My men are cleaning their rifles and there is one of our aeroplanes doing good business overhead—a little sniping—not much. I think it is time I sent over a few more rifle-grenades—We’ve got a machine that puts them in accurately to a yard and they do a lot of damage. It will stay quiet until about 8 P.M. when there will be ‘wind up’ for 2 hours—heavy rifle fire on both sides—then fairly quiet for rest of night unless we drop bombs on them like we did last night. Then Fritz gets in such a funk that he shoots off wildly in all directions except the right one! I must agree with him—it is a nasty thing to be bombarded by an unseen and unlocated enemy in the shape of me or one of my men. We only gave them 3 last night though—rather a wash-out. The wily dogs spotted a stack of rubbish-straw etc: in the Estaminet last evening and sent across flares to set it on fire. They succeeded in doing so, but we[8] put earth and water on it before daylight today: so again it was Checkmate to Fritz—The ‘Jocks’ took a section of their opposing trenches yesterday—I wish we could rush these ugly sandbags in front of us—but I fear there is no such luck. [54] —— is a funny card—he comes tearing down here with drops of perspiration streaming off his long nose, speaking at a terrific rate and expecting you to take it all down verbatim—then whisks off again.—de la Mare comes across him more than I of course—The rest of my conversation with Clarke was strictly ‘business’ just now! Much love— Yr loving son Oscar. N.B. I had a letter from Crump’s father in answer to mine—for of course I wrote about him—I think it bucked them up ‘some’ to hear from me. O. If some of the letters are more letter-like than these, surely none are more like the boy himself! It was Oscar talking to us from his trench, talking harder than ever while there was time, telling us all manner of things in each eager breath! And I was to have talked back next night; there were one or two things I was looking forward to telling him. First, how his nine-and-a-half-months-old Commission had only just arrived in all its documentary glory; and how it began with the King’s greeting, ‘To our Trusty and well beloved Arthur Oscar Hornung’! Then I had to tell him how I had just been to tea in the room where ‘Vanity Fair’ was written,[55] after pointing out the house to people for twenty years, as one that I never expected to have the joy of entering. It was a last joy. Within the hour came the telegram to say that Oscar had been killed in action on July 6. [56] III