The Germans have been very quiet lately, and working parties are out all along their front lines at night—something's up. Dirty work can be expected at any time now. We have steel helmets to protect us from spent bullets and splinters. They look like the old Tudor steel helmets and they are fine to wash in.
You have no idea what a big part food plays in our life. Yesterday morning I went with the machine-gun officer of another outfit to crawl about looking for positions. We were in an orchard. I happened to look up and saw ripe plums! Terrified lest he should see them and forestall me, I said, “Let's beat it, this is too unhealthy,” so we crawled back. Last night in the light of a big moon such as coons always steal watermelons by, [pg 146] a section officer and his cook crawled to the plum tree. The section officer, being large, stood underneath while the cook climbed the tree and dropped them into a sandbag held open by the S.O. They got about ten pounds. They go well stewed, believe me. The fact that bullets whistled through the trees most of the time made them taste better to-day. Sat the rest of the night in a hedge firing at the Boches with a Lewis gun. I struck for bed just as dawn broke.
To-day the guns are again “hating” the chateau, and they have put sixty shells in the neighborhood. Still, “there's no cloud without a silver lining.” I've got a new way home. Instead of going right around the kennels, stables, and through the yards, I go “through” the greenhouse direct, thereby saving a lot of time. The Huns' calendar is wrong. They have always shelled me Sunday and Wednesday. To-day's Tuesday!
We use up the window frames and doorways [pg 147] for kindling, and consequently the doors have gone long ago. I have been smashing up mouldings this morning with an axe. We prefer the dry wood which is built into the walls; it burns better and doesn't cause smoke. As soon as smoke is seen rising, the enemy's range-finders get busy and then we suffer.
Another mine went up yesterday; nobody seems to know where. I think it came south from the French lines; it rocked the whole neighborhood for miles. The ground here is a kind of quicksand for a few feet down, and shock is easily transmitted, the whole ground being honeycombed with mines, old trenches, shafts, saps made by French, Belgians, Germans and our own people.
The use for timber of any description is manifold; every little bit is used up. Our chief source of supply of dry wood is from the smashed-up chateaux. Langhof, my home, has been punished almost every day, and after the bombardment lets up men from the neighborhood come to collect the wood torn [pg 148] up by the shelling. The men of the Tenth East Yorks came up this morning and climbed to the remains of the second story, ripping up the floor boards. The enemy evidently saw them, for the shelling soon started. We have been shelled often here before, but it was nothing compared to this. The shells were carefully placed and came over with disgusting regularity. The buildings rocked and the whole neighborhood shook. Fountains of bricks, mortar, and dirt were spewed up into the air. Trees were torn to shreds, a wall in front of me was hit—and disappeared, a lead statue of Apollo in the garden was hurled through the air and landed fifty yards away crumpled up against the balustrade of the moat.
We were in our cellars, and gradually the shelling crept up towards us. Slowly a solemn dread which soon moulded into a sordid fear took possession of my being. In a flash I began to devise a philosophy of death for my chances were fading with every crash. I took out my pocketbook, containing [pg 149] some letters from my mother and some personal things, and put them on one of the beams, so that, being in another part of the building, they might perhaps be found some day. The shelling continued and shells dropped completely round the cellars, demolishing nearly everything in sight. The enemy evidently wanted to obliterate the whole place. The smell of the smoke and the dirt from the debris was choking, and every minute we expected to be our last. Suddenly it stopped. Philosophy and fear disappeared simultaneously as I sputtered out a choking laugh of relief. Then Hawkins, my servant, in a scared voice started, and the others joined in, singing the old marching refrain of the Training Camps:—
“Hail, hail, the gang's all here,
What the hell do we care!