I went to a “good luck” dinner the other night, which we gave to my major on the occasion of his setting sail for Canada. Two others of the officers who used to be with me in the battery are to be on the same ship. A year ago in the Somme we used to pray for a Blighty—to-day, every officer in our mess has either got a Blighty or is dead. It gives one some idea of the brevity of our glory. You’d love the West End shops were you here. I’ve just drawn down my blinds on Oxford Street; I walked back by way of Regent Street after lunch—all the windows are gay and full. Men in khaki are punting their girls through the crowds, doing their Christmas shopping. You can see the excited faces of little children everywhere. There doesn’t seem to be much hint of war. One wonders whether people are brave to smile so much or only careless. You hear of tremendous lists of casualties, but there are just as many men. It looks as though we had man-power and resources to carry on the war interminably. There’s only one class of person who is fed-up—and that’s the person who has done least sacrificing. The person who has done none at all is a nervous wreck and can’t stand the strain much longer. But ask the fighting men—they’re perfectly happy and contented. Curious! When you’ve given everything, you can always give some more. This may reach you before Christmas, though I doubt it. If it does, be as merry as we shall be, though absent. XXI London December 10, 1917 I hope you feel as I do about my refusal of Colonel B.’. offer to send me back to America on the British Mission. I was also approached to-day to do press work for the Canadians. It seems as though everyone was conspiring to throw tempting plums in my way to keep me from returning to the Front. I don’t know that I’m much good as a soldier; probably I’m very much better as a writer; but it’s as though my soul, my decency, my honour were at stake—I must get back to the Front. The war is going to be won by men who go back to the trenches in the face of reason and common sense. If I had a leg off I should try for the Flying Corps. I may be a fool in the Front line, but I won’t be finished as a fighting man till I’m done. They can keep all their cushy jobs for other chaps—I want the mud and the pounding of the guns. It doesn’t really matter if one does get killed, provided he’s set a good example. Do you remember that sermon we heard Dr. Jowett give about St. Paul at Lystra, going back after they had stoned him? “Back to the stones”—that expresses me exactly. I hate shell-fire and discomfort and death as much as any other man. But I’d rather lose everything than have to say good-bye to my standard of heroism. I don’t want to kill Huns particularly, but I do want to prove to them that we’re the better men. I can’t do that by going through oratorical gymnastics in America or by writing racy descriptions of the Canadians’ bravery for the international press. I shall be less than nothing when I