It’s four hours later. Just as I had reached this point news came that some of our chaps were buried, so I had a little brisk spade-work, then a wriggling voyage through a hole, and then a lot of messy work pouring iodine into wounds and binding up. I’m afraid my hands are still rather like a murderer’s. Incidentally our kitchen is entirely done for this time. We’ve got the wounded fellows on their way to Blighty, and are fairly confident that they’re not going west this time. I am so glad that the coming of America into the game has made so much difference to you. I wish I could come back for a fortnight and share the excitement with you. It’s difficult to picture New York as a military pageant in khaki. Tell me all about the young fellows I know and what they are doing. I wonder how many are in the Field Artillery—which is about the most interesting part of the game. You remember that Calvary I told you about. I saw it under another guise after writing. Something happened and, instead of the spring peace, it was a shamble with horses and men dying. In such cases one can’t do anything—he has to go on about his own errand. I’m so very dirty that I’ll leave off now while there’s a chance to have a wash. I’m awfully muddy, and my hair is just ready for growing potatoes—there’s about a pound of the real estate of France in it. VIII France June 6,1917 You certainly are owed a whole lot of letters, but it is very difficult to find the time under present conditions—I didn’t get my breakfast until 7.30 p.m. yesterday. And to-day I was up at 4 a.m., and didn’t come back from up front till dusk. So you see I really have some excuse for being temporarily a bad correspondent. You don’t need to be sorry for me, though, or anything like that, for I’m having quite a good time. After the mud this hard white sunlight is a godsend. Do you remember——— June 7.—Thus far I got when I was interrupted, and another day has gone by. I’m just back again from up front. I went there at dawn to do some reconnaissance work. By eight the heat was sweltering—just the way it was when we made our memorable trip down the Loire valley—only now there are no estaminets at which to drink Ciro Citron. The only inhabitants of the place where I am now are the mayor and his daughter, who returned the moment the town was captured. Rather fine of them. Yesterday a French soldier looked in (on special leave) to claim what was left of his cottage; just as much, I should imagine, as you could make into a road. And yet, despite the fallen houses, the fruit-trees are green and not so long ago were white with bloom and nodding.