Nov. 20.
The Prince of Wales visited us yesterday. We are billeted in a café, and he came in rubbing his hands with the cold. He looked jolly well, and has a fine, healthy, clear complexion. We have been living in the lap of luxury lately. Yesterday was just like Christmas Day. We were inundated with parcels from home, and the room is one litter of all sorts of comforts, and any amount of sweets, shortbread, cake, &c. I cannot recollect two such happy days as these have been. You can have no idea how all these luxuries are appreciated after living on "bully" and biscuits. We have a perfect avalanche of cigarettes and tobacco. We had a bit of a panic this morning, as we were under orders to move at any moment, but by good luck it did not come off, and we are looking forward to a few more days' rest. Our last week in the trenches was a picnic compared with our first experience. This is a grand, free life, a sight better than mooching around the city. I'm just going to have a tot of rum now and turn in—it warms the cockles of one's heart and makes one sleep like Rip Van Winkle.
Nov. 29.
I never felt so fit in my life and never had such a good time before. This is simply a splendid life, and I am very glad, indeed, I did not miss my chance of being here. We were inspected today by Sir John French, who is tremendously pleased with us. Rumor has it that we are still to be here a few days, which is giving us a fine long rest. Then we may be wanted again. One of our fellows has just gone past the window with a huge sack on his back. It is most laughable to see immaculate city chaps out here doing all sorts of "orra" jobs. We have been served out with fur coats, no less; what on earth will they give us next, I wonder? We are still living in the lap of luxury and are a most happy family. We have a march every morning, which in this fine cold weather is delightful.
French Amenities
[From The London Times, Dec. 18, 1914.]
An officer in the R.A.M.C. writes:
FIGURE to yourself (as Wells says, isn't it?) a country of flat plowed field, pollard willows and deep muddy ditches. Then we come along, and in military parlance "dig ourselves in." That is, with the sweat of the brows of hundreds of Tommies working by night deep narrow trenches five feet deep and at least with the earth thrown up another two and a half feet as a bank on top. These trenches are one and a half to two feet wide, and curl and twist about in a maddening manner to make them safer from shell-fire. Little caves are scooped in the walls of the trenches, where the men live about four to a hole, and slightly bigger dugouts where two officers live. All the soil is clay, stickier and greasier than one could believe possible. It's like almost solid paint, and the least rain makes the sides of the trenches slimy, and the bottom a perfect sea of mud—pulls the heels off your boots almost. One feels like Gulliver walking along a Lilliputian town all the time. The front line of trenches—the firing line—have scientific loopholes and lookout places in them for seeing and firing from, and a dropping fire goes on from both sides all day long, but is very harmless.
Dec. 3, 1914.—I was just starting for my daily constitutional "on top" when the enemy began their bombarding, nearly one and a half hours earlier than usual, so I will postpone my little walk and finish this instead. Yesterday we had one man killed and two wounded, the first casualties for over a week. The story of one of the wounded is worth telling to show you the pluck of these men. He told me he noticed some new digging going on on the side of the enemy in front of his firing post. One can see the spadefuls of earth coming up from below the ground level when new trenches are being dug. Although this was in broad daylight, our man thought he would go and see what the Germans were up to, so he hops over the side of his trench and runs forward thirty yards to a ditch and crawls along it some hundred yards or so. He then spots a large shell-hole in the field on one side of the ditch, so doubles off and gets into that and has a good look around. Not satisfied with the point of view, he sprints to a line of willows nearer still to the enemy—within 250 yards of them indeed—and proceeds to climb up one of them. While doing this he gets shot through the shoulder. He told me he thought he had ricked his arm at first, as it felt numb and useless. Meanwhile a great pal of his in the regiment, hearing that he had gone out like this, hops over the parapet and sets off to look for him, and comes up just as he gets hit. The second man upbraids the first roundly for being a fool, carries his rifle for him, and brings him back. All this is done quite in the day's work and "sub rosa," as they would get punished for leaving the trench like that in the daytime if it was spotted. The pluck of these men is perfectly extraordinary, and the placid way life goes on under the risk of being sniped or shelled any moment is, until one gets used to seeing it, quite past belief. I must say the officers set the men a magnificent example.