Amarah.
December 26, 1915.
To N.B.
Christmas and submarines have made the mails very late and we have again been nearly a fortnight without any.
We have got our orders to move and so I look forward to a fairly prolonged period of trekking, during which it will hardly be possible to do more than write odd postcards and occasional short letters; but I will write when I can. We start in two or three days time.
I expect my leg will be all right for marching. When I heard we were moving, I went to the hospital to consult the chief M.O. there about it. He examined both my legs gravely and then firmly grasping the sound one pronounced that it had still an excess of fluid in it: which I take to be a sincere though indirect tribute to the subsidence of the fluid in the crocked one. He proceeded to prescribe an exactly reverse treatment to that recommended by the other M.O., which had the advantage of giving me official sanction for pretty well anything I chose to do or not do. The upshot of it was that I decided to test the old leg for myself to determine whether it was fit for marching or not. So I began with a six mile walk on Friday, shooting: and found that my graceful limb did not impede my progress nor develop into any graver symptoms. I was more tired than I should have been a month ago, but that was natural. Yesterday was monopolised by Christmas functions; to-day I mean to try eight or nine miles, and ten or twelve to-morrow. If the thing is going to crock it had better do it before I start: but it shows no sign of it.
The latest way of indicating latitude and longitude is like a date, e.g. 32.25/44/10: you can take the N. and E. for granted.
It has most tactlessly begun to rain again to-day, and with an E. wind it may continue, which will mean a vile slime for marching.
The Christmas sports were really great fun: one of them—one-minute impromptu speeches—would make quite a good house-party game.