A Territorial who signed himself merely as "Grenade" sent The Luton News an account of his experiences during a day in the trenches, with just a few moments of excitement and tragedy amid what was mostly mud and routine. This is what he wrote:
The sergeant popped his head in at the stable door, where my section was billeted, and shouted, "No. 3 Company to parade in full marching order at 3.30 outside billets. Remember, it's our turn in the trenches tonight!" He then disappeared.
"Oh, hang it all, why can't they give a chap more notice? Old Tommy (otherwise the Officer Commanding) never seems to know when he wants us on parade till the last moment," grumbled my friend White, and, on hearing the news, he immediately commenced to finish off as much of a large birthday cake as he could.
This was at 2.30, so we had an hour to clean up billets, stow away parcels from home (for future reference), Vaseline or oil our feet and generally prepare for the trenches. It was our turn to go into the firing line with No 2 Company. The others would follow us to the "Close Billets at K---, and be ready to relieve us at the end of our first 24 hours.
Soon after 3.30 we marched off with the rest of the brigade. After an hour's march, with a halt every now and then to allow transport wagons to pass, we arrived at K---, which is within 1½ miles of the firing line (hence the term "Close Billets"). We now separated, and each company made for the particular trench assigned to it. We were going to an "old friend," so knew our way.
Rations for 24 hours had been served out to each man - bully beef, bread or biscuits, jam (plum, as usual) and rum, if it was wanted. Very often there would be extras, such as butter, pea soup or tinned salmon, and nearly every man carried chocolate, Oxo or coffee and condensed milk in his pack. One man in my section took a home-made brazier. I shouldered a bag of coke, and another was loaded up with charcoal.
It was now dark, or nearly so, and consequently our troubles began. After a few minutes' tramp along a "pavé" we struck off in single file across the fields, keeping away from hedges and buildings as much as possible to avoid the German snipers, who were continually annoying us about this time. In fact, it was not an uncommon occurrence for a man to be shot on the way to the trenches by these pests, who somehow managed to hide behind our lines.
Mud, shell holes and barbed wire were now claiming their victims. The man in front of me stepped on a turnip (near the firing line the various crops had not been gathered). He slipped and went headlong in a bath of mud. Soon afterwards another member of the section quickly slid into a shell hole full of water, and emerged wet through to the waist. I was lucky this time, and escaped with a wet foot caused by slipping into a ditch.
We were making a long detour to escape stray bullets, and kept on "dead ground" as much as possible. Star shells from the enemy's trenches were continually lighting up the landscape. We would crouch down till all was dark again, and then continue on our way.
Eventually we reached the ruined cottage at the entrance to the communications trench. Slowly we made our way along this to the main trench, with mud well over our ankles, crouching all the while. After we had taken up our places, dropped our loads and fixed bayonets, a sentry was set for our little party, which consisted of Ptes Brown, White and myself and a corporal.
After the Regulars, whom we had relieved, had all gone, Brown and I busied ourselves with the brazier, while the corporal endeavoured to patch up the roof of the dug-out and make it rainproof.
The starting of the brazier is a very scientific undertaking. The way to do it as follows - first, take a suitable piece of charcoal with plenty of edge and not lumpy, and apply a lighted match. Then gently blow until half of it is red hot. Join another piece to this and continue to blow. By the time you have accomplished this successfully you will probably be nearly "winded," and should call on the next man to add more charcoal and "wind".
When sufficient pieces are alight they are placed in the brazier, and the whole gently swung from side to side till a good fire is started. After a time, coke can be added. Care should be taken that the stoker or cook does not fall asleep over the fire, or the probability is that he will never wake up again.
When we had accomplished this feat with our brazier I found it was my turn to take guard, so examined the magazine and bolt action of my rifle, and slipped a cartridge into the breech in case of emergency.
Leaning against the parapet I surveyed the scene ahead. The moon was now showing through the clouds and I could see fairly well. The German trenches were about 80 yards away, on the crest of a gentle slope up from our trenches. Immediately in front of us was a row of willow trees lining a small ditch, and the rest of the intervening space was arable land (clay soil).
Occasionally shots were being exchanged, each side wishing to show the other that they were not asleep, and every ten minutes or so a star shell would soar over us, for the enemy to see what we were doing - or not doing.
Some suspicious looking objects near the German lines prompted me to confer with the next sentry, who was a few yards away. After much eye straining and subsequent discussion, we decided there was nothing to be alarmed about, and the rest of the hour went by quietly.
I let the Huns have a farewell shot and then sat down on an old ammunition box to have a welcome cup of hot Oxo, made on the brazier, and a nibble at my biscuit. Then I hunted for my trusty old pipe and smoked some of the excellent "ration" tobacco (we get two ounces a week) till the rain came down and we all had to cover ourselves with the waterproof ground sheets we always carry.
The night passed at last and the grey of dawn appeared. Soon afterwards we noticed several spades appearing over the top of the German trenches. They were evidently repairing their parapets. We thought the Huns were "asking for trouble," so we gave them a few rounds "rapid". The spades disappeared, but we evidently angered the owners, for they returned our fire with interest.
We now lay low and decided to have breakfast, which consisted of bully beef, bread or biscuits and jam, and, last but not least, hot coffee which good old Brown had been preparing.
Just about this time a message came up the trench for a first-aid man. We immediately inquired the cause, and heard that a man in the next section had been shot. The poor fellow had been opening a tin of jam and, evidently forgetting the danger, had stood upright. In less than half a minute he was shot through the forehead (the first-aid man was not wanted). We buried him behind the trench as dusk.
After breakfast, rifles were cleaned and oiled, as well as muddy hands would permit, and some of us were told to drain the back trench. So rubber boots were put on, and with spades and scoops we paddled about, trying to clear away some of the mud into the outlets at the rear.
To keep "de wet from de feet" as much as possible, old doors, planks and bundles of faggots had been laid down. Woe betide the man who did not keep to the narrow way. If he strayed from the path he generally sank into six inches of mud and water.
We often had a little excitement in the mornings and afternoons, when the big guns on either side would talk to each other, the shells passing just over our heads. Sometimes, however, they were not so kind, and one or two would explode at unpleasantly close quarters.
The day was passed in doing various jobs, cooking and eating or yarning and writing Field Service postcards. At dusk we were told to put on our packs ready for the relief party, which arrived soon afterwards.
We then slowly wended our way to the billets at K--- for 24 hours rest (if lucky enough to escape some fatigue duty), after which the company would be going up again for another turn in the trenches.
After four days at K--- the Brigade was relieved, and we went back to L--- for our four days' "rest," where the parcels and letters from home were awaiting us.
[The Luton News, March 25th, 1915]