Must close as the mail is just going out. Best love to all.
Ever your loving son,
Harold.
XXIII.
To his Mother.
No. 1 Squadron, R.N.A.S., B.E.F.
31st March, 1915.
Dearest Mum,
We can hear the guns when the wind is our way, and on a clear day we can see shrapnel bursting in the air. What do you think of this story, the latest from the trenches? It's not quite a drawing-room one!
One Tommy, speaking to another over the trenches:—"Ello, Bill, got a lice over there?" "Garn, we ain't lousy." "I mean a boot-lice."
Love to all.