It's uncertain when I shall be moved, or to which base, so I cannot give you a new address for letters. The generosity, the kindness, the skill, and the unwearying attentiveness and consideration shown one in this place could not possibly be improved on; but their official reticence in the matter of giving one any information regarding one's insignificant self, future movements, and so on, can only be described as godlike. I shall always associate it in my mind with a smile of ineffable benevolence (also rather godlike), as who should say, with inexhaustible patience, "There, there, my little man; there, there." And that's all. Perhaps it's good for us, taken, as medicine must be, with childlike trust and faith. We must hope so. Come to think of it, there is a hint in the gentle air of this place--never torn by shot or shell, or penetrated by even the faintest odour of defunct Boches in No Man's Land--of a general conspiracy of reticence. It has infected mine own hitherto trusted batman (who presumes to chuckle as he writes these lines at my dictation), whose professed ignorance, regarding most points upon which I have this morning sought information, suggests that I have in the past consistently overrated his intelligence and general competence. It is clearly very desirable that I should get back to my Platoon as soon as possible. Lying here at mine ease, I think a great deal; but of the quality of my thinking I fear there is little to be said that is favourable. Perhaps the medicine I take so trustfully has contained some of the soporific stuff of dreams, and that is why the pain in my leg has been so trifling since the first day here. I feel my thoughts stirring in my mind; but they move in a swaying, dreamy fashion, as though they were floating in, say golden syrup, and were not really interested in getting out of it. I wanted to tell you all about our push, but, do you know, though it was not very many days ago, it seems already extraordinarily remote, so far as the details are concerned, and I am hazy as to what I have told you and what I have not told. One thing stands out so clearly in my otherwise treacly mind that I feel I never, never shall forget it; and that is the sensation of the moment when the order reached us to advance. We had been a long time waiting for it, even before our bombardment began, and when it came-- But, although the sensation is very clear to me, I'm not at all sure I can convey any idea of it to you. I've just asked Lawson what he felt like when it came; but the conspiracy of reticence, or something, leads him to say he doesn't know. I found myself muttering something at the moment, and he says he did, too. That's something of a coincidence. He believes the actual words he muttered were: "What ho!" But that's not exactly illuminating, is it?