barrels, and in one room the rusty remains of a perambulator and sewing machine; rats are the only inhabitants now. In the garret (the staircase leading up to it gone long ago) I found a British rifle, bayonet fixed, ten rounds in the magazine, and the bolt partly drawn out. Evidently the owner was in the [pg 143] act of reloading his chamber when something happened. The graves were dated second and third months of this year. The poor wooden crosses were made of pieces of ration cases and the names written with an indelible pencil. The wretchedness of this farm, which was flourishing only a short time ago, is very pathetic.
We have adopted an old Belgian mother cat with her family of three kittens in the dugout. Now we find that three more little wild kittens are living in the bricks which we have piled around the windows to protect us against shells. They are all encouraged to live with us in the cellars. I like cats, and they will help to keep the rats down. Although some of the rats are nearly the size of cats.
It has been raining again and the trenches are filling up with slush. We carry a big trench stick, a thick sapling about four feet long with a ferrule made from a cartridge of a “very-light” (star shell), to help ourselves in walking; our feet are beginning to get [pg 144] wet and cold as a regular thing now, and we are revetting our trenches firm and solid for the winter. Eleven p.m. A mine under the Boche line has just been exploded. The fighting has just started for the crater.
I took a German Uhlan helmet from a gentleman who had no further use for it. It was pretty badly knocked about; still, if I can get it home it's a trophy.
Mr. Tommy Atkins.
It's about eight o'clock Sunday evening. All day long shells have been coming over like locomotives. Every five seconds one goes over into the old town; every five seconds for the last two hours. The chateau has been shelled again with “crumps”; they are such rotten shots; if only they would put in two good ones in the center it would blow it to bits and then they might leave us alone. The whole of the ground is pitted because they can't hit it squarely.
My work lies behind the front line and in front of the support, firing over the heads of [pg 145] the men in the main trenches. The emplacement was shelled to-day; one shell hit the roof, burst and knocked over one of my men, cutting his head open. He is not very badly hurt, but has gone to the hospital. The shelling has been terrible to-day.