spirits.

_October 3rd, 1915._

Life continues to use me well, though in the last week or two I
have been all-ends up with work. I have usually managed to keep
fairly dry, but the weather is awful, and despite mackintoshes
and greatcoats galore, I have been absolutely soaked on more than
one occasion, especially one night about four days back, when I
had to sleep in the open on a heath in pouring rain, and with a
bitter wind blowing. However, one thinks but little of that sort
of thing when campaigning, and I have never been better in
health.

I wish I could describe to you some of the scenes I witnessed
during the past week, above all, on that never-to-be-forgotten
day before the great attack was made. We found ourselves moving
along the same road as the Guards--Grenadiers, Scots, and
Welsh--who were going up to the attack (the Welsh Guards had
never been in action before, having only recently been
constituted, but I hear they did great things). Never had I seen
such a sight as that evening before the attack. On one side of
the road our cavalry, on the other the Guardsmen, all moving
forward to the accompaniment of the sound of guns booming
sullenly ahead. We halted for a time beside a detachment of Life
Guards, among whom I recognised an old Alleynian named Kemp, whom
I had not seen since last October. We had a few minutes' pleasant
conversation before passing on with our respective columns.

A day or two ago I was to have gone right up to the battlefield
with supplies, but a sudden change in orders made it impossible.
However, a number of our lot were up there. They tell me it was a
fearful scene--the ground littered with corpses, and all the
debris of a battlefield scattered around. I was bitterly
disappointed at not getting right up, but duty is duty, and I
had orders to do other things. We all hope that the day of the
great move forward has now begun to dawn, but there's no doubt it
will be a devil of a job, as the Boches are fighting like hell to
regain the lost ground. All yesterday, last night and this
morning the guns have been rumbling away with more than usual
vigour.

One day last week I visited a soldiers' cemetery; it was chiefly
used for men who have died of wounds at a