"The morning and afternoon passed without incident. After tea we were lightly shelled; we crouched in our dugouts wondering why our artillery didn't reply and if the next one would come any nearer. The ground shook and trembled; showers of earth , or 'nast' as the men called it, trickled down my neck. There were no casualties in my platoon. At dusk the shelling had apparently ceased, and I went along the trench to battalion headquarters to talk to the Adjutant. They were situated in a ruined cottage known as the Brown House, and while he and I were standing in the little garden at the back an unexpected shell bust in the midst of a group of orderlies a dozen yards away, and I have a sharp picture lit by the glare of the bursting shell, of the cracked walls of the Brown House and of men throwing up arms to shield their faces. I found myself on the ground, but whether I was knocked down by the blast or if it was merely that my knees gave way I cannot say."
SOURCE: A. Behrend, Make me a Soldier, (London, Eyre & Spottiswoode, 1961), pp72-73
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