We navigated the first leg of our journey without event, but Lord those bottles were heavy. I felt as if my neck was being amputated. In the road, however, we met with many sights which will long remain in the limn of memory. Dozens of casualties were there. Wild-eyed from the last bombardment which had registered directly on our trench and was still going on, one man had lost his speech entirely. His plight was pitiable. All the way up the trench we dodged and ducked shells, and sniper bullets registered on the high spots, the water bottles around our necks and the cans in our hands took the last ounce out of us. We felt we should hurry. Anything might be happening in the trench, and such a sight as met our eyes defies description. Hell had reigned supreme for over an hour. It was a badly battered road that met our eyes. Many funk holes had been destroyed, including Andy's on our right killing both occupants. Two sergeants sat together their heads down, arms around one another. Helpless in the inferno to do anything, just taking it and ready to go together. Shortly after we landed a shell hit in the next hole on our left. Another lad and we too started in to help. Something went wrong with the other lads nerves when another shell landed nearby and without any forewarning he dropped his shovel and started to run over the bank. Heaven knows where he landed or if he ever did as I never saw him again. Maybe he lay out there and died. Maybe he got to Blighty.
Towards evening during the course of another bombardment the 20th battalion came up. Evidently an attack was expected. Barker was not with us; he had been buried and we were badly shaken. I said good-bye to Barker -- he was killed on May 12th. Nearly all night we stood to, until relieved again by the 20th. We occupied trenches a mile or so behind and to the left. It was quieter, but for three days we lived with gas masks on. The first night and day I was alone, Harry having been detailed to stretchers. He had found a cellar next to the dressing station where he slept all day.
I was incorrectly marked missing when they went over the rolls that day, the news even percolating as far as Canada. For some reason my name was also associated in Sandling Camp as I later heard when draft came over. Fletcher, a former pal, nearly passed out in his tracks on seeing me.
This pretty well concludes the story of Fresnoy as I saw it. The main feature in my favour was lack of previous experience -- which for a time was helpful, in that I did not realize the seriousness of the event. Friendships were formed which will ever remain. Though Harry, Doc and Allan are no more they will still live on, their cheery smiles, the grasp of their hands remain with me. Bill Squib, too, and Andy Atkinson -- the warmth of whose body on many a night contributed a restful slumber. Gord Davis and Abbie Brennan got theirs that trip, and Morgan who had a hunch and many another of fragrant memory. Baker's death was nearly too much for me. I made my way posthaste to the 20th lines after two hours of fitful sleep on our return to La Targette. Baker's pal Webber greeted me with only a look. Mute in its misery I nearly collapsed, but realizing sharply the need for control turned on my heel at once and fought it out alone on a long walk about the camp.
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