The Colonel led the Battalion a clear two hundred yards away from the road. The darkness was so intense that they could not be seen, but in the silence of the night they were sure to be heard, and, on hearing them, the Germans would certainly plaster the road with shells in the hope of "getting" them as they returned.
The Colonel was right. The German observation-posts must have heard them, for the old, familiar whizz came whistling through the darkness. The first shells seemed incredibly long in the air. One's heart was in one's mouth, as one listened to hear if they were going "to fall short," or "go over." Then the crash came, in front, on the road, and they knew that the Colonel had saved them once more. Even as it was, their Company Quartermaster-Sergeant was hit in the foot.
The shelling in the darkness must have affected the nerves of the leading Company. They struck out at a tremendous pace. The Subaltern was dropping further and further behind. He could not keep up, and the prospect of losing touch in the darkness was extremely serious.
At last the canal bridge was reached and the bombardment ceased, but instead of being allowed to turn in towards Poussey, they were told to relieve the other two companies in the trenches.
They found the line, and "took over" the trenches without mishap. Of course, in those days trenches were not built as they were later. To begin with, the men had no tools, except their "entrenching implements," so naturally the work could not be very elaborate. Moreover, the thought that such works would be wanted for longer than a day or two never entered their heads. Each man dug a shelter for himself, according to his skill, ingenuity and perseverance. There was little or no attempt at digging a long, consecutive trench. A series of holes had been dug, that was all.
The monotony of the night was broken by the arrival and distribution of rations. An hour or so after this had been accomplished the east began to grow grey, and they were soon able to take stock of their surroundings.
The trenches, or rather holes, were dug on the side of the road. Behind them the ground sloped straight down to the canal. They could not actually see the enemy trenches; and there was no attempt made by either side to "snipe."
The first day of trench life—if such it could be called—was not a very trying experience. There was nothing to do except a little improvement of the shelters. Their only duty was to "wait and see." It was not cold, and they had their rations. The Subaltern dug, and slept, and ate, and then dug again, and thus the day passed. Indeed, he even began to write a long letter home in his notebook, but he lost the pages almost as soon as they were written.
They were shelled twice during the day, but all one had to do was to lie comfortably in one's "funk hole" and wait for the "hate" to die down. After many experiences in the open, without a particle of cover, being shelled in deep holes had few terrors.
"Of course," he said to himself, "if they get a direct hit on this hole I'm done for, but otherwise I'm pretty safe."