n our elbows. Also we were hungry, having had
nothing but bully beef and biscuits. We made "char", which is
trench slang for tea, in the station, and after two hours moved up
the line again, this time in real coaches.

Next night we were billeted at Barlin--don't get that mixed up with
Berlin, it's not the same--in an abandoned convent within range of
the German guns. The roar of artillery was continuous and sounded
pretty close.

Now and again a shell would burst near by with a kind of hollow
"spung", but for some reason we didn't seem to mind. I had expected
to get the shivers at the first sound of the guns and was surprised
when I woke up in the morning after a solid night's sleep.

A message came down from the front trenches at daybreak that we
were wanted and wanted quick. We slung together a dixie of char and
some bacon and bread for breakfast, and marched around to the
"quarters", where they issued "tin hats", extra "ammo", and a
second gas helmet. A good many of the men had been out before, and
they did the customary "grousing" over the added load.

The British Tommy growls or grouses over anything and everything.
He's never happy unless he's unhappy. He resents especially having
anything officially added to his pack, and you can't blame him, for
in full equipment he certainly is all dressed up like a pack horse.

After the issue we were split up into four lots for the four
companies of the battalion, and after some "wangling" I got into
Company C, where I stopped all the time I was in France. I was
glad, because most of my chums were in that unit.

We got into our packs and started up the line immediately. As we
neared the lines we were extended into artillery formation, that
is, spread out so that a shell bursting in the road would inflict
fewer casualties.

At Bully-Grenay, the point where we entered the communication
trenches, guides met us and looked us over, commenting most frankly
and freely on our appearance. They didn't seem to think we would
amount to much, and said so. They agreed that the "bloomin' Yank"
must be a "bloody fool" to come out there. There were times later
when I agreed with them.

It began to rain as we entered the communication trench, and I had
my first taste of mud. That is literal, for with mud knee-deep in a
trench just wide enough for two men to pass you get smeared from
head to foot.

Incidentally, as we approached nearer the front, I got my first
smell of the dead.