the winter. Eleven P.M. A mine under the Boche line has just been
exploded. The fighting has just started for the crater.

I took a German Uhlan helmet from a gentleman who had no further use for
it. It was pretty badly knocked about; still, if I can get it home it's a
trophy.

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[Illustration]

Mr. Tommy Atkins.

It's about eight o'clock Sunday evening. All day long shells have been
coming over like locomotives. Every five seconds one goes over into the
old town; every five seconds for the last two hours. The chateau has been
shelled again with "crumps"; they are such rotten shots; if only they
would put in two good ones in the center it would blow it to bits and then
they might leave us alone. The whole of the ground is pitted because they
can't hit it squarely.

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My work lies behind the front line and in front of the support, firing
over the heads of the men in the main trenches. The emplacement was
shelled to-day; one shell hit the roof, burst and knocked over one of my
men, cutting his head open. He is not very badly hurt, but has gone to the
hospital. The shelling has been terrible to-day.

The Germans have been very quiet lately, and working parties are out all
along their front lines at night--something's up. Dirty work can be
expected at any time now. We have steel helmets to protect us from spent
bullets and splinters. They look like the old Tudor steel helmets and they
are fine to wash in.

You have no idea what a big part food plays in our life. Yesterday morning
I went with the machine-gun officer of another outfit to crawl about
looking for positions. We were in an orchard. I happened to look up and
saw ripe plums! Terrified lest he should see them and forestall me, I
said, "Let's beat it, this is too unhealthy," so we crawled back. Last
night in the light of a big moon such as coons always steal watermelons
by, a section officer and his cook crawled to the plum tree. The section
officer, being large, stood underneath while the cook climbed the tree and
dropped them into a sandbag held open by the S.O. They got about ten
pounds. They go well stewed, believe me. The fact that bullets whistled
through the trees most of the time made them taste better to-day. Sat the
rest of the night in a hedge firing at the Boches with a Lewis gun