"The trenches are in a rotten state now owing to the heavy
rain and the snow. It's like walking on a sponge about
eighteen inches deep. Squelch, squelch you go and not
infrequently get stuck; parts are knee deep in water, and
icy cold water trickling into your boots is the reverse of
pleasant or warm. Then the rain trickles through the
dug-out roof--that caps it. I really don't think there can
be anything more irritating than the drip, drip in the
region of the head. Then of course your hands are covered in
mud, for as you walk along you need your hands to keep your
balance, and the sides are all muddy as well. You come
inside then and eat your quarter of a loaf for breakfast and
go without for tea--the usual ration is one-third of a loaf,
which generally is found sufficient. We get jam, too, and
bacon daily, butter three times a week, and stew for dinner
every day in trenches or not.

"Our sergeant took us to the whizbangs concert party last
night. It was A1--one chap makes his fiddle absolutely
speak. He played that Volunteer Organist and parts of Henry
VIII., the basso sang 'Will o' the Wisp,' and most of the
other songs were old 'uns. I tell you, you wouldn't believe
we had such things a couple of miles behind the line.

"On Sunday I went to church. It was the hall that the
concert party use. Right glad we were to sing the old hymns
again, for we only get one Sunday in two months down here on
rest. We had five bandsmen to keep us in tune, and, with a
good sermon, the evening was both enjoyable and helpful.
Afterwards we came back and I had a discussion with two