As I have said, our first camp in England was Pond Farm.  It was well named.  Later we moved to Sling Plantation.  However, it was at Pond Farm we had some of our most grueling experiences.  Many a night, owing to the awful rains, we would have to move our tents sometimes in the middle of the night.  If any minister of the gospel—­except our chaplain—­had been standing around on these occasions he might well have thought from the sulphurous perfume of the air that every soldier was doomed to everlasting Hades.  But, after all, “cussing” is only a small part of a soldier’s life, and who would not swear under such extraordinary circumstances?  Again, we have authority for it.  It is a soldier’s commandment on active service—­the third commandment—­and here is how it reads: 

“Thou shalt not swear unless under extraordinary circumstances.”

An “extraordinary circumstance” can be defined as moving your tent in the middle of the night under a downpour of rain, seeing your comrade shot, or getting coal oil in your tea.  As a matter of fact, all minor discomforts in the army are counted as “extraordinary circumstances.”

Despite the weather conditions, and the fact that we did very little training, the men in our battalion were enthusiastic and did their best to keep fit.  However, we all went to pieces when we were told, early in December, that it was a cinch our battalion would never get to France as a unit.

I’ll never forget the day our captain broke the news to us.  The tears ran down his cheeks, and he wasn’t the only man who cried.  We were almost broken-hearted to know we were to be divided, because Captain Parkes (now Colonel) was a real and genuine fellow.  He had taught us all to love him.  For instance, when after a long march we would come in with our feet blistered, he would not detail a sergeant to look after us.  He would, himself, kneel down on the muddy floor and bathe our feet.  If at any time we were “strapped” and wanted a one-pound note, we always knew where to go for it.  It was always Captain Parkes, and he never asked for an I.O.U. either.  On the gloomy wet nights of the winter he would play games with us, and it was common to hear the boys remark that if we should ever get to France as a unit, and our captain got out in front, it would not be one man who would rescue him, but the whole company.

The day at Pond’s Farm was more than a sad one when the old Ninth was made into a Reserve Battalion.  The men were so greatly discouraged and the sergeants so grouchy that at times it became almost humorous.

One day, in late December, while at the butts, we were shooting at six hundred yards, with Sergeant Jones in command of the platoon.  We had targets from Number One to Number Twenty inclusive, and the men were numbered accordingly.  At this distance we all did fairly well, except Number One, who missed completely.  For the sake of Number One the sergeant moved us down to four hundred yards, and at this distance every man got a bull’s eye except Number One.  He was off the target altogether.  Our sergeant, after a few very pungent remarks, commanded the section to move to one hundred yards.  Here again each one of us had a bull to his credit but Number One.  Again he had missed, and again we moved, this time to fifty yards.