June 5th, 6 a.m
Steady rifle firing still continues, having gone on all night.
Noon
Row to French submarine with Phillips, Williamson and Foley, and after pulling round, looking interested, are invited on board.
Phillips has one foot on the slippery back of the submarine and one foot on the boat, rocking in the sea, when a dog comes rushing along the deck of the submarine barking furiously. Pained expression on Phillips’s face a study. Dog held back by a French sailor.
Most interesting on board the submarine. Engines and mechanical gear a marvellous piece of work. Very interesting looking through the periscope. Two charming officers, having lunch in a dear little cabin, talk to us. Submarine four times as big as the British one that we went aboard two days ago.
Hear that Prosser and Wyman, friends of mine in the Hampshires, have been hit and are on hospital ships. Damned fine chaps! Hear later that Bush, of Worcesters, another friend and a splendid fellow, has gone, blown to bits by a shell while leading a charge yesterday. Fine man; he had been wounded, and had been awarded the Military Cross, at the landing.
Also the two Gypy officers, who reported at Brigade H.Q. when I was there yesterday, have gone, killed while leading their new companies.
This happens after every battle. One makes friends—such fine friends!—and one is always suddenly losing them, leaving such gaps as sometimes make one wish that one could follow them.
But it is against the tradition of the service to be morbid about it, and so we “carry on,” knowing that those who have gone West would, if they were still with us, be cheery, brave, cool, and efficient at their respective jobs.