ld watch his every move?

As the days went by and real training began, with French officers working
them hard until they were ready to drop at night, gradually Cameron grew
stolid. It seemed sometimes as if he had always been here, splashing
along in the mud, soaked with rain, sleeping in muck at night, never
quite dry, never free from cold and discomfort, never quite clean, always
training, the boom of the battle afar, but never getting there. Where was
the front? Why didn't they get there and fight and get done with it all?

The rain poured down, day after day. Ammunition trains rolled by. More
men marched in, more marched on, still they trained. It seemed eons since
he had bade Ruth and his mother good-bye that night at the camp. No mail
had come. Oh, if he could just hear a word from home! If he only had her
picture! They had taken some together at camp and she had promised to
have them developed and send them, but they would probably never reach
him. And it were better if they did not. Wainwright was censor. If he
recognized the writing nothing would ever reach him he was sure. Still,
Wainwright had nothing to do with the incoming mail, only the outgoing.
Well, Wainwright should never censor his letters. He would find a way to
get letters out that Wainwright had never censored, or he would never
send any.

But the days dragged by in rain and mud and discouragement, and no
letters came. Once or twice he attempted to write a respectable letter to
his mother, but he felt so hampered with the thought of Wainwright having
to see it that he kept it securely in his pocket, and contented himself
with gay-pictured postcards which he had purchased in Brest, on which he
inscribed a few non-committal sentences, always reminding them of the
censor, and his inability to say what he would, and always ending,
"Remember me to my friend, and tell her I have forgotten nothing but
cannot write at present for reasons which I cannot explain."

At night he lay on his watery couch and composed long letters to Ruth
which he dared not put on paper lest somehow they should come into the
hands of Wainwright. He took great satisfaction in the fact that he had
succeeded in slipping through a post card addressed to herself from
Brest, through the kindness and understanding of a small boy who agreed
to mail it in exchange for a package of chewing gum. Here at the camp
there was no such opportunity, but he would wait and watch for another
chanc