Letters From the Front

Dated: June 3, 1915

I think I didn't give you any news of leaving England and the break up of the 32nd. The Canadian casualties at Ypres were so heavy that they rushed us over at three days' notice to fill the gaps.

Since arriving we have seen a fair amount of country behind the British line. We marched mostly at night, which is less inter­esting but safer and cooler, and are billeted in farms or bivouac in fields. You would be surprised how comfortable one can be with a couple of blankets lying on a tiled floor, and when it is fine out of doors it's first-rate, unless too cold.

Our first spell in the trenches began a week ago last Saturday night. The one we occupied was the original British front line one during the winter, but owing to the capture of two German trenches we were some distance from the actual firing line. It was really a sand bag breastwork, not a trench, but was well constructed, and there were enough booby huts and dugouts to give us all sleeping accommodation. A booby hut is a low sort of dog kennel with roof and walls made of sandbags, and a dugout is much the same but dug down instead of built up. They afford fair protection from shell splinters or shrapnel, but of course can't keep out shells, if hit.

After six days of this they moved us to another part of the line two or three miles away.

The change was made at night, as usual, and it was rather a weird feeling travelling along in single file over breastworks, across ditches, through barbed wire entanglements, the whole more or less lighted by the moon and the vast number of star shells thrown up by the Germans. These latter are rather like big Roman candle balls and light a very large extent of ground, while they are much better than those issued to the British. Every now and then you would hear the whiz of a bullet overhead, but these were just strays and not aimed at us, though if they hit they hurt just as much.

We had one very close call while digging a communication trench between our own and No. 4's. A fair sized shell struck the edge of the trench fairly while it was filled with our men at only a yard distance from each other. Had it burst in the air instead of on the ground it would probably have bagged a dozen or more, but as it was, it killed only one and slightly wounded another. I was about twenty feet away but hearing the whistle in the air I dropped to my knees, but I could feel the suction and concussion of the air when the explosion came. Afterwards I was told by the man nearest to the place that half a minute before I had been standing on the exact spot where the shell struck, and if my subconscious intuition continues to serve me as well in future I shall come home scatheless.

We are now back in billets for a few days' rest, and one realizes that there has been a strain from the reaction which leaves us all a little irritable and nervous, as you may judge from this scrawl.

It will be years before the section now being fought over regains a normal look, but where we are, within six miles of the line, there are no signs of war, the fields are under crop, the houses in good repair, and the people living apparently a quiet, peaceful life. The change in coming from the trenches seems odd but very pleasant.