I was desperately ill in the weeks before I was shattered by a bullet from the rifle of a German soldier (a wound stretching from my lower back to between my ribs, which has scarred me for life). An officer recognised this and told me to report sick. I did, but a sergeant major 'with a heart of stone' ordered me back into the line and once there, a corporal, bomb in hand, threatened to blow my brains out for losing contact with the party I was working with.

Carrying 60lb. mortar shells (footballs, as we called them) through calf-deep mud and slush was not easy, especially after a long march to a change of front. As the guide for a fatigue party carrying 'footballs' to a forward dump, I twice failed to make the destination I had been assigned to, because of the intensity of the German barrage.

I was then ordered to take a Dixie container to the rear of the line so that it could be filled in readiness for the rest of my unit coming out of the line. Several times doing this, I collapsed. Regulations prevented what transport there was from picking me up.

Eventually, my retiring unit overtook me and even then, I could not keep up. When it was dark, a kindly sergeant ordered transport out to bring me in, and an officer told me to report sick the following morning.

I only spent an hour in the comfort of the behind-lines billets when I was ordered back to the front.   It was with great relief that I heard of the cancellation of a bombing raid for which I was earmarked.   But a big push was planned. I cannot describe the feelings we had on the night before an advance, but everyone did their best to hide them for the sake of our comrades. It is marvellous what a man can endure when he is tested.

Artillery spotters in balloons and snipers made life difficult, and as the battle ebbed and flowed, the cries of the wounded, and the gruesome sight of mutilated bodies had a profound effect on me.

In one incident, I, along with five others, found a wounded German. He weighed between 16 and 17 stones and though we were tired, we tried to carry him back with us, but we could not manage it, and so we tipped him, groaning, into a shell hole. Of course this was cruel, but at this time we had suffered heavy losses and we were exhausted. I hope people understand, it shows to what levels the battlefield will bring a man down. 

War was a desperately bitter time for us, but we did manage to conjure up some humour from the carnage. There was for instance, the cheek of the packs of rats which were never far away. They would sit on their haunches with their eyes riveted on us whenever we snatched a meal. Also, when we were taken out of the line for a rest meant the delousing drill...our clothes were full of vermin!   We stripped, and about 30 of us at a time went into huge tubs of hot water and disinfectant.   Our clothes were bundled up into a large boiler, and steamed.   This was supposed to kill the lice, but from my experience it just seemed to send them to sleep!   When you put your clothes on again, they were soon having lunch off you again, and the only way was to take your shirt off at every opportunity and kill them by hand.

Welcome relief though it was for me, coming out of the line was full of irony.   There were parades, rifle and marching drills and such like, and, after weeks of being encased in mud we were expected to be smart and clean!

We certainly made merry when we had the chance... going to the pictures, the canteens, or having sing-songs.   On Sundays though, church parades were compulsory.   I found this strange because the parson would always pray for victory, and say we were in the right, and almost always, we sang 'Fight the Good Fight'

It always struck me that the Germans would be having the same sort of service.