Letters From the Front

Dated: October 9, 1915

After dinner last night as the band, which had dug up its instruments, began to play, heavy cannonading commenced, large guns near us speaking up about ten minutes later. An awful din accompanied the Regimental March and tunes that followed. The sensations one experiences in the midst of such a strange and, as it has since been learned, rather awful occasion, are very difficult to bring out in anything like enlightening language. Camp fires were burning all around one, and we moved about or sat still listening and smoking. A pocket flashlight would occasionally flare up; then the voice of a motor cycle a few yards away would break in on one's peace of mind, for the din at the front and round about us was continuous and increasing, the German 'coal boxes' announcing their arrival not far away every few seconds, to be responded to by the reports of our heavy guns hidden all through this district. As I strolled from the Orderly Room to our tent, our bombing officer passed me on the road looking a little pale and mightily earnest; then our scout officer hurried past at the run. Something seemed about to happen, I thought, and as I stepped through the gap in the hedge near our tent, I saw an Orderly, or rather a man in full fighting kit, pass our tent door hurriedly and disappear towards the Sergeant-Major's quarters. Suddenly there was a shouting all through the lines of huts, dugouts and tents where our men were quartered, of 'stand to.' Our Captain poked his head into our tent and said, rather too excitedly I thought, 'stand to, boys, quick.' Then there was a scramble for proper fighting equipment, some of which was of course, buried in our straw floor. The heavy cannonading had increased, if anything, meanwhile; also machine gun and rifle fire. The men were all lined up when I got over with the other officers, and the Sergeant recognizing me, anticipated my query by 'all present and correct, sir.' We all stood easily for an hour, say, during which the men sang different part songs, each Company having its own special group of singers aided by choruses. The dying camp fires, the singing—the band had stopped immediately the call to arms came — the clash of *coal boxes* and loud jarring reports of our guns, not to forget the distant continuous rattle of small arms, was something I shall never forget. My own special prize Highlander, Neil Campbell, broke a short spell of silence in our immediate neighbourhood by saying in a serious, rather grumbling way, 'and my bayonet is dull, too.' The word came along in about an hour to dismiss, the din having died down a bit meanwhile, and everyone went to bed for a good night's sleep—if they followed my example.
The cause of it all, I hear, was the exploding of a mine — German or ours — between the lines, when the enemy poured an awful hail of shrapnel, bombs, etc., into the front line at one point, causing loss of life and wounding quite a few, I hear it said.