ity to work is nothing short of marvelous; but for the others, the
animals, their patient slavery is more wonderful, still.

Coming over the ridge tonight I saw the distant hills against the
after-glow of sunset; the moment was quiet, as one often finds it so;
for those few seconds no guns were firing, no shells bursting, and not
even the distant "ping" of a rifle was to be heard. It seemed so
English, just as though we were on one of our September holidays in the
car, looking towards the north hill country that I love so much. Then
suddenly the guns started, and we were at war again. There is one of
those strange feelings of expectation in the air tonight, as though
there were great things pending, and yet all is normal as far as we
know. Who knows, perhaps the end is not as far as we believe. A few
more days of trial and we shall have earned our next rest.

I go to my so-called bed, to try and snatch a few short hours' sleep,
lulled by the music of the guns that have started their nightly hate.

My love to you. Keep smiling.

* * * * * *

Picture if you can a flight of twenty-four steps leading into the
darkness of the underground. At the foot of this a room, if room it
can be called, some thirteen feet by ten by seven high, the walls of
tree trunks and railway sleepers, the roof of corrugated iron resting
on railway lines; from this hang stalactites of rust, and large and
loathsome insects creep about; above lives a colony of rats: such is
our living-room, damp with a dampness that reaches one's bones and
makes all things clammy to the touch. A couple of tables, a chair, and
some boxes, such is our dining-room suite. From this a long, narrow,
low passage leads to the kitchen, signalers' and 'phone room, officers'
bunks and office. By day and night one stumbles among sleeping
soldiers off duty, tired enough to find sleep on the boarded floor. My
bed,--a couple of boards and some sand-bags,--is four feet from the
ground, too narrow for safety, and yet I sleep. Men who previously
grumbled at an eight-hour day, now do eighteen hours for seven days a
week--such is war, and such is the spirit in which they take it.

Outside--or rather up above--a cold drizzle adds to the general
discomfort, "pineapples" drop promiscuously about, but one can hear
them coming, save when barrages are about, and the roar of gun and
bursting shell drowns all else. One nearly got me this morning.