Lives of the First World War

known 20th March 1915

March 19th Slept pretty soundly last night with a blanket, overcoat on top, tunic, and ground sheet over the feet. Reveille at 6.30; breakfast – milkless tea. Washing 7.50pm In train at Havre. Bound for … Been here since about 2.30pm. French troop trains are the limit. We are packed 37 in a cattle-truck, no seats, no straw – but no grousing. No lights here; writing by aid of a flash lamp. Lord! This is a game; squatting on my pack, my knees drawn up to my eyes, the corner of a biscuit tin digging into the small of my back, my feet pressed into two men next to me. , and my blanket over my head. Crouching in the most awry positions. Rotten springs and continual stops. March 20th - 2 am Halt for hot coffee and cognac; had a chance to get out and stretch our legs. Then back again, and on and on. Dawn Another stop. Jumped out and got some tea, and a hasty wash from the waste steam pipe of a locomotive. In and on again. But now we can have the door open and sit and enjoy the scenery. 1.20pm Still on the train. At a loss to pass the time… (The writing here indecipherable probably due to the movement of the train) …display of private delicacies e.g. Kent’s sausages, Bigby’s loaf, tins of sardines, my chocolates. The intervals one spends grovelling on the floor amid a forest of feet … attempts to doze… A soldier is a fatalist absolutely – “If you are getting to be shot, well ….” 4.30pm A little halt. Word is passing from carriage to carriage. “Pack kits and prepare to detrain in an hour”. Later The train stopped at 5.30pm and out we tumbled, to pile arms and get the transport harnessed up. Then at 5.50pm “Packs on!” and off we went, on the most trying march I have known, over rough and slippery French cobbles. Gunfire to the north was heard. The march was very silent and pre-occupied; men all anticipating. We were terribly tired, having had but little sleep since we left Watford, our blankets were hung over our packs; we must have looked like a gang of Red Indians. The sun was setting as we started and we went on and on, world without end it seemed, through town after town, al full of British, but always through, no stop. About 9pm we arrived at our village, the fellows absolutely done up. Glad enough to take my pack off in the middle of a muddy road, fling my blanket round me, and go bang off to sleep, while they were preparing billets. At 10.45pm 200 of us found ourselves on straw in a barn belonging to a nice old French dame, Mme Morel, who gave us hot water and made us comfy.

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