The British Tommy growls or grouses over anything and everything.
He's never happy unless he's unhappy. He resents especially having
anything officially added to his pack, and you can't blame him, for
in full equipment he certainly is all dressed up like a pack horse.

After the issue we were split up into four lots for the four
companies of the battalion, and after some "wangling" I got into
Company C, where I stopped all the time I was in France. I was
glad, because most of my chums were in that unit.

We got into our packs and started up the line immediately. As we
neared the lines we were extended into artillery formation, that
is, spread out so that a shell bursting in the road would inflict
fewer casualties.

At Bully-Grenay, the point where we entered the communication
trenches, guides met us and looked us over, commenting most frankly
and freely on our appearance. They didn't seem to think we would
amount to much, and said so. They agreed that the "bloomin' Yank"
must be a "bloody fool" to come out there. There were times later
when I agreed with them.

It began to rain as we entered the communication trench, and I had
my first taste of mud. That is literal, for with mud knee-deep in a
trench just wide enough for two men to pass you get smeared from
head to foot.

Incidentally, as we approached nearer the front, I got my first
smell of the dead. It is something you never get away from in the