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[Page 42]
such thing as a man running to catch up, and as each accident like that occurs, the little column halts. Men left for a few seconds standing by themselves in this country, have been known to break down, give up, and die if exposure. So we all wait for the "all correct" before we move on.
At last, just as day is breaking, at 7 am we arrive back at Flers. Containers are returned to the cooks, & we move independently back to Head quarters. Here the sergeant issues a tot of rum, and we stumble along the tunnel, amid the groans & howls of the crowded lads siting huddled in this lethargic atmosphere & snatching a few winks of shuteye, before they themselves move of on a like errand. Thus, a trip of about 4 miles takes us nearly 8 hours. Eight hours of the most strenuous and nerve racking duty a man can be called on to do. It calls for determination which leads one nearly to despair. No one dare give up, dare for one second doubt his power to stay. Give it best for a moment, and your will power is broken, and despair will lead you to hysteria, and then, death from exposure. Mud from the top of our heads to the bottom of our boots, drenched to the very skin, your thoughts must be alone for the men perishing in the front line, and for the inevitable fate that awaits you should you for one moment acknowledge defeat.
I have written this at some length. Not that it can ever die from my memory, but I doubt if any part of the winter campaign could call for more sheer dogged plodding than this work. No songs are sung & no poetry written about fatigue parties. Three times I was on this fatigue, and each occasion will remain imprinted in my memory for ever.
On Christmas Eve it became D. Coy's turn in the line. Just after dark we all filed out, and, in single file, set out for the line of outposts we had cause to know so well.