_February_ 10th, 1918 The Regiment has made huge progress in military matters during the past month. I go over to Cohons and the new French Chauchat automatics are barking merrily at the hill that climbs from the road. At Percey I see our erstwhile baseball artists learning an English overhead bowling delivery for hurling hand grenades at a pit, where they explode noisily and harmlessly. At Baissey Major Moynahan walks me up the steep hill to show me his beautiful system of trenches, though I see no reflection of his enthusiasm in the faces of Jerry Sheehan or Jim Sullivan—they had the hard job of helping to dig them. West of the town against the steep base of the highest hill Lieutenants O’Brien and Cunningham with the 37 mm. or one-pound cannon, and Lieutenants Walsh and Keveny with the Stokes mortars are destroying the fair face of nature. Vociferous young Lieutenants are urging the men to put snap into their bayonet lunges at stuffed mannikins. I had a little clash of my own with some of these enthusiastic youngsters early in the game. In the British school of the bayonet they teach that the men ought to be made to curse while doing these exercises. I see neither grace nor sense in it. If a man swears in the heat of a battle I don’t even say that God will forgive it; I don’t believe He would notice it. But this organized blasphemy is an offense. And it is a farce—a bit of Cockney Drill Sergeant blugginess to conceal their lack of better qualities. If they used more brains in their fighting and less blood and guts they would be further on than they are. Our fellows will do more in battle by keeping their heads and using the natural cool courage they have than by working themselves up into a fictitious rage to hide their fears. Latterly we have had the excellent services of a Battalion of French Infantry to help us in our training. They have been through the whole bloody business and wear that surest proof of prowess, the Fourragère. I asked some of the old timers amongst them how much use they had made of the bayonet. They all said that they had never seen a case when one line of bayonets met another. Sometimes they were used in jumping into a trench, but generally when it came to bayonets one side was running away. The “Y” is on the job and has some sort of place in each town. With me is Percy Atkins, a good man with only one fault—he is working himself to death in spite of my trying to boss him into taking care of himself.