We had a heated discussion to-day as to when the war would be ended; we were all of the opinion, “Not soon. Not in less than two years, anyway. After that it will take another twelve months to ship us home.” I believe that, and yet I hope. Along all the roads of France, in all the trenches, in every gun-pit you can hear one song being sung by poilus and Tommies. They sing it while they load their guns, they whistle it as they march up the line, they hum it while they munch their bully-beef and hard-tack. You hear it on the regimental bands and grinding out from gramophones in hidden dug-outs: “Over there. Over there. Send the word, send the word over there, That the Yanks are coming——” Men repeat that rag-time promise as though it were a prayer, “The Yanks are coming.” We could have won without the Yanks—we’re sure of that. Still, we’re glad they’re coming and we walk jauntily. We may die before the promise is sufficiently fulfilled to tell. What does that matter? The Yanks are coming. We shall not have died in vain. They will reap the peace for the world which our blood has sown. To-night you are in that high mountain place. It’s three in the afternoon with you. I wish I could project myself across the world and stand beside you. Life’s running away and there is so much to do besides killing people. But all those things, however splendid they were in achievement, would be shameful in the attempting until the war is ended. Between writing this I’ve been making out the lines for the guns and running out to fire them—so forgive anything that is disjointed. LXV France July 29, 1918 I have just had a very large batch of letters to read. I feel simply overwhelmed with people’s affection. I have to spend every moment of my leisure keeping up with my mighty correspondence. The mail very rarely brings me a bag which is totally empty. The American Red Cross in Paris keeps me in mind continually. I had thirty gramophone records and twelve razors from them the other day, together with a pressing invitation to get a French leave and spend it in Paris. But your letters bulk much larger in numbers than any that I receive from anywhere else. I always leave home-letters to the last—bread and butter first, cake last, is my rule. I must apologize for the slackness of my correspondence for the past few days, but two of them were spent forward while taking part in a raid, and the third at the observing post. It rained pretty nearly all the time and sleep was not plentiful. Yesterday I spent in “pounding my ear” for hours; to-day I’m as fresh as a daisy and writing reams to you to make up for lost time.