There’s something that I shouldn’t tell you were I going back to-morrow. Last week I met one of my gunners on leave. He was standing on the island in Piccadilly Circus. I learnt from him that every officer who was with me at the battery when I was wounded has since been wiped out. Even some who joined since have been done for. Three have been killed, the rest wounded, gassed, and the major has gone out with concussion. Among the killed is poor S., the one who was my best friend in France, You remember he had a young wife, and his first baby was born in February. He used to carry the list of all the people I wanted written to if I were killed, and I had promised to do the same for him. In addition to the officers, many of the men whom I admired have “gone west.” All this was told me casually in the heart of London’s pleasure, with the taxis and buses streaming by. A few days ago a pitiful derelict of the streets crossed my path. I’d been dining out in the West End with L. and P. and was on my way back, when a girl stopped me. She stopped me for the usual reason, and I suppose I refused her rudely. The next thing I knew she was crying. She said she had been walking for twelve hours, and was cold and tired, and ready to fall from weariness. It was very late, and I scarcely knew where to take her, but we found a little French restaurant open in Gerrard Street. On coming into the light, I discovered that she had a little toy dog under her arm, just as tired of life as herself. It was significant that she attended to the dog’s before her own needs. We had to tempt it with milk before it would eat—then she set to work herself ravenously. I learnt her story by bits. She was a discharged munition worker, had strained herself lifting shells, and hadn’t the brains or strength for anything but the streets. When she left the restaurant the lap-dog was again tucked beneath her arm. It was nearly midnight when she disappeared in the raw chilliness of the scant electric light. People die worse deaths than on battle-fields. Wednesday.—I’ve been working for the last three days at the Minister’s, and still have no inkling of what is to happen to me. My major walked in to-day; he wants me to wait till his sick-leave is over, after which we can return together. He’ll put in a strong personal request for me to be allowed to return. He got concussion of the brain eight weeks ago through a shell bursting in his dug-out. S. was wounded at the same time, but didn’t go out till next day. He had got one hundred yards from the battery when he and his batman were killed instantly by the same shell. Reggie wasn’t in town when I arrived. He didn’t meet me till Friday. What with playing with him and working here I don’t get much time for writing. But you’ll hear from me again quite soon. XVII The Ritz, London November 15, 1917