I haven’t seen a paper for nearly a fortnight, so don’t know what news of the Front has been published and can risk telling you nothing. Suffice it to say that I’m having the most choice experience that I’ve had since I took up soldiering. We are winged persons—the body is nothing; to use Homer’s phrase, “our souls rush out before us.” This is the top-notch of life; there was nothing like it before in all the ages. We triumph; we each individually contribute to the triumph, and, though our bodies are tired, our hearts are elated. We’ll win the war for you and bring peace back; even the most dreary pessimist must believe that now. I try to keep notes of the tremendous tragedies and glories which I witness hour by hour, so that one day I can paint the picture for you as it happened. All day I am reminded of that motto of the Gesta Romanorum, “What I spent, I had; what I saved, I lost; what I gave, I have.” So many men have given in this war—given in the sense of giving all. I think it must be true of them wherever they are now, that they have in proportion to their sacrifice. It should be written on the white crosses above all our soldiers, “What He Gave, He Has.” What we are trying to give is heaven to the world; it is just that those who fall should receive heaven in return. LXVIII France August 14, 1918 I am writing to you in a lull—I may not have another opportunity for days. In a battle one has no transport for conveying letters—only for ammunition, wounded, and supplies. I’m stunningly well and bronzed. The weather is royal and tropical and, best of all, the Hun’s tail is down while ours is pointing heavenwards. One of my gunners was complaining this morning that it was “a hell of a war.” It was the smell of dead cavalry horses that nauseated him. Another gunner cheered him up, “Where’s the use of complaining, Bill? It’s the only war we have.” That’s the spirit of our men. It may be a hell of a war, but it’s the only one we have, so we may as well grin and make the best of it. In the past few days I have seen more than in all my former experience. I can visualize Waterloo now—and the last trump: the hosts of death deploying before my eyes. That one still walks the earth seems wonderful. God is very lenient. But there is nothing to fear in death—only the thing that is left is horrible—and how horrible! But the things that are left are not us—we have pushed onwards to God. LXIX France August 15, 1918 I keep on dropping you little notes to let you know that everything is all right with me. It makes me very happy to hear from you; it always does, but more so than ever nowadays. You remember R.? A few days ago he was killed. He was just ahead of me, riding up the road. I did not see his face, but recognized his square-set figure and divisional patches. He’s not had much of a run for his money, poor chap. It was his first show, but he died game.