In a recent attack I saw a curious happening. I was up with the infantry as liaison officer when one of our planes was shot down. The pilot made an effort to land behind our trenches, but his machine was unmanageable and he came down in Boche territory—or what had been Boche territory a quarter of an hour before. Through my glasses I saw the pilot and observer get out and start to creep cautiously back. We ourselves didn’t know for certain where the Huns were—all we knew was that they were supposed to be withdrawing. When the airmen arrived at our battalion headquarters they were still scarcely convinced that our chaps were not Huns in khaki. When we gave them a meal of bully-beef they knew that wc were British. So very much I could tell you which is thrilling and heroic if only I were allowed. Do you know, sometimes I marvel at my contented loneliness? It isn’t like me. I ought to be homesick and—but I’m not. I’m too much consumed with the frenzy of an ideal to care for anything but to see the principle for which we fight established. What one man can do isn’t much—only a Jesus can save the world singlehanded; the real satisfaction is in one’s own soul, that softness and success had not made him deaf to the voice of duty when she called to him. For me this undertaking is as holy as a crusade; if it were not I could not endure the sights. As it is I keep quiet in my soul, feeling humbly glad that I am allowed to fulfil the dreams of my boyhood. I always wanted to do something to save the world, you remember. First I was going to be a missionary; then a reformer; then a preacher; then a poet. Instead of any of these I “struck luck” as a novelist—and I can see now how success was corroding to one’s ideals. Success in America is so inevitably measured in terms of praise and money. I wanted to save the world; never in my wildest dreams did it occur to me that I should get my chance as a soldier. I remember when I was studying history at Oxford how I used to shudder at the descriptions of battles, especially mediaeval battles waged by mailed Titans. I don’t know what change has taken place in me; this is a more damnable war in its possibilities for suffering than any of a bygone age; in comparison, those old wars seem chivalrous and humane. And yet because of the spiritual goal for which we fight I no longer shudder. Yes, that is the reason for the change. A man doesn’t often get the chance in these commercial times to risk all that he holds most dear for humanity’s sake. I think of the morning family prayers of childhood in the old panelled room in Highbury and the petitions you used to make for us—everything has shaped towards this great moment in our lives; the past was a straight road leading to this crisis. I don’t forget the share you three contribute—the share of your brave loneliness and waiting. Your share is the greatest. God bless you.