Trenches again today, reinforcing the dug-out that serves as the bedroom, dining-room, living-room and when under bombardment and the latrines are shaking, lavatory.

With the aid of my pre-war experience they have named your humble narrator as the principal miner; a man looked to above his peers as the most knowledgeable in the mysterious art of holes and the digging thereof. All lesser mortals turn to him for advice and encouragement with every swing of their shovels, and it quite makes his chest swell with pride.

Ah, my darling, I can lie to you no longer. My skills are not remarked on by any, save that they rely on me to prepare the ground and walls for the stout wooden planks that serve as reinforcement. Some earth I am called upon to remove is already loosened by the barrages we endure, with only the half-rotted timbers to hold it in its place. Captain Dean turned green when we removed a plank from above his bed and revealed a cavity behind it. Now we are packing the ground back tight and placing fresh wood borrowed from the local chateau it will better withstand a hit from the Hun’s artillery.

Although maybe we should fear our own shells before that of our adversary. Rumour reaches us of rounds from our own guns that has fallen short in W trench (a few miles up the line). One shell dropped in front of a poor devil as he sat upon the latrine, and while it did not explode it fair put the wind up him. A second landed just a half-hour later while the tale of the first was still being embellished, but this was no dud. Gas filled the trench and two young devils were too slow to don their masks. Different tales are told of their fate, but whether under their own steam or inside a box, they’re headed back to Blighty.

Because of my physical efforts, when not digging I am at least spared having to ‘stand to’. Such a chore that is; rigged up with one’s rifle loaded and bayonet fixed, binoculars for some and periscopes for others, all stood up on the fire-step trying to see something in no-man’s-land. If not for the artillery, and the constant reminder of our officers, we should doubt the existence of the adversary. Not one man Jack of us has seen a German nor any sign of their movements. They say they dig their trenches deep so they can stand up straight and yet keep the points on their helmets still hidden from view. While I am heartily sick of my labours, I envy them that; my only chance to straighten my weary spine is when I lie down at night, and even then my boots hang from the end of my cot.