This is the outline of any trench, German, French or English, so there is no harm in showing you. Now these trenches are all broken down and in a filthy mess, and we are building them up as quick as we can. The French seem to have had no idea of trench-work. My platoon occupies about 25 yards of trench, but it is very small—only 32 all told. Night and day we work—only allowing a certain portion to be at work at one time, and having another certain portion told off for sentry duty. I have been studying the German trenches (150 yards off now) this morning with my glasses (Uncle Charlie’s) and see they are hard at work on theirs also. And so there you have us—a picture—two parties—150 yards apart—both digging[31] for all they are worth and picking each other off at every opportunity—both entirely at the mercy of the other’s artillery—both having their letters from home and national papers urging them (if anything ever did) to do great things. This strikes me forcibly this morning—quiet for the last hour as your study itself—and isn’t it an absolutely unique situation? There are many brave men over yonder just longing for a ‘scrap’ like we are—perhaps they haven’t quite got our spirit, but still your Bosch is no weakling. And this situation exists, with few exceptions (I mean hand to hand struggles) for 400 miles of frontage! Of course these are all truisms—but—dash it! do the people in England realize that if that 150 yards was taken and a few more miles were rushed after that by our friends across the way—anything might happen. Of course this is all ‘supposing’—but—what a pity we aren’t fighting this war on the borders of Scotland! No—the Germans will never break our line, but neither have we broken theirs and people seem to think that that is a foregone conclusion. However Italy, as you say, will put matters on a more promising footing. Last night I had to post a listening-patrol from my platoon out in front. It was a pitch dark night, so I had a roam round (safe as houses at night)—I got quite close to old man Fritz and only retreated quickly because I came across the remains of a struggle between French and German—not very enticing. The men I took out with me lay down (they are old hands at the game) close to the ground amongst the clover, which abounds here and affords excellent cover—and closer still when they sent their infernal lights up which give everyone away for a long way round. It is exciting, in a mild form, out in front, as the Germans are just over the lip of the hill and can creep up their side and put out their patrols so that you have two little parties[32] listening for each other’s movements at only about 30 yards distance. I thought I had been and gone and done it when I saw something jolly like a man in the grass. It was a dead ‘Froggie’—that was all!