Out here, where there are corpses in the thistles and “the gas-shells burst like snow,” we can talk of “the silver, silver music of her footsteps on the stair,” but we’re mortally afraid that in less exultant moments, when the heart is not so starved for affection, we shall discover that the “silver music” is only the irritating sound of squeaky shoes. I can’t hear from you again for at least six days—a long time to wait! I can’t be bothered nowadays to let the mail-clerk sort out the letters: I grab the bag and go through it myself. There may be an interval between this letter and those that follow. If there is, don’t worry yourselves. It is not possible to find the time or place to write under all circumstances. XLVII France June 1, 1918 I can’t remember when last I wrote you. It isn’t always easy to get the time. Recently I’ve spent a good many hours in the saddle and have been up early in the morning; when work is done the fresh air leaves one too tired for anything but sleep. But you mustn’t worry about me. I’m stronger than I’ve been for months, and tanned to the colour of an Indian. I have recently met the doctor who did so much to pull me through at the Casualty Clearing Station when I was wounded last June. He’s still the same tall, thin, silent man, with the kindest and sternest of faces. His brother, he tells me, is in America on the British Mission, and had informed him of America’s immense preparations. Like all the men out here, I found him keenly eager to see the U.S.A. proportionately represented in the Front line. We are holding, and counting on the States to turn the tide dramatically in our favour. Our chaps are to calm and confident of success—out here there’s none of the strain and nervousness which are felt by civilians. Our chaps are as philosophical and cheery as ever. “Good old Fritz,” they say, “so he’s taken another fifteen miles! Well, it’ll be our turn next.” Through defeat and success we carry on quite normally and unperturbed, confident of ultimate victory. The general opinion is that the Hun by his advances is only causing himself a lot of unnecessary trouble, as he’ll have a longer distance to run back to Germany. Here’s the first of June and mid-summer approaching when so many pleasant things used to happen—flights to the country, the purchasing of bathing-suits, fishing-nets, maps—the planning of such quantities of family adventures. It would be happy to think that some of these old pleasures might return one day. The longer the war goes on the more impossible it is to conjure up the picture of civilian ways of life or to see oneself as again in the picture. Everything grows blurred except the present, with the early risings, routine, orders, marches, and attacks. To be given our freedom would leave us dazed.