This hanging round London seems a very poor way to help win a war. I couldn’t stand very much of it, however invaluable they pretended I was, when my pals are dying out there. Poor old S.! He’s in my thoughts every hour of the day. He was always getting new photos of his little daughter. He longed for a Blighty that he might see her again. He was wounded, but stopped on duty for two days. At last, only one hundred yards down the trench on his way to the dressing-station a shell caught him. He was dead in an instant. Before the Vimy show two of our chaps in the mess had peculiar dreams: one saw D.’. grave and the other S.’.. Both S. and D. are dead. The effect that all this has on me is not what might be expected—makes me the more anxious to get back. I hate to think that others are going sleepless and cold and are in danger, and that I am not there. When the memory comes at meal-times I feel like leaving the table. It was ripping to hear from you last night. Your letter greeted me as I returned from the theatre. We’d been out with my major. At the theatre we picked up with a plucky chap, named K., who belonged to the same battery as B., to whom, you remember, I was carrying a present from some girl in New York. The present which she was so keen should reach him by Christmas turned out to be a neck-tie which she had knitted for him. On asking K., I found out that B. was killed on October 31st. It’s the same story all the time so far as the 18-pounders are concerned. When Reggie leaves me I’m going to start on another book, Out to Win, which is to be an interpretation for England of the new spirit which is animating America, and a plea for a closer sense of kinship between my two nations. Don’t worry about me, you’ll get a cabled warning before I go to France. My major expects to go back in a month or two, and we’ve arranged to return together if possible. But you needn’t get worried—I’m afraid I shall probably spend Christmas in London. XVIII The Ritz, London November 17, 1917