VII
France June 2, 1917
It is 11 a.m., and I'm sitting at the bottom of a dug-out waiting for the Hun to finish his morning hate before I go upstairs. He seems very angry, and has just caved in one of our walls.
Mother seemed most awfully sorry for me in her last letter. But you know I'm really having rather a good time, despite having a minimum amount of washing and having our mess kitchen blown in every few days. The only time that one gets melancholy is when nothing is doing. An attack or the preparations for an attack are real fun. Everybody is on his toes, and there's no time to think.
It's four hours later. Just as I had reached this point news came that some of our chaps were buried, so I had a little brisk spade-work, then a wriggling voyage through a hole, and then a lot of messy work pouring iodine into wounds and binding up. I'm afraid my hands are still rather like a murderer's. Incidentally our kitchen is entirely done for this time. We've got the wounded fellows on their way to Blighty, and are fairly confident that they're not going west this time.
I am so glad that the coming of America into the game has made so much difference to you. I wish I could come back for a fortnight and share the excitement with you. It's difficult to picture New York as a military pageant in khaki. Tell me all about the young fellows I know and what they are doing. I wonder how many are in the Field Artillery—which is about the most interesting part of the game.
You remember that Calvary I told you about. I saw it under another guise after writing. Something happened and, instead of the spring peace, it was a shamble with horses and men dying. In such cases one can't do anything—he has to go on about his own errand.
I'm so very dirty that I'll leave off now while there's a chance to have a wash. I'm awfully muddy, and my hair is just ready for growing potatoes—there's about a pound of the real estate of France in it.