points it is very hard to distinguish between them. There is a small stream running between the lines, from which we get some of our water, and in the evening sometimes for 2 or 3 minutes the guns will stop and it will be quiet and country-like except for the ominous ruins dotting the landscape and the flames of —— in the background—where some place has caught alight. There is very little actually to do in the trenches, except sit tight and see that the men do so also. I can’t be bothered to wash or anything like that—though I did have a shave the other day for a wonder! You should see my puttees! and my ‘bags’ are torn to ribbons round the knee——I have just heard a typical type of Tommy ‘wit’ remark ‘Fritz is quiet!’ I have Tommy all round and behind me here—lying in all attitudes in a trench that is not more than 2 ft. wide anywhere! Again—this very moment at a bullet whizzing over I hear ‘Ah! Fritz!!’ Men with such spirit in them as this will go through H—— and come out the other side comfortably! This game of lying low, doubled up in an open trench reminds me so much of Kipling’s ‘Long afternoons of lyin’ still and ’earin’, as you lay, the bullets swish from ’ill to ’ill like Scythes among the ’ay.’ —out of ‘Piet’—I think.... [19] Daddy—your letters are absolute life to me out here. I want to say this, as I want you and Mummy to understand what it feels like to get a letter like I did this morning—or rather last night—just when another day was coming on—it is like whisky to a Scotsman—much more, because it lasts!! I am going to write every day if I possibly can—just a break here and there you must expect. I am writing no other letters at present, and have only had two from anyone else but you—but I really don’t require anything but yours—just a line from either of you. I am feeling as fit as anything—teeth and everything splendid. I’m coated with dirt, but what does that matter? You can look like a scarecrow here for all anyone cares! Things are very quiet this evening—and I think something big must be going on further down the line. You did get that letter which I sent from hospital with the [Daily Mail] map in it—didn’t you? Because that shows you exactly where I am without my saying anything here. The papers should tell you the rest. Well—toodle-oo—do write, won’t you—it is just like as if one was at Eton—letters etc:! Remember ‘always merry and bright!’ Much love to you both—and G.M.[5] Ever yr own loving son, Oscar. (26) May 28th, ’15. 5 P.M.