3rd and 4th (March 1918)

Another day in bunk.  I let the mountain come to Mahomet.  Whilst I sat sucking thermometer, mountain made a tour of the hut, sniffing with evident satisfaction into W’s baccy tin.  Result, about a dozen pills poured down my throat out of his hand and told to report tomorrow.  Intrigued by my ability to push the pills down with my finger, he bent over me saying “Good God man, how do you do it?  Doesn’t it make you vomit?”

Weather black, raw and dismal – the kind when you expect to hear a stray cat howling round the house.

Saturday, 2nd March (1918)

Went sick with a cough etc. and struck a queer little new quack.  When I started to detail my symptoms he cut me short with “In plain English, you have a cold”, jammed a thermometer in my gate and left me sucking it while he cross-examined the other cases like a lawyer in Court.  On reading my thermometer he gave me nine pills in one mouthful with the remark that they were “as good as a meal” and packed me off to bed.

26th February to 2nd March (1918)

A beautiful, bright, and breezy day.  After getting acclimatised, one imagines that on a day like this the temperature is as high as it would be at this season in N.Z.  The way to disprove this is, as I have just experienced, to eat half a can (or tin) of tinned (or canned) peaches – they freeze your gizzard.  Prolonged ululations, intended to represent the air of “Annie Laurie” are emanating from boozed tommies in the adjacent canteen.  Big wet clouds which emit an occasional dash of hail or rain.  Fritz threw a few shells about last night; they went squealing overhead and landed a mile away.  One young fellow got over twenty letters.  He read them in less time than I did my half dozen and burnt them forthwith.  I was amazed.  I value my letters and read them several times as they are a connecting link with that un-warlike world to which I would return.

Congenial job, digging drain through the slush round the cookhouse.

Monday, 25th February (1918)

Amongst our mules is one gigantic affair about 6 ft. high (actually about 17 hands) who goes by the name of “the Poet”.  As he is given to kicking I take it that his vein is satire.  “Brigham” returned tonight to go on leave, hurling his tin hat on the floor by way of greeting.  Who should also turn up but R. [Roche] down from the guns at last.  He looks well enough though he has had a disgusting time, some of the details of his experience nearly making me sick – living for weeks in a dug-out into which various portions of long-dead Huns protruded.

More ‘buckshee’ parcels today.  We were lined up like a lot of kids at a bazaar round the Corporal’s bunk receiving handfuls of this, that and the other.  One group had a huge sack of heterogeneous rubbish, sweets, chocolates, pills, tobacco, chewing gum, soup, coca and whatnot and after a long and noisy effort to effect a partition they ended by each filling his hat and pockets and abandoning the balance.

R’s feet are still a fertile field of humour.  His Major (now killed) went to no trouble to get him a large enough pair of jack-boots when his others wore out; eventually returning with a huge pair and the remark “Well, R. you have most extraordinary feet.”

An amusing incident of today, a civilian cab laden with Tommy officers.  We rushed out and yelled “cab sir, cab sir”, to the huge delight of the two drivers on the box, but to the consternation of the officers, who looked at one another dubiously and cast stern glances in our direction.

23rd (February 1918)

Have just been reading about the sector taken over from the French, where there are towns still inhabited, hills and woods and all sorts of attractions.  Am indulging in a long thin cigar and small bottle of “Bass” to celebrate the half-holiday.  The personnel of this battery has altered tremendously since I joined it; men are always going out and coming in.  Some striking signals went up from the front lines tonight.  Strings of bright lights shooing into the sky in luminous arcs and curves.  Don’t know what they portend.

20th February (1918)

I wonder if you realise what an immense business it is to keep the roads here – there must be many thousands of men and many hundreds of steam rollers etc. constantly at work.  Or imagine the amount of fodder, harnesses and general attention needed by hundreds of batteries, A.S.C. mounted troops etc. Even a mule by the time it is got here is valued at about £75 and (we are told) as three times the monetary value of a man.  The innumerable railways and countless motor vehicles must present an even greater problem of upkeep.  The whole thing is gigantic.  A laughter episode has interrupted me.  The curly boy, who spent the earliest part of the evening tossing other sporting gentry for their rum issue and winning was telling a humorous story and going into such convulsions of laughter that his listeners took it up con amore and ad nauseam.  This threw him into hysterics.  They only calmed down when he was actually sick.

IWM Q 10271 Mule-drawn artillery column passing through Poperinghe

[Image:   Mule-drawn column of the Royal Artillery passing through Poperinghe towards the front, 22 February 1918, IWM (Q 10271)]