December 3rd, 1916.
Dear Boys:
By this time you will be all through your exams and I hope have both
passed. It'll be splendid if you can go together to the same station.
You envy me, you say; well, I rather envy you. I'd like to be with you.
You, at least, don't have Napoleon's fourth antagonist with which to
contend--mud. But at present I'm clean and billeted in an estaminet, in
a not too bad little village. There's an old mill and still older
church, and the usual farmhouses with the indispensable pile of manure
under the front windows. We shall have plenty of hard work here, licking
our men into shape and re-fitting.
You know how I've longed to sleep between sheets; I can now, but find
them so cold that I still use my sleeping bag--such is human
inconsistency. But yesterday I had a boiling bath--as good a bath as
could be found in a New York hotel--and I am CLEAN.
I woke up this morning to hear some one singing Casey
Jones--consequently I thought of former Christmases. My mind has been
travelling back very much of late. Suddenly I see something here which
reminds me of the time when E. and I were at Lisieux, or even of our
Saturday excursions to Nelson when we were all together at the ranch.
Did I tell you that B., our officer who was wounded two months ago, has
just returned to us. This morning he got news that his young brother has
been killed in the place which we have left. I wonder when we shall grow
tired of stabbing and shooting and killing. It seems to me that the war
cannot end in less than two years.
I have made myself nice to the Brigade interpreter and he has found me
a delightful room with electric light and a fire. It's in an old
farmhouse with a brick terrace in front. My room is on the ground floor
and tile-paved. The chairs are rush-bottomed and there are old quaint
china plates on the shelves. There is also a quite charming
mademoiselle. So you see, you don't need to pity me any more.
Just at present I'm busy getting up the Brigade Christmas Entertainment.
The Colonel asked me to do it, otherwise I should have said _no_, as I
want all the time I can get to myself. You can't think how jolly it is
to sit again in a room which is temporarily yours after living in
dug-outs, herded side by side with other men. I can be _me_ now, and not
a soldier of thousands when I write. You shall hear from me again soon.
Hope you're having a ripping time in London.
Yours ever,
CON.