Here I am back--my nine days' leave a dream. I got into our wagon-lines
last night after midnight, having had a cold ride along frozen roads
through white wintry country. I was only half-expected, so my
sleeping-bag hadn't been unpacked. I had to wake my batman and tramp
about a mile to the billet; by the time I got there every one was
asleep, so I spread out my sleeping-sack and crept in very quietly. For
the few minutes before my eyes closed I pictured London, the taxis, the
gay parties, the mystery of lights. I was roused this morning with the
news that I had to go up to the gun-position at once. I stole just
sufficient time to pick up a part of my accumulated mail, then got on my
horse and set out. At the guns, I found that I was due to report as
liaison officer, so here I am in the trenches again writing to you by
candle-light. How wonderfully we have bridged the distance in spending
those nine whole days together. And now it is over, and I am back in the
trenches, and to-morrow you're sailing for New York.
I can't tell you what the respite has meant to me. There have been times
when my whole past life has seemed a myth and the future an endless
prospect of carrying on. Now I can distantly hope that the old days will
return.
When I was in London half my mind was at the Front; now that I'm back in
the trenches half my mind is in London. I re-live our gay times
together; I go to cosy little dinners; I sit with you in the stalls,
listening to the music; then I tumble off to sleep, and dream, and wake
up to find the dream a delusion. It's a fine and manly contrast,
however, between the game one plays out here and the fretful
trivialities of civilian life.