Cold Morning

I am in the frontline on a morning invaded by very thick mist, billowing like clouds on the skirts of Victorian crinolines towards us. If the Germans decide to raid now, we wont stand a chance of spotting them before theyre through our wire. I suppose the saving grace is that theyre probably thinking exactly the same about us

Thats the reason were on guard, though to look for what we cant see coming. No..Doesnt make any sense to me either. Its two hours past morning Stand-to but each sentry on the fire step has a back up man in the trench. This is in case we get shot in the poor visibility, were toldI think its more likely theyll be needed when we freeze solid and fall backwards off our perches like dead parrotsSaw some of those in a zoo in London while I was waiting for the embarkation train (Live ones, I mean, not dead)Anyway, my back up is standing about four feet away in what look to be FUR-LINED mittens. Looks like a right nancy too long black hair like an Italian, all wavy and thick. Im half convinced that hes really a girltalks like one too. Definitely doesnt like me, either and he looks at me like hes accidentally fell in the latrines and landed on meI think Im a bit uncouth by his standards..

Whatever. Im the target on the fire step at the moment, so I heft my rifle and make to check it as the damp air sometimes causes the mechanism to jam. That means a breached barrel; not nice considering that usually leads to a breached shoulder and quite probably chin, too. I find my hands are to numb to examine it properly though I cant feel most of the gun, and that I can feel hurts You get so used to this (cough) burning heat that you dont notice until you want to do something fiddly. I unwrap the rag that protects the bolt mechanism and wrap that round my left hand, I have no gloves most of us havent some idiot at home sent us MITTENS which are warm, I will admit, but as much use in the front line as a bottomless boot. You can hold or pick up anything small with the damn things on, let alone maintain grip.

I clamber up onto the fire step and lay the rifle beneath my stomach, right hand on the shoulder piece, left on the barrel, close to the sites, ready for action ready to use it to fire or as a club. The dense shiny wood has warmth to it, as does the parapet. I lean on that, the slope of mud with water-brightened grass sprouting bright green from it. Its damp, from dew if not the nights rain, but my uniform is so wet, I cant tell. Who cares? At least my feet are out of that freezing grey water that drowns the duckboards and gives you gangrene in you feet