Never shall I forget the anxious faces which greeted our arrival at the French port. "Nip up to the trenches," said O.C. megaphone, "and save the situation if you can." Up to the trenches we nipped, covering the distance of sixty miles in less than three weeks. There was no doubt about our willingness and ability to do as we were told; our only difficulty was to discover in the dark where the situation was. Never shall I forget the tense strain that first night, my men standing to arms through the long hours, with their rifles pointing into the darkness beyond. But not a shot was fired, and when dawn broke all was well. True, the first light revealed the fact that I had got us all with our backs to the enemy, so that if there had been a battle it would have been between ourselves and Mr. Jones's platoon. But you can't have everything; and sense of direction never was my strong point. Never shall I forget our first breakfast in the trenches. It consisted of bacon and eggs, marmalade and tea. How strange and novel an experience it was to be at war! Never shall I forget.... Now I know there was something else, but there are such a lot of things that I am never going to forget about this War that I cannot be expected to remember them all. It was something about someone not shaving, and being in the rear rank while the front rank was being inspected, and in the front rank while the rear rank was being inspected. It was by such brilliance of strategy as this that I was able to do the Bosch out of that little dinner he meant to have in Paris. It was owing to the same, and to my being overheard to remark that I could run the blessed War by myself better than this, that I was given a pen and a piece of blotting-paper and told to carry on. After which, of course, the wretched Bosch never even got as far as Calais. Truly a remarkable man! But hear the crisis of my career. This letter is written in England. If you would only read your morning paper properly, you would know why. Looking down the Births Column to see if anybody you know has been born, you would have noticed that We, Henry, are the father of a son, a tall, good-looking fellow, who weighs eight, eighteen or eighty pounds (I could not be sure which) and is a man of few words, obviously the strong silent sort.