There is a farm house—quite demolished—just at the end of my trench and one has to run the gauntlet to get there across the road and get bricks, wood etc: for the trench. You may say ‘where am I sitting writing this?’ Well, I am in an improvised ‘dug out’ 6 ft. long by 2 ft. broad—covered over with corrugated-iron. Very muddy and all that—but still a shelter. All night I am working at digging the trenches and ‘dug outs’—seeing to the barbed-wire in front of us—and getting provisions from the H.Q’s behind our line. In fact we get everything ready at night—either for an attack in the morning or protection from shell and rifle fire during the day. We get more shelled in the 2nd line than the 1st—so that we should not send help up to the 1st line. Of course, in case the 1st line of trenches are stormed or ‘gassed,’ I act entirely on my own in sending up assistance to them. There is no evidence of their having a heavy time in front at present though. We have an infernal sniper who has got behind our lines and is firing down the trench from one end—we shall have to fix him somehow, I’m thinking. It is a perfectly heavenly evening—birds singing and country looking pretty in spite of the ruins with which it is dotted. The whole thing seems more absurd[13] and unreal than ever to me now that I am in the thick of it. To think that this terrific din is going on incessantly down 400 miles of line is extraordinary. My word—my dear Mummy—you should see me now—my coat and breeches!! After splashing about on all fours round the country-side last night I am some sight! The left knee of my bags is ripped across and I am coated with clay. Once we get these trenches fixed up—with dug-outs etc: the shelling won’t be so bad and we shall be a good deal more comfortable. Well, my dears, I am longing for a letter—but am as happy as a lark—because I know that although this is hard to stick at first—there are millions of others sticking it too—and I can only liken it to ‘putting your left leg to the ball’ at cricket, as W. H. C. used to say. Write as much as possible—Love to all. Ever yr own loving son, Oscar. (This will go up tonight by transport—and I hope reach you soon.) (24) 2 P.M. May 25, ’15.