December 18th, 1916.
My Dearest M.:
I always feel when I write a joint letter to the family that I'm
cheating each one of you, but it's so very difficult to get time to
write as often as I'd like. It's a week to Christmas and I picture the
beginnings of the preparations. I can look back and remember so many
such preparations, especially when we were kiddies in London. What good
times one has in a life! I've been sitting with my groom by the fire
to-night while he dried my clothes. I've mentioned him to you before as
having lived in Nelson, and worked at the Silver King mine. We both grew
ecstatic over British Columbia.
I am hoping all the time that the boys may be in England at the time I
get my leave--I hardly dare hope that any of you will be there. But it
would he grand if you could manage it--I long very much to see you all
again. I can just imagine my first month home again. I shan't let any of
you work. I shall be the incurable boy. I've spent the best part of
to-day out in No Man's Land, within seventy yards of the Huns. Quite an
experience, I assure you, and one that I wouldn't have missed for
worlds. I'll have heaps to write into novels one day--the vividest kind
of local colour. Just at present I have nothing to read but the
Christmas number of the _Strand_. It makes me remember the time when we
children raced for the latest development of _The Hound of the
Baskervilles_, and so many occasions when I had one of "those sniffy
colds" and sat by the Highbury fire with a book. Good days, those!
I'm just off to bed now, and will finish this to-morrow. Bed is my
greatest luxury nowadays.
December 19th.
The book and chocolate just came, and a bunch of New York papers. All
were most welcome. I was longing for something to read. To-morrow I have
to go forward to observe. Two of our officers are on leave, so it makes
the rest of us work pretty hard. What do you think of the Kaiser's
absurd peace proposals? The man must be mad.
The best of love,
CON.