_P.S._--The billets we leave to-day are like a very tiny 9th-rate hotel, about as large as the house opposite the blacksmith's forge at Carlton, or a little larger, with another storey added on. Tiny rooms, and stoves in only two of them, which can be used as sitting-rooms. We found a small tub, to our great delight, and this allows us first to wash ourselves and then our things, so we are perfectly happy in it.... IN TRENCHES. _January 23rd, 1915._ We arrived at our trenches all right last night, and, as I had expected, found them fairly under water. In parts it was like the ground round that pretty little cottage at Carlton, where Thompson lives when the Trent is in flood. I was crossing, gingerly trying not to get my feet wet, when a machine gun opened upon myself and my escort; down we went into the water at once. They asserted that the bullets passed through the branches of a shrub beside us. I am not sure. In any case, I did not like it, as one of my men whom I had been speaking to a little earlier in the day was caught by the same gun and received three bullet wounds, one in the shoulder and two in the arm. But he will come all right in the end, I think. There was a good deal of shooting at my working parties with machine guns, so I knocked up my gunners about midnight and threw our shrapnel on to the Germans, and then they saw that I meant to be "top dog," and went home to bed, I suppose. However, they stopped worrying me, which was all I really wanted. I am trying the preparation issued by the Government as an experiment to keep one's feet warm. As a matter of fact, it does not seem to do so at all; possibly that may be the fault of my floor--what remains of it, at least! The red tiles, though clean, are very cold. Well, this stuff looks like shaving soap, but there is another thing, "whale oil," which none of us have as yet tried. The latter was given out to us last night, and sounds promising, but nasty. All the Channel swimmers rub themselves over with it before attempting to swim across the Channel. Speaking about the tiled floors, I notice in many cases that little holes are cut in the sides of the houses, so that the tiles can be well washed with water, and then it drains outside without further trouble, but think how draughty it makes the place unless a plug is put to close this hole at night, and by day too in cold weather. I also notice that these French houses show signs of natty niceness which one would not see in an English farmhouse. For instance, in my sleeping-room, instead of nails being driven into the walls for hanging clothes on, there is a brass hook with a china knob like any Christian household. I am rather amused to see how indifferent our men have grown to fire. This morning between 5 and 6 o'clock I was speaking to the sentry when a bullet came, hit the