We were hungry and thirsty, as well as tired, and shed our packs at the dug-outs assigned us and went at the grub and the char offered us by the men we were relieving, the Northumberland Fusiliers.

The dug-outs here in the Quarries were the worst I saw in France.  They were reasonably dry and roomy, but they had no ventilation except the tunnel entrance, and going back so far the air inside became simply stifling in a very short time.

I took one inhale of the interior atmosphere and decided right there that I would bivouac in the open.  It was just getting down to “kip” when a sentry came up and said I would have to get inside.  It seemed that Fritz had the range of the Quarries to an inch and was in the habit of sending over “minnies” at intervals just to let us know he wasn’t asleep.

I had got settled down comfortably and was dozing off when there came a call for C company.  I got the men from my platoon out as quickly as possible, and in half an hour we were in the trenches.

Number 10 platoon was assigned to the center sector, Number 11 to the left sector, and Number 12 to the right sector.  Number 9 remained behind in supports in the Quarries.

Now when I speak of these various sectors, I mean that at this point there was no continuous line of front trenches, only isolated stretches of trench separated by intervals of from two hundred to three hundred yards of open ground.  There were no dug-outs.  It was impossible to leave these trenches except under cover of darkness—­or to get to them or to get up rations.  They were awful holes.  Any raid by the Germans in large numbers at this time would have wiped us out, as there was no means of retreating or getting up reinforcements.

The Tommies called the trenches Grouse Spots.  It was a good name.  We got into them in the dense darkness of just before dawn.  The division we relieved gave us hardly any instruction, but beat it on the hot foot, glad to get away and anxious to go before sun-up.  As we settled down in our cosey danger spots I heard Rolfie, the frog-voiced baritone, humming one of his favorite coster songs: 

        Oh, why did I leave my little back room in old Bloomsbury? 
        Where I could live for a pound a week in luxury. 
        I wanted to live higher
        So I married Marier,
        Out of the frying pan into the bloomin’ fire.

And he meant every word of it.

In our new positions in the Grouse Spots the orders were to patrol the open ground between at least four times a night.  That first night there was one more patrol necessary before daylight.  Tired as I was, I volunteered for it.  I had had one patrol before, opposite Bully-Grenay, and thought I liked the game.

I went over with one man, a fellow named Bellinger.  We got out and started to crawl.  All we knew was that the left sector was two hundred yards away.  Machine-gun bullets were squealing and snapping overhead pretty continuously, and we had to hug the dirt.  It is surprising to see how flat a man can keep and still get along at a good rate of speed.  We kept straight away to the left and presently got into wire.  And then we heard German voices.  Ow!  I went cold all over.