Since I talked of its being quiet, the Huns have started their little game (so cheerful for the bowler!) of pelting us with trench-mortars—and it is just about time our artillery got onto them. These mortars they bring up into the first line trenches and so range at about 200 yards—imagine the size of the projectile. Now I hope this letter hasn’t too much ‘frightfulness’ in it—It may interest you and any aunts or ‘droppers in’ there may be! The C.O. (Jones) is coming along—he is a calm one—one of those trench m’s burst just behind him just now: their effect, of course, is very local. Just at the end of my stretch of trench are the old emplacements where the Canadians lost and retook their guns. Truly a historic piece of ground this—This is the very trench from which the French ran when first the Gas was employed—that is why there is such an enormous amount of equipment and hundreds of broken French rifles lying about.—The Germans have been in it also, so there will be some pretty times when the ghosts of this place have a look in later on! Outside our booby-hutch there is a topping little look-out place from which on sunny mornings I try my luck with a rifle—I made Fritz keep his head down this morning alright! Ah! the French have got at them with shrapnel—that will help matters—(you must excuse these little side-allusions—a little hard to keep my attention fixed you know!). Ah! Boom—Boom—Boom—the guns are waking up all along—now things will probably keep alive until sundown when night will come on, each side will send out its listening-posts, there will be a big exchange of[33] rifle-fire (there always is about 8 P.M.—9 P.M. when we ‘stand to’), and another day of this extraordinary existence both sides are leading will be over. I could rattle on like this for pages—but have run short of paper (send me out a big block). So toodle-oo pip! pip!! Love to you all. Ever your own loving son, Oscar. (Letter going to Masongill today). Another ‘scrap of paper’ for you to digest! Rather a droll thing was told me yesterday by one of the Lancashire Fusiliers (our Brigade)—he was taking a wounded Tommy down the communication trenches—shot in the leg—and could only carry him by throwing him across his shoulder—legs dangling in front. During the way down the unfortunate Tommy got another one through the head—and when he got him to the dressing-station he was cursed by the doctor who said he had enough cases to deal with as it was and could do without dead men—at which our Lancs hero cried ‘The —— liar! he told me he was hit in the leg!’ Somebody sent me a little book called ‘Aunt Sarah and the War’ the other day. Many thanks and jolly good—whoever it was! Send me the ‘Times’ every now and again—will you? Must have another ‘go’ at Fritz—so once more ‘So long!’—when I am putting out barbed-wire tonight I shall remember R.K’s ‘I wish me mother could see me now with a fence-post under me arm!’