August 4th. Heavy artillery fire the whole night. The English are concentrating 50,000 Indians on our front to attack Hooge and Hill 60. Just let them come, we shall stand firm. At three marched off to the front. Watch beginning again. Five o’clock marched off to the Witches’ Cauldron, Hooge. A terrible night again. H.E. and shrapnel without number. Oh, thrice-cursed Hooge! In one hour eleven killed and twenty-three wounded and the fire unceasing. It is enough to drive one mad, and we have to spend three days and three nights more. It is worse than an earthquake, and any one who has not experienced it can have no idea what it is like. The English fired a mine, a hole fifteen metres deep and fifty to sixty broad, and this “cauldron” has to be occupied at night. At present it isn’t too badly shelled. At every shot the dug-outs sway to and fro like a weather-cock. This life we have to stick to for months. One needs nerves of steel and iron. Now I must crawl into our hole, as trunks and branches of trees fly in our trench like spray. August 6th. To-night moved to the crater again, half running and half crawling. At seven a sudden burst of fire from the whole of the artillery. From about eleven yesterday fires as if possessed. This morning at four we fall back. We find the 126th have no communication with the rear, as the communication trenches have been completely blown in. The smoke and thirst are enough to drive one mad. Our cooker doesn’t come up. The 126th gives us bread and coffee from the little they have. If only it would stop! We get direct hits one after another and lie in a sort of dead end, cut off from all communication. If only it were night. What a feeling to be thinking every second when I shall get it! ---- has just fallen, the third man in our platoon. Since eight the fire has been unceasing; the earth shakes and we with it. Will God ever bring us out of this fire? I have said the Lord’s Prayer and am resigned. ------------------------------------- To-day I saw the “Mound of Death” at Saint-Eloi; it has been mined a number of times, and thousands of shells have beaten it into a disorderly heap of earth; the trenches are twenty-five yards apart; all the grass and vegetation has been blown away and never has had time to grow up again. It’s all arranged for you, if there’s a bit of shell or a bullet with your name on it you’ll get it, so you’ve nothing to worry about. You are a soldier—then be one. This is the philosophy of the trenches. ------------------------------------- [Illustration] What’s The Use?