MY DEAR JERRY,--No doubt you think from the light-hearted tone of my last letter that life here is a bed of roses. In reality we have our flies in the ointment--nay, our shirt-buttons in the soup. The chief of the flies is artillery, both our own and that of the people opposite; and the worst of the shirt-buttons is jam. It sounds strange, but it is true. There was a time in the olden days when we welcomed gunner-officers, but those days are unhappily past since we met Major Jones. Learn then the perfidy of the Major and _ex uno disce, omnes_. I had a nice little 'ouse up in the front line, well hidden by trees. It wasn't a _h_ouse, Jerry, I wish you to understand; it was merely a little 'ouse standing in its own grounds like, with a brace or so of chickens and a few mangel-wurzels a-climbin' round the place. You know what it's like. Well, Major Jones, who had been my guest several times in this little 'ouse of mine, came round a few days ago with a worried look and an orderly. "I want you to come and look at my telephone," he said hurriedly. "What is it? Is anything wrong?" I asked sympathetically. "I fear the worst. Something terrible may happen in five minutes," he replied darkly. I gripped his hand silently, and he returned the pressure with emotion. In silence we walked the two hundred yards which lay between my place and his observation post, and I watched while his orderly got busy with the telephone. "Is Number One gun ready?" demanded the Major. It appeared that Number One was itching to be at it. "Fire!" said the Major. "Fire!" said the orderly. A moment later there was a terrific explosion. "Number One fired, Sir," observed the orderly. "It is well you told us," I said sweetly, "otherwise I could never have believed it." But the Major heeded me not. He was staring over my shoulder. "Good shot, by Jove!" he yelled. "A perfect beauty! Holed out in one!" I turned to see what had caused his sudden joy. But where was my little 'ouse? Had _it_ suddenly turned into that nasty cloud of dust? Even as I looked my water-bucket reached the ground again. "Awfully sorry, old man," said the Major, with a ghastly, pretence of sympathy. "You see it was in our way." I brushed aside his proffered hand (rather good that, Jerry. Let's have it again. I say I brushed aside his proffered hand), and strode back dismally to what had once been my home from home. Now I live in a little dug-out beneath the ground, chickenless and mangel-wurzelless, awaiting with resignation the day when the Sappers shall find that I am in _their_ way and blow me up. Another little game of the gunners is called "Artillery Duels."