I had to wake my batman and tramp
about a mile to the billet; by the time I got there every one was
asleep, so I spread out my sleeping-sack and crept in very quietly. For
the few minutes before my eyes closed I pictured London, the taxis, the
gay parties, the mystery of lights. I was roused this morning with the
news that I had to go up to the gun-position at once. I stole just
sufficient time to pick up a part of my accumulated mail, then got on my
horse and set out. At the guns, I found that I was due to report as
liaison officer, so here I am in the trenches again writing to you by
candle-light. How wonderfully we have bridged the distance in spending
those nine whole days together. And now it is over, and I am back in the
trenches, and to-morrow you're sailing for New York.

I can't tell you what the respite has meant to me. There have been times
when my whole past life has seemed a myth and the future an endless
prospect of carrying on. Now I can distantly hope that the old days will
return.

When I was in London half my mind was at the Front; now that I'm back in
the trenches half my mind is in London. I re-live our gay times
together; I go to cosy little dinners; I sit with you in the stalls,
listening to the music; then I tumble off to sleep, and dream, and wake
up to find the dream a delusion. It's a fine and manly contrast,
however, between the game one plays out here and the fretful
trivialities of civilian life.

XLI

January 27th.

I got as far as this and then "something" happened. Twenty-four hours
have gone by and once more it's nearly midnight and I write to you by
candle-light. Since last night I've been with these infantry
boy-officers who are doing such great work in such a careless spirit of
jolliness. Any softness which had crept into me during my nine days of
happiness has gone. I'm glad to be out here and wouldn't wish to be
anywhere else till the war is ended.

It's a week to-day since we were at _Charlie's Aunt_--such a cheerful
little party! I expect the boys are doing their share of remembering too
somewhere on the sea at present. I know you are, as you round the coast
of Ireland and set out for the Atlantic.

I've not been out of my clothes for three days and I've another day to
go yet. I brought my haversack into the trenches with me; on opening it
I found that some kind hands had slipped into it some clean socks and a
bottle of Horlick's Malted Milk tablets.

The signa