Besides receiving letters, we write them. And this brings us to that
mysterious and impalpable despot, the Censor.
There is not much mystery about him really. Like a good many other
highly placed individuals, he deputes as much of his work as possible
to some one else--in this case that long-suffering maid-of-all-work,
the company officer. Let us track Bobby Little to his dug-out, during
one of those numerous periods of enforced retirement which occur
between the hours of three and six, "Pip Emma"--as our friends the
"buzzers" call the afternoon. On the floor of this retreat (which
looks like a dog-kennel and smells like a vault) he finds a small heap
of letters, deposited there for purposes of what the platoon-sergeant
calls "censure." These have to be read (which is bad); licked up
(which is far worse); signed on the outside by the officer, and
forwarded to Headquarters. Here they are stamped with the familiar
red triangle and forwarded to the Base, where they are supposed to be
scrutinised by the real Censor--i.e., the gentleman who is paid for
the job--and are finally despatched to their destination.
Bobby, drawing his legs well inside the kennel, out of the way of
stray shrapnel bullets, begins his task.
The heap resolves itself into three parts. First come the post-cards,
which give no trouble, as their secrets are written plain for all to
see. There are half a dozen or so of the British Army official issue,
which are designed for the benefit of those who lack the epistolatory
gift--what would a woman say if you offered such things to her?--and
bear upon the back the following printed statements:--
_I am quite well.