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This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 80 pages of information about Carry On.

We’re still hard at it and have given up all idea of a rest—­the only way we’ll get one is with a blighty.  You say how often you tell yourselves that the same moon looks down on me; it does, but on a scene how different!  We advance over old battlefields—­everything is blasted.  If you start digging, you turn up what’s left of something human.  If there were any grounds for superstition, surely the places in which I have been should be ghost-haunted.  One never thinks about it.  For myself I have increasingly the feeling that I am protected by your prayers; I tell myself so when I am in danger.

Here I sit in an old sweater and muddy breeches, the very reverse of your picture of a soldier, and I imagine to myself your receipt of this.  Our chief interest is to enquire whether milk, jam and mail have come up from the wagon-lines; it seems a faery-tale that there are places where milk and jam can be had for the buying.  See how simple we become.

Poor little house at Kootenay!  I hate to think of it empty.  We had such good times there twelve months ago.  They have a song here to a nursery rhyme lilt, Apres le Guerre Finis; it goes on to tell of all the good times we’ll have when the war is ended.  Every night I invent a new story of my own celebration of the event, usually, as when I was a kiddie, just before I fall asleep—­only it doesn’t seem possible that the war will ever end.

I hear from the boys very regularly.  There’s just the chance that I may get leave to London in the New Year and meet them before they set out.  I always picture you with your heads high in the air.  I’m glad to think of you as proud because of the pain we’ve made you suffer.

Once again I shall think of you on Papa’s birthday.  I don’t think this will be the saddest he will have to remember.  It might have been if we three boys had still all been with him.  If I were a father, I would prefer at all costs that my sons should be men.  What good comrades we’ve always been, and what long years of happy times we have in memory—­all the way down from a little boy in a sailor-suit to Kootenay!

I fell asleep in the midst of this.  I’ve now got to go out and start the other gun firing.  With very much love.



November 1st, 1916.

My Dearest M.: 

Peace after a storm!  Your letter was not brought up by the water-wagon this evening, but by an orderly—­the mud prevented wheel-traffic.  I was just sitting down to read it when Fritz began to pay us too much attention.  I put down your letter, grabbed my steel helmet, rushed out to see where the shells were falling, and then cleared my men to a safer area. (By the way, did I tell you that I had been made Right Section Commander?) After about half an hour I came back and settled down by a fire made of smashed ammunition boxes in a stove borrowed from a ruined cottage. 

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