When we entered, the white mists of morning still hung above the common; early risen cocks with their attendant harems were our only welcomers. We had set up our horse-lines and were half way through the grooming before the villagers discovered that old friends were again among them. All day we have been wondering why we have been brought here. A part of the general plan of deception, I suppose—so that the Hun may think, if he hears of our whereabouts, that we’ve simply marched out for manoeuvres as before. All kinds of details confirm our belief that the big push is about to start. A Divisional Staff-car called in at Brigade this noon: the Canadian Maple Leaf and all the usual Divisional marks had been painted out. The patches and shoulder-badges of the car’s occupants had been torn off—nothing was left that would betray the fact that storm-troops are on the march. As yet we have received no orders as to how long we are to stay here—it would be normal to give us a few days’ rest; but none of the kit has been removed from the vehicles—which is significant. We could hook in and be off within the hour. It was announced this morning that no more letters from our Corps would be accepted at the Army Post Office. This is the most certain sign we have had that an attack is going to be pulled off. Letters home are a frequent source of leakage of information. When men know that they are writing what may prove to be their last message to their mothers, wives, sweethearts, it is almost impossible for them to keep that knowledge to themselves. Moreover, we each one have codes, pre-arranged with our correspondents, by means of which we can get forbidden news past the censor—so it’s wise, if harsh, to insist on silence between ourselves and the outside world. The outside world! How little it understands what our lives are like. In the outside world there are standards of freedom and politeness; in all personal matters a man has the power of choice. He is at liberty to make or ruin himself. He washes if he so desires; if he prefers to go dirty, he does not wash. Within reason, as far as is compatible with the earning of his daily bread, he sleeps as long as he wants. To miss one’s night’s rest is to court ill-health. To be verminous is to fall into the category of the slum-dweller; to go hungry is well-nigh impossible. To lay down one’s life for somebody else is exceptional and martyr like. To become a criminal is a really difficult affair.