That was the end of the first bombardment we've seen. It lasted exactly an hour, and our gunners tell us the Boche sent more than 5000 shells over in that time. He has certainly knocked our line about rather badly. All hands are at work now repairing the trench and the wire, with a whole Company of R.E. to help. Our casualties were eighteen wounded and seven killed. We buried thirty-one dead Boches, and they removed a good many dead. We got eleven wounded and nine unwounded Boche prisoners. Of course, they took a lot of their wounded away. They captured no prisoners from us. I am sorry to say that another of our officers, Tony, is among the wounded, but the M.O. says he'll be back with us in a week. If only we could say that of the Infant! We are all sad about him; such a brave lad! but mighty pleased with the Company. The Brigadier says the Company has done splendidly. He was specially glad to know that the Boche collared no prisoners from us. It was our first taste, really, of bombardment, and of hand-to-hand fighting; and the men are now much keener even than they were before to get the Boche. They swear he shall pay dearly for the Infant and for six of their mates. They mean it, too, believe me. And we mean to help them get their payment. There isn't so much as a scratch on your "_Temporary Gentleman_." THE DAY'S WORK Your letters are a great joy, and I feel that I give mighty little in return for their unfailing regularity. But I am sure you will understand that out here, where there's no writing-table to turn to, one simply cannot write half as much as one would like. It's astonishing how few moments there are in which, without neglect, one can honestly say there is nothing waiting to be done. In your letter of the fifteenth, at this moment propped up in front of me against a condensed milk tin, you say: "When you can, I wish you'd jot down for me a sort of schedule of the ordinary, average day's work in the trenches when there is nothing special on, so that I can picture the routine of your life." Oh, for more ability as a jotter down! I know by what I used to see in the papers before leaving England there's a general idea at home that the chief characteristic of trench life is its dreary monotony, and that one of our problems is how to pass the time. How the idea ever got abroad I can't imagine. I don't see how there ever could have been a time like that in trenches. Certainly we have never had a hint of it; not the shadow of a hint. If anyone has ever tasted the boredom of idleness in the trenches--which I don't believe, mind you--there must have been something radically wrong with his Battalion; his Company Commander must have been a rotter. And I don't see how _that_ could be.