Monday, 7th October (1918)

I am seated here on a section of light-railway material (rails and sleepers, all iron, made in lengths ready to lay) twisted into all shapes and sizes.  Some land recently cropped, probably by the invader.  In the distance enormous clouds of smoke show where he is burning materials.  As I write, a gigantic, mushroom-shaped sprout of white smoke towers up to a height of possibly 10,000 feet, from some terrific explosion of munitions.  (The difficulties of writing with a hungry horse walking on top of me are not slight.)  We have already come 4 or 5 miles, and our balloons are still being moved up ahead.  You might expect the Hindenburg line to present some such appearance as the Great Wall of China, but as a matter of fact one crosses it without being aware.  For miles we have traversed country showing the recent marks of our own barrage – a gash in the soil about every five yards.  Not a pleasant thing to be caught in.

Saw a French peasant driving his three cows before him; at this early hour making back to his pre-war home.

9 p.m.  ‘Tis not “the head that wears the crown” alone that “uneasy lies”.  At present I am lying in mud, on my haversack, full of shaving gear, cigarette tins and the like, under a tarpaulin hurriedly draped from a gun-wheel, the candle being perched on the hub, and our lullaby being distant guns and the munching of uncomfortably close quadrupeds.

After a hurried tea (everything is hurried now) we again took the road, trecking in the sunset and the light of a young moon for another 5 or 6 kilos, past villages with tall and apparently intact churches and through a manufacturing town, deserted, save for a few prowling soldiers, but undamaged.  In the north a long row of distant fire showed the whereabouts of the enemy.  We are bivouaced on the outskirts of this dark and unknown town, with the cheery advice that we shall probably go into action during the night.

Friday, Sat, Sun, 4th, 5th, 6th, October (1918)

Our wagon lines are here on a level with and even ahead of some of the other batteries’ guns.  We consequently see more of the passing to and fro of the infantry, air fighting and so on.

Had the satisfaction of seeing a Hun “whizzbang” used against its owners.  The “whizzbang” is his ordinary field gun, slightly smaller in calibre than our eighteen pounder but, as the name implies, of higher velocity and greater range.

Rumours of all sorts of good war news, counterbalanced by the fact that the Hun remains at bay right here and is at the moment shelling pretty freely.

Wednesday, 2nd October (1918)

Another rough spin last night; got to bed about midnight with a tot of rum.  Guns again advanced.  Carting over a terribly rough track in the dark – 3 trips.  Wagon lines now where guns were – good protection from splinters.  Immense activity everywhere – balloons go up in flames (or rather come down) and no place is immune from shells and bombs.

We are in a sharp salient and the sooner we get out of it the better, as the shells appear to be coming from the four points of the compass.  Yesterday the valley in which we lay was systematically swept with big shells.  Our cook got a bit through the cheek and in various places animals were hit.

Amongst the horrible sites are some pathetic ones.  We were followed for some distance by a grievously wounded, wild-eyed, German horse – dying by inches and almost a skeleton.  His eyes were terrible – a dumb reproach to mankind.  You see dead birds, dogs, etc. that have been killed along with human beings.  Then again, there stands near us a fine well-grown tree unscathed, whilst whole forests are rent in fragments.

Heavy fighting is going on all around us and every now and again a barrage, put up either on our sector or an adjoining one, tells that another attack is in progress, and the red cross motor ambulances pass to and fro.  We hear that Bulgaria has capitulated unconditionally and Turkey expected to follow suit – “tres whizbang!” the soldiers say.

We give our animals as much grazing as possible, and rub over at the same time.  The poor brutes are getting thin and poor.  Our own tucker is now plentiful.

Men continue to go on leave and I am beginning to imagine that my turn is not many weeks away – this psychological condition is known in the army as “sweating on leave”.

Tuesday, 1st October (1918)

Sitting on my gear in the morning sun and the roar of a terrific bombardment which started about 5 and it is now 8 a.m.  Yesterday there was much work for men and horses and many hairbreadth escapes, galloping through thick and thin to escape shell fire, and had I have been a spectator instead of a participant in all this stupendous business I might have been able to give you a clear account of it.  I shall not remember much detail afterwards – a blurred impression of noise, rush, horrible sights, more horrible stenches, forces, confusion, mad effort and dreadful death.  We have been on the move each day – last night our teams actually stayed with the guns; that’s how we came to be up here in the middle of the barrage fire.  Went to water at dawn for safety, but got shelled away, besides having to pass under rows and rows of field guns, all blazing away with the strong chance of a premature.  Saw an air fight at close hand, one plane falling in flames.  War on this scale is stupendous – quite unimaginable; you peaceful folk will never conjure up the faintest picture of it.  We sleep when we do sleep, in old dug-outs, under bits of tin, tarpaulins stretched from a bank, or the like.  Usually manage some sort of a wash out of a water bucket; otherwise no toilet.