Louis de Bernières - The Dust That Falls From Dreams

7th. Am writing about 9.45 a.m. Man yelling from shell hole. Sounds quite mad. Expect to be shelled. Last night brother Albert said he got excellent photos of star shells. Don’t know how he knows, because when will he develop the film? After a sniper now, soon shall have a shot myself.

11.30. Poor Lampard just been shot through head as was observing rifle grenade fall. Died at about 1700 hours. Will leave big gap in our section — brother behaved wonderfully. Soldier in shell hole stuck fast by mud, finally stopped yelling, so suppose must have gone west. Once in, you can’t get them out, not under fire. Suction incredible. Not even permitted to try.

Huns have our section covered by machine gun. V. dangerous to look over. Was glad to get back to town, slept like a boy. Our relief four hours late, mental strain on all of us awful. Brother Sidney in hospital with flu. Best out of all this. Humour running out. Fartillery hit by shrapnel, had to shoot him. Good friend and lots of fun during brief time we had him.

Spend much time making ruined houses into billets. Such a relief to stand upright/move like a man again. Most tiring thing about trenches is constant creeping, always bent double. Utterly wears you out. Then get sent on fatigues at night, carrying heavy objects thr. ditches and hedges, shell craters full of filth, hurry past snipers’ alleys though can’t see a thing. Always bogged down, falling, hands raw and split. Mine swollen so much can’t put in pockets any more. Thank God for gumboots, otherwise God knows what would feet be. All look like vagrants/ruffians, rags in place of uniform, gaunt/hollow faces/stubble that grows for weeks before get hot water. But so goddarned beautiful, wash/shave faces and heads, drink hot sweet tea, put on new clothes, sleep! Never feel more contented.

Kept nerve, but beginning to give in to exhaustion. Would be content to be shot through head just to be relieved of it. Sometimes just slump down with all my kit on, soaking wet/trembling, so fast asleep might as well be dead. Only jerk awake when someone prods/says, ‘Come on, Yank, fatigues to do! What bliss!’

Don’t mind being called ‘Yank’. Everyone suitable nickname. Anyone Scottish Jock, anyone Welsh Taffy, anyone Irish Paddy/Spud. Anyone bald Curly, and fellow with tight black curls Bogbrush, and fellow amazingly thin Wobbles. Charlie White called Chalky, Albert Black Snowy, Robert Quick Sluggish. Millers always called Dusty. Shortarses called Lofty.

After fitting out billet, found had to go back to same trench. Lampard’s death smartened our ideas up, started filling sandbags by moonlight. Everything more intense at night. Perfectly beautiful. When wind shifts and reek of rotting meat vanishes few blessed minutes, can smell soft damp scent of countryside. Magnesium shells cast light so intense can see every detail that’s out of shadow, nothing at all of what’s in it. Whizz and buzz spent bullets, soft thump as they hit sandbags, sometimes zing of ricochet. Completely flattened bullet struck my webbing, have it in my pocket.

Sound of firing broke out to the north, started rolling down the line towards us, so manned the parapet/waited for order to fire. But no attack to repel. Another shitfight.

Dig and dig. Only way to get rid of water is dig ever deeper. Now got sumps every few yards, covered with doors fr. ruined houses, but never enough sumps to soak up rain, never enough sunshine to dry out ground. Winter bodies take longer to rot. No flies to lay eggs to make maggots. Bodies swell up with water. Stink in spite of cold. Only frost stops stink. Collect all corpses poss, but sometimes imposs. because too risky. Not long ago billeted in a barn, but perfume too retchingly bad. Turned out was full of dead Frenchies been there for months, just covered with straw.

Don’t know if water or corpses, but all got diarrhoea at once, now resting behind lines. Turned nice respite into nightmare, have to scramble over each other in dark try to get to latrines, out in field down road. Fortunately been snowing, so enough light to see by. No fun falling into latrines. If not get there in time, scrub self off with snow. Been taking any number No. 9 pills, but not helping much. Put on show for Brigadier, very good one. Several unscheduled intervals as some made a dash for it. Even interval when Brigadier had to make dash. He is good old boy just as darned tough as we are. When turns up at trench borrows Hutch’s rifle and pops up for snapshot. Hands it back, says, ‘Thank you, private. An old dog’s got to keep his hand in somehow.’ Know for certain he got two Huns, because lieutenant saw it through periscope. Brigadier saw the South African war, oak leaves on his ribbons.

Got rum issued, keeps us going. Lifesaver, even settles stomachs a little. Oh, that lovely hot feeling spreads fire in insides and resets clockwork in skull.

Still not recovered and been sent back to Kemmel in pelting rain, carrying spades/rations/wire/trench stores. Man in front got bullet clean through knee, went down as if poleaxed. Wonder what chances being hit like that, randomly pitch darkness. Envious of stretcher-bearers, get chance to go back. We say that the bullet that gets you has your number on it, going to get you regardless. No point ducking, because might duck straight into path of bullet. Corporal nearly drowned in shell hole, but managed to pull him out after dumped his load. Worked by light of star shells. Fell into hollow then into ditch, both planks across it broken. Soaking wet, gumboots filled with water, will not get dry again for days. Hutch says, ‘It’s all right kicking sandbags to get the blood flowing again, but you can do yourself some damage without realising. It’s better to kick thin air.’ He’s right. Effective as swinging arms in circle to get blood back into hands. Indescribable cold, extreme ache deep in bones. If any sunlight, even just moment, you look up at little gap in clouds/smile with pleasure, little glimpse Paradise. If don’t get warm, start to feel lice, start wriggling/St Vitus’s Dance. Written to Mother, asked her to send me Harrison’s Pomade, but not arrived.

Think might have to stop writing diary. Palled on me/hands shake too much to write/read back what written. Nerves and cold put together, and pencil can write sodden paper not invented yet. Will try for while yet.

ONE MORNING THERE was a nice view of a wrecked chateau and a dead German who was swollen up like an observation balloon, but we were only there until evening. Then two of us got hit on the way back at night, because of more random shots that weren’t even aimed at anyone. Neither dead, thank God. Blighty wounds only.

Back at the breastworks on St Valentine’s Day, when I was thinking of Rosie, the Senior Officer ordered five rounds of rapid fire at dawn. He just wanted to annoy the Huns, because that was his humour. There were no targets to shoot at.

In response the Huns began a barrage of high explosive and shrapnel, and we realised with dread in our hearts that our jovial little piece of mischief was going to have consequences a thousand times out of proportion. We watched the first shells land fifty yards away, and then begin to creep closer. They must have had a first-class observer. At last a shrapnel shell burst right over us, and for a second or two I was aware only of the overpowering ringing inside my head. My first thought was that I was going to be deaf. Hutch got a ball through his water bottle, and he was holding it up for me to see, when I noticed that I had got one through the stomach, and fell backwards, clutching myself, into a pool of filthy water. I remember thinking, ‘I hope it’s a ball and not a piece of shell case,’ and then I passed out.