You’ll be sorry to hear that a favourite little chap of mine has been seriously wounded and may be dead by now. A year ago, at the Vimy show, he did yeoman service, and I got him recommended for the Military Medal. He was my runner on the famous day. He’s been in all sorts of attacks for over three years, and at last a stray shell got him. It burst about ten feet away, wounding him in the head, arm, and knee, besides nearly cutting off a great toe. His name was Joy. He lived up to his name, and was carried out on the stretcher grim, but bravely smiling. You can’t dodge your fate; it searches you out. You wonder—not fearfully, but curiously—whose turn it will be next. For yourself you don’t much care; your regrets are for the others who are left. Still, don’t you think that I’m going west, I have an instinct that I shall last to the end. I think I mentioned the pathetic note of the mess cook, which I found awaiting me one morning on the breakfast table: “I kan’t cock without stuf to cock with.” The history of our experiments in cooks would make a novel in itself. The man before the pathetic beggar was a miner in peace times; as a cook his meals were like charges of dynamite—they blasted our insides. The worst of them was that they were so deceptive, they looked innocent enough till it was too late to refuse them. You may lay it down as final that all cooks are the dirtiest men in any unit. The gentleman who couldn’t “cock” earned for himself the title of the “World’s Champion Long Distance Dirt Accumulator.” I was present when the O.C. discharged him. He sent for the man, and was stooping forward, doing up his boot, when he entered. The man looked like the wrath of God—as though he had been embracing all the denizens of Hell. Without looking up the O.C. commenced, “Where did you learn to prepare all these tasty meals you’ve been serving us?” “I kan’t cock without——” “I know you can’t cock,” said the O.C. tartly; “you can’t even keep yourself clean. All you know how to do is to waste good food. I’m sending you down to the wagon-lines, and if you’re not washed by guard-mounting, I’ve given orders to have you thrown into the horse-trough.” Exit the “cock.” Your letters mean so much to me. I feel that my returns are totally inadequate. Good-bye; some great news has come in and the major wants to discuss it. LXVI France July 30,1918 I’m writing to you to-day, because I may be out of touch for a few days, as it looks as though I was going to get my desire—the thing I came back for. Any time if my letters stop temporarily, don’t get nervous. Such things happen when one is on active service.