If you see that son of mine, you might give him my love and tell him to get his hair cut. If it hasn't been cut since the photo it must be too long by now--unless it grows backwards: in which case he must have a knot tied in each hair close to his blessed little scalp to prevent it growing in too far and coming out of his chin as whiskers. Will you see to this? I don't want to come back and find my little boy sprouting a beard: he's too young for such things. Please give my love to Mrs. Chapin with this, letter _enclo_. It's a silly sort of letter--a great mistake I know--but--entre nous--(that's French) I'm a silly sort of person and subject to quite idiotic moods when I start thinking about all my darlings at home in England. Bless you all. X--LETTER TO HIS WIFE ON WAR'S HORRORS July 22nd, 1915. DEAREST, I am quite incapable of doing justice to this morning's entertainment. "They" have been shelling the most thickly--and poorly--populated part of this little mining town. Some of us went up into it getting the wounded out. Houses, men, women, and children blown to pieces by huge high explosives--and more shells coming over every few minutes, all within a couple of hundred yards of the hospital. I want to tell you all I see--all that happens to me out here, but I must fail to convey it--and I don't want you quite to share my feelings. Amazing, ironic contrasts abounded: within five minutes of each other came in a self-possessed young woman of about ten to have the remains of her arm cut off--perfectly calm--walked in--never cried or showed the least excitement--_and_ a man of fifty on a stretcher with a mangled leg who roared out in an enormous mad voice for his "Maman" over and over again till he was anæsthetised. Could any creation of the imagination equal this? Or this scene in a squalid kitchen:--a huge woman dead on her face across the threshold, a little child also dead at her feet, the legs of her men folk (husband and son?) straggling across the foot way outside (I am keeping back all the hundreds of horrible details, hard though it may be to believe it) and her remaining daughter a child of about twelve--leaping back and forth over the bodies struggling to get a chain from the neck of the body. "Souvenir!" I tried to get her away--she was half mad--but was assailed fiercely by neighbours on her behalf, who seemed to regard her desire for a memento of her mother under the circumstances, most natural and commendable. While I was being suppressed another shell came over and we went to earth in a heap, the hundred yards away crash bringing down plaster and crockery on to our heads and the flying pieces of "case" buzzing past the windows like enormous bees or small aeroplanes. When they had settled the child returned to the chain--armed now with a carving knife--and I left her to it. XI--LAST LETTER TO HIS SON--AT THE TRENCHES Sept. 18th, 1915.