((Lol, more like Laird an' mas'r, and yes we shall)
~France, 19th April, 1915~
Captain Richard Campbell was cold, wet, and angry. His under-stregnth company was the smallest in the Battalion, and thier rifles, of all things, were so jammed with mud that half of them didn't fire more than three rounds any longer without jamming. Seating his sodden Balmoral firmly on his head, he bent slightly and walked along the rough-made trench, his heavy kilt swinging. Picking up his Ross Rifle where he had left it, he placed one foot on the firing step and looked to the Highland sniper by his right, who gave him a nod. The coast was clear.
Campbell stuck his head over the sandbag parapet and examined the German trenchline. It was a mass of haphazard barbed wire and grey, mud-splattered sandbags. The Canadian trenchline didn't look much better, but thier men seemed to be in better spirits. He could hear someone with an Ottawa Valley accent singing the Maple Leaf Forever, probably Corporal MacDonnel.
Ducking back down, Campbell put his booted feet back onto the sodden duckboards and looked his right, hearing approaching footsteps. It was Sergeant Scanton, a transfter from another regiment who had been gassed by the Germans in an early skirmish. He was still wearing his kilt too low, Campbell noted with a smile.
"You knees need to show, Sergeant! You're not wearing trousers." He said, pulling a small hip flask from his sporran and offering it to the NCO.