Officers censor all letters. I censor sometimes fifty letters a day. One man put in a letter to-day, “I can’t write anything endearing in this, as my section officer will read it.” Another, “I enclose ten shillings. Very likely you will not receive this, as my officer has to censor this letter.” Of course we don’t have time to read all the letters through. We look for names of places and numbers of divisions, brigades, etc., but I couldn’t help noticing that one of my men, whom I have long suspected of being a Don Juan, had by one mail written exactly the same letter to five different girls in England, altering only the addresses and the affectionate beginnings. The village in which I am now was visited last September by twelve German officers who came through in motor cars; the villagers cried, “Vivent les Anglais,” for not having seen an English soldier they took it for granted that the “Tommy” had come. Everybody goes armed to the teeth. I have my belt, a regular Christmas tree for hanging things on, with revolver and cartridges on even while I’m writing this. We carry a lot, but we soon get used to it. ------------------------------------- The corn is being cut now. Through the window opposite I can see it standing in newly-stacked sheaves. These places are the favorite sketching grounds of artists in normal times, and I often wonder if they ever will be again. We return salutes with all the French and Belgian officers. It is difficult sometimes to distinguish them. I got fooled by a Belgian postman, and then went to work and cut a French general. The nearer we get to the firing line the finer the type of soldier. They are the magnificent Britishers of Kitchener’s First Army. It makes you proud to see them marching by, dirty and wet with sweat. I watched two battalions come through; they had marched twenty miles through the sun with new issue boots; a few of them had fallen out, and other men and officers were carrying their equipment and rifles; many of the officers carried two rifles. I am now well within sound of the guns. A German Taube was shelled as it came over our firing line yesterday. One man was lying on his back asleep with his hat over his eyes, when a piece of shrapnel from one of the “Archies” hit him in the stomach—result: one blasphemous, indignant casualty. From the road I can see one of the observation balloons, a queer sausage-shaped airship. We may be moved up into the thick of it at any time now. -------------------------------------