"I want to go home, I want to go home, The Johnsons and shrapnel they whistle and roar; I don't want to go to the trenches no more. I want to go home, Where the Allemands can't get at me, Oh my! I don't want to die; I want to go home. "You'd better not show this to that German or else he'll believe we _mean_ it as well as sing it. We have a rare lot of ditties. We often sing across--'Has anyone seen a German Band,' or 'I want my Fritz to play twiddly bits on his old trombone.' We really have a good bit of fun at times; other days are--crudely, but truthfully putting it--'Hell.' The first month I had out here was such. You heard of Hill 60 back last April, and the second battle of Calais. It was during that time that I lost my friend, with whom I joined. Since we were thirteen years old we've been inseparable. Only 40 per cent. of the draft I was on are left, and in my pocket I have a long list of chums whom I shall never see again in this world. It seems wonderful to me that I should be spared whilst so many better men go. Naturally I am thankful, especially for mother's sake, that I have escaped so far. Only once during the eight months out here have I been more than ten miles from the firing line, and ten miles is nothing to a gun. "Well, now I must knock off for dinner, the variety of which never changes. You've heard of 'Stew, stew, glorious stew'; perhaps, however, beer was the subject then. Well, I'll resume at the first possible moment; for, in the Army, what you don't go and fetch you never see, and then again, first come first served, last man the grouts." * * * * * "Here we are again; I was last for dinner, but didn't do badly by reason of it. I am writing this at a house which our Chaplain has put at our disposal. It's quite a treat to sit on a chair and write at a table, after sitting on the ground with knees up and a bad light.