Dunn began telling me the characters of the men in my platoon; also which N.C.O.’s were trustworthy and which had to be watched. He was going on to tell me just how much to expect from the men at my platoon inspection of rifles and equipment, when there was a sudden alarm. Dunn’s servant came rushing in, his eyes blank with horror and excitement: ‘Gas, sir, gas! They’re using gas.’ ‘My God!’ said Price. We all looked at Dunn. He said imperturbably: ‘Very well, Kingdom, bring me my respirator from the other room, and another pot of marmalade.’ This was only one of many gas alarms. It originated with smoke from the German trenches where breakfast was also going on; we knew the German meal-times by a slackening down of rifle-fire. Gas was a nightmare. Nobody believed in the efficacy of the respirators, though we were told that they were proof against any gas the enemy could send over. Pink army forms marked ‘Urgent’ were constantly arriving from headquarters to explain how to use these contrivances. They were all contradictory. First the respirators were to be kept soaking wet, then they were to be kept dry, then they were to be worn in a satchel, then, again, the satchel was not to be used. Frank Jones-Bateman came to visit me from the company on our right. He mentioned with a false ease that he had shot a man just before breakfast: ‘Sights at four hundred,’ he said. He was a quiet boy of nineteen. He had just left Rugby and had a scholarship waiting for him at Clare, Cambridge. His nickname was ‘Silent Night.’ XIII Here are extracts from letters that I wrote at this time: 21_st May_ 1915.—Back in billets again at a coal-mining village called La Bourse. It is not more than three miles and a half from the trenches, but the mines are still working. As we came out of the trenches the Germans were shelling the wood by Cambrin village, searching for one of our batteries. I don’t think they got it, but it was fun to see the poplar trees being lopped down like tulips when the whizz-bangs hit them square. When we marched along the _pavé_ road from Cambrin the men straggled about out of step and out of fours. Their feet were sore from having had their boots on for a week—they only have one spare pair of socks issued to them. I enclose a list of their minimum load, which weighs about sixty pounds. A lot of extras get put on top of this—rations, pick or shovel, periscope, and their own souvenirs to take home on leave: