much. Then they cook their dinner. In the afternoon they work
on emplacements and some go down for rations; they have to carry it
all a mile or two, and it takes a long time, mostly through trenches.
Then they brew tea again. At night one is always on duty as a sentry
over the guns. In the ordinary course of events their life and mine is
just a picnic. Well, yesterday after lunch we worked, and then I had
tea with the company I mess with, after which, at about 6-30, Kitton
and I started out. By the way, the men all have to stand to arms for
an hour or more at dawn and dusk. After stand-to in the morning, they
get rum. I think I am the only man in the trenches who does not
stand-to. Kitton and I went to see the Brigade Major, and they made us
stay for dinner; we did not want to, as headquarters mess are all nice
and clean and we were simply filthy, I had not shaved and was filthy
dirty. I will tell you what I wear. Starting at the extremities:--Long
pair of gum boots--they are an Army issue, and come up to the thighs,
one pair socks, trousers (more intimate details censored), sweater,
tunic, fur coat, what skin I don't know, it is something like squirrel
in colour, grey--also an Army issue; and either a waterproof cape,
coming down to the calves, Army issue (free) or my Thresher and
Glenny.

After dinner, and a talk with the Brigade Major about instructions,
&c., for the battery, we set off down the road back to the trenches.
When we got to the village you can either go up the communication
trench or miss the first 500 yards or so of it and go up the road
taking your chance of machine guns. Being rather late we chose the
road. But, unfortunately, we had not gone 200 yards up it when
tut-tut-tut-tut-tut-tut (say that as fast as you can and then say it
faster and get father to sneeze it) a wretched machine gun got right
on to the road. With our usual politeness we gave the road up to
someone who seemed to want it more than ourselves, and dived into some
R.E. stores at the side, while the wretched gun went on for 2 minutes,
the bullets ricocheting off the road and ripping into the wood in
which we were hiding. The only thing you could see of me were: (1)
That upon which I sit down, and (2) my legs. I didn't mind about them,
as a wound in them would only have meant a few months leave. At last
the thing stopped, and we, strange to say, returned to the village and
went along to the communication trench when plop, bang, smash (