Letters to Helen | Page 5

continually crossed our way. I felt
much intrigued. A very weird wood. The guns crashed lethargically,
intermittently.
When we got round to the east side of the hill, the R.E.'s, who were
acting as guides, comforters, and friends, showed us what we were to
do: to dig a line of trench 6 feet deep, and as narrow as might be, for
some cables that were to lead into a very important set of dug-outs for
certain pink and gold people.
The dug-outs are deep in the side of the hill. It's what is called an
advanced H.Q.--_i.e._, when the Push begins, the gilded ones will
crawl in and rap out messages to the various commanders, and watch
the battle.
The R.E. officers showed us what was wanted, and each man put in his
pick or shovel to mark the line. This is the procedure: each pick or
shovel about 2 yards apart, and each man delves on that spot till he is 6

feet down. If it were not done like this, then (when it became too dark
to see) the line would be lost. This only applies fully, of course, when
you are in woods or other cover. Digging isn't really a cavalry job. But
what of that?
[Sidenote: TRENCH DIGGING]
Well, now we've started. It's about ten o'clock, and getting very dim.
Drizzle, drizzle, drizzle. Humphry and I creep up (neglectful of duty) to
the top of the hill. A tiny tower there, smashed to pieces, but beautiful
in the twilight. We creep about amongst shell craters. Presently a
strange sweet odour. Flowers? Impossible. We stare into the dusk. An
exquisite faint scent all around us. Surely, surely, thyme? Yes,
sweet-williams, thyme. Evidently there has been a cottage here, but
now only a mass of rubble and beams and glass to show where once it
was. Sweet-williams, thyme, and later some Canterbury bells. Another
dream-place, like that old château-farm.
What a view from here of the German lines and ours! As it gets darker,
the flashes of the guns and the Very lights' solemn brilliance illuminate
the whole show like a map. That tragic ruin of a town on our left is
being shelled as usual. Jim is there. In front of us the German salient.
All comparatively quiet. How lovely it is! The sounds of our men
digging in the wet soil mingle now with other small noises. Voices
underground. Listen. And a mouth-organ's cheery bray coming from
the bowels of the earth. It is pitch-dark. We stand up like Generals
surveying the battle-field. No danger. The Boche does not waste
ammunition.
The rain is very heavy. I have got a tuft of sweet-william to smell.
We return to the men. They are wet through, but quite happy and
content. Not a bullet, not a scrap of anything that goes pop. They work
in a warm, wet peace. That is one of the odd things you learn--that only
certain places are dangerous, and usually only at certain times.
The rain is coming down with tropical intensity. I am in a misty dream.
It's all so mysterious. Suddenly I fall over something--plonk into the

middle of some excavated earth, which the rain has made into semolina
pudding. Tiresome to be absent-minded. How it pours! Midnight.
The roots of the trees make it very difficult to dig tidily, but the men
use their "billucks" with the unerring skill of farmers, and their spades
and picks as you or I would use a pencil. Time goes on. The trench
must be done before 2.30 a.m. We have to be gone before dawn. It is
nearly done now. Half-past twelve. The rain is stopping. One o'clock.
No, it isn't. It's coming down again. Half-past one. The trench is
finished. We must cover up all signs of it with branches, lest the wily
Taube should see, mark, learn, and inwardly digest.
A quarter to two.
[Sidenote: A STRAFE]
Suddenly crash! bang! clash! boom! bang! We almost jump out of our
skins. Where the deuce were all those guns hidden? From all about us,
and far away behind and on either flank, our guns have begun strafing.
The most hideous and deafening din.
The ground seems to shake. Then an order comes that we are to clear
out at once. We do so. The Boches haven't answered yet, but they will.
The whole thing seems quite unreal. The men vastly entertained. I
honestly felt as if I were at some exciting melodrama. The least
cessation of the guns, and I found myself saying: "Don't stop! don't
stop!" I shouted into Corporal Nutley's car: "Can you hear what I'm
saying?" and he answered: "No, sir."
At last we got out into the little path, and had to double along through
the mud. Humphry was last man