r of a single
instance where it affected the morale of the men. We cursed and swore
about it; who wouldn't? It retarded our progress; we wallowed in it, we
had to struggle through miles of it nearly up to our knees; we slept in
it or tried to; we ate in it, it even got unavoidably mixed up with our
food; and sometimes we drank it. And we tolerated it all, month after
month. If it was bad for us, we knew it was far worse for the Bosche,
for not only had he to live under these conditions, but he was subjected
to our hellish bombardment continually without rest or respite.

Thus it was I filmed Mouquet Farm and other scenes in the neighbourhood.
I went to Pozieres and then struck across country. On my way I passed a
Tank which, for the time being, was _hors de combat_. It naturally
aroused my interest. I closely inspected it, both inside and out, and,
while I stood regarding it, two whizz-bangs came over in quick
succession, bursting about thirty feet away. The fact immediately
occurred to me that the Tank was under observation by the Bosche and he,
knowing the attraction it would have for enquiring natures, kept a gun
continually trained upon it. I had just got behind the body of the thing
when another shell dropped close by. I did not stop to judge the exact
distance. I cursed the mud because it did not allow me to run fast
enough, but really I ought to have blessed it. The fact that it was so
muddy caused the shell to sink more deeply into the ground before
exploding, its effective radius being also more confined.

When I got clear of the Tank, the firing ceased. I mentally vowed that,
for the future, temporarily disabled Tanks near the firing-line would
not interest me, unless I was sure they were under good cover.

I continued my journey to the farm, but kept well below the top of the
ridge. At one section, to save my dying a sailor's death, duck-boards
had been placed over the mud to facilitate easier travelling. It made me
feel like going on for ever, after ploughing for hours through mud the
consistency of treacle.

Eventually I arrived on the high ground near Mouquet. Many of our
field-gun batteries had taken up their position near by: they had turned
old shell-holes into gun-pits--occasionally a burst of firing rang out,
and Bosche was doing his level best to find them with his 5.9 crump.
Here I managed to obtain several very interesting scenes.

The farm, as a farm, did not exist; a mass of jumbled-up brickw