I did manage to squeeze a chilly excitement out of going on alone.  Then I bumped up against a fat German officer and his revolver.  That really was an exquisite moment, and I was beast enough to be glad I had it all to myself.  It meant a bag of fifteen prisoners—­all my own.  But that was nothing; they’d have surrendered to a mouse.  There was no reason why they shouldn’t, because I’d fired first and there was no more officer to play up to.

But the things you don’t do by yourself are a long way the best.  Nothing—­not even poetry—­can beat an infantry charge when you’re leading it.  That’s because of your men.  It feels as if you were drawing them all up after you.  Of course you aren’t.  They’re coming on their own, and you’re simply nothing, only a little unimportant part of them—­even when you’re feeling as if you were God Almighty.

I’m afraid it does look awfully as if young Vereker were killed.  They may hear, you know, in some roundabout way—­through the Red Cross, or some of his men.  I’ve written to them.

Love to everybody.  Certainly you may kiss Nanna for me, if she’d like it.  I wish I liked Waddy more—­when you’ve given him to me.—­Always your affectionate,

     MICHAEL.

P.S.—­I don’t sound pleased about the publication; but I am.  I can’t get over their wanting to do it.  I thought they didn’t care.

Ronny—­I’ve been such a beast to them—­when Father tried to read my stuff—­bless him!—­and couldn’t, I used to wish to God he’d leave it alone.  And now I’d give anything to see his dear old paws hanging on to it and twitching with fright, and his eyes slewing round to see if I’m looking at him.

          June 14th, 1916. 
     B.E.F., FRANCE.

MY DEAR RONNY,—­I’m glad you like them, and I’m glad Father thinks he “understands Michael’s poems” this time, and I’m glad they’ve made Mother and Dorothy feel happier about me—­BUT—­they must get it out of their heads that they’re my “message,” or any putrescent thing of that sort.  The bare idea of writing a message, or of being supposed to write a message, makes me sick.  I know it’s beastly of me, but, really I’d rather they weren’t published at all, if there’s the smallest chance of their being taken that way.

But if Ellis is doing the introduction there isn’t the smallest chance.  Thank God for Ellis.

There—­I’ve let off all my beastliness.

And now I’ll try to answer your letter.  Yes; the “ecstasy” in the last two poems is Nicky’s ecstasy.  And as Ellis says it strikes him as absolutely real, I take it that some of Nicky’s “reality” has got through.  It’s hard on Ellis that he has to take his ecstasy from me, instead of coming out and getting it for himself.