In this terribly cold northerly wind, gradually beginning to freeze, those waiting sentries, with their clothes soaking wet through, watch for the enemy, who probably is worse off than we are. As often as possible they are relieved, the relief creeping up in the broad open, chancing the sniper’s easy shot. As we talk, a man comes past, leaning on the arms of two R.A.M.C. men, who are taking him to the advanced dressing station, a little way back. His face is blue and swollen, and his teeth chattering as if with fever. We go round to the H.Q. of the 88th Brigade and ask for instructions as to what to send up in the way of food and medical comforts. In talking to General Cayley, we make the remark that we are glad that his dugout has not been washed away, but immediately feel reproved for having said this by his replying that “it is not his dugout, but the poor chaps in the trenches that he worries about, because he can do nothing for them.” It takes us about a quarter of the time to get back, for the wind literally blows us along, and it is difficult for us to keep our feet in the sticky mud. Once I slip while negotiating the side of a deep puddle, and fall backwards into it, much to the amusement of some passing gunners. At night it steadily becomes colder and colder, and the driving, misty rain turns to snow, a northerly cold blizzard setting in. I am up late arranging about the carting of the rations and blankets to the sea of mud that was once our trenches. It is freezing cold, but we shiver the more when we think of those men lying out in the open behind our front line. _November 28th._