DIY History | Transcribe | World War I Diaries and Letters | Conger Reynolds correspondence, March 1-17, 1918 | 1918-03-17 Conger Reynolds to Daphne Reynolds Page 2

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Conger Reynolds correspondence, March 1-17, 1918

1918-03-17 Conger Reynolds to Daphne Reynolds Page 2

along it, but they were not bothering it. We could hear our batteries firing off behind the hills. In a little while we reached regimental headquarters. We were just in time for lunch. The colonel, a fine old warrior type, welcomed us and introduced us to his staff, and we had a good feed about an oilcloth covered table in half-buried dining room. You may be sure it was an odd experience to eat there with everybody wearing the gas mask ready for action and the noise of artillery firing rattling the dishes. The colonel was very enthusiastic about his job. He regaled us with tales of what his men had been doing. It was evident he was proud of them. "No Man's land belongs to us," he told us. "The Boches don't dare venture out night or day. He made things interesting for us by telling us that his post was usually shelled about three times a day. Of that, too, he was proud. The main thing he didn't like was that the Boches every now and then dropped gas shells over and compelled him to wear the mask. He hated the gas mask and vowed there was no punishment too cruel to give an enemy who compelled a man to wear one of the things. 
The major wanted to see the men in the trenches. Accordingly, we went out after lunch with a staff officer for a guide, and entered a deep, winding communication trench. We had gone a little way and were starting down a hill when our guide stopped and pointed at a line of hills perhaps a mile and a half away. "The Boches are over there," he said. "They can see us quite plainly here."  Of course we were out of range of rifle fire, and the enemy doesn't waste shells on small groups of men. We continued on for some distance and arrived at the position occupied by some troops. The men were loafing about in the sunshine

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along it, but they were not bothering it. We could hear our batteries firing off behind the hills. In a little while we reached regimental headquarters. We were just in time for lunch. The colonel, a fine old warrior type, welcomed us and introduced us to his staff, and we had a good feed about an oilcloth covered table in half-buried dining room. You may be sure it was an odd experience to eat there with everybody wearing the gas mask ready for action and the noise of artillery firing rattling the dishes. The colonel was very enthusiastic about his job. He regaled us with tales of what his men had been doing. It was evident he was proud of them. "No Man's land belongs to us," he told us. "The Boches don't dare venture out night or day. He made things interesting for us by telling us that his post was usually shelled about three times a day. Of that, too, he was proud. The main thing he didn't like was that the Boches every now and then dropped gas shells over and compelled him to wear the mask. He hated the gas mask and vowed there was no punishment too cruel to give an enemy who compelled a man to wear one of the things. The major wanted to see the men in the trenches. Accordingly, we went out after lunch with a staff officer for a guide, and entered a deep, winding communication trench. We had gone a little way and were starting down a hill when our guide stopped and pointed at a line of hills perhaps a mile and a half away. "The Boches are over there," he said. "They can see us quite plainly here." Of course we were out of range of rifle fire, and the enemy doesn't waste shells on small groups of men. We continued on for some distance and arrived at the position occupied by some troops. The men were loafing about in the sunshine