I hope you got my last letter safely. I enclosed it in my home one to
be forwarded.
There is little news from this theatre, and what there is we mayn't
write, for the most part.
My Coy. is being bombarded at Kut still. They have had 21 casualties
out of 180. One of my draft is killed and five wounded and here
everyone is parroting about a Merry Christmas. Truly the military man
is a pachyderm.
This is likely to be the last you will hear of me for some time,
though I hope to be able to dob out a post-card here and there,
perhaps letters now and then. In a word, we're moving next week and
are not likely to see billets again till we lodge with the
descendants, either of the Caliphs or of Abraham's early neighbours.
My leg is so far recovered that I take it as almost certain I shall
march too when we go. I am testing it to make sure first. Yesterday it
did six miles without damage, though the gait remains Hephaestian.
The weather is still cold, and fine and dry. The sunsets are
glorious.
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