rills and night operations, to being hut orderlies, going
on guard, and so on. But we did them as a means to an end. Then we had
the rudest shock of all. We learnt we were to embark on the task of
digging trenches--somewhere in Essex! That put the lid on things, so
we considered. We, infantry soldiers, to dig trenches! It couldn't be
right. We thought the Engineers, or the Pioneers, or somebody else,
always did that. Our job was to carry a rifle, and to shoot Germans.
That's how the rank and file looked at it in the first place. Of
course they discovered other things when the Battalion got to France,
but that's another story.

However, it had to be done and, like everything else, it _was_ done.
After an early breakfast, the company detailed fell in and marched off
to the station. After a while, a special train arrived and we
scrambled in. In the interim, it may be mentioned, packed trains
proceeding cityward went by, the passengers cheering us. That passed
the time if it did nothing else.

Nearly an hour in the train, a march of perhaps a couple of miles, and
we reached our objective. Mysterious personages, with a big "G.R." in
gold on scarlet armlets popped up from somewhere, produced plans, and
informed our Company Officer that trenches had to be dug at such and
such a place. As a rule it was somewhere where the water from an
adjacent brook would percolate through the earth and make things
uncomfortable. That's by the way, though, and after all it was good
practice, this working out a method of trench drainage on our own. As
a matter of fact we had a lot of Civil and Colonial Engineers in our
ranks, and so we put all the mistakes made by the others right.
Whenever possible, of course. One or two things, it must be admitted,
beat us.

Sometimes it rained, sometimes it snowed, occasionally, very
occasionally, it happened to be fine. But we got on with our work,
waiting for the bugler to blow for the midday lunch. When "cookhouse"
went we straightened our backs, got _some_ of the mud off our boots,
and proceeded to take what the gods (in this case the quartermaster)
were good enough to give us. We always had two guesses, and we were
always right. It was either bread and cheese, or bread and bully. If
we were fortunate we might be able to purchase beer at a local
hostelry, or Oxo at a village shop. If not so fortunate, the
waterbottle or, if again lucky, a pocket-flask was brought into
service.

THE KINDLY SHOPKEEPE