Can you picture me in a little narrow, gravelike hole, writing this—and guns firing behind me and Hun shrapnel whining and bursting with a ping just outside? That's the doings just now. Fritz is being real nasty.
You just live on chance at this game. One gets callous—only thoughts of home annoy a bit. One fellow got killed early this morning. It was hard lines. Fritz was pushing the shell over; it was black and wet, only gun flashes giving light now and again, leaving it blacker than before. (Things are rotten in the night!) One came very near to where they were unloading shell. He made a dive for an old trench: just then another burst. He copped it when he had only a yard to go. Another second would have done it. It's all luck. I was at the cook house to-night; I left just a bit before. I said to a fellow, "Are you going up to the guns?" He said, "No." So I pushed off on my own.
Still that's only stray shooting, nothing to what we give Fritz. He must have hell in his lines. He's getting what the British once got, only more so. He didn't have to fight then, he merely walked over. Now he gets as good as he gives, and he don't like it. You never saw such a weary, scared-looking crowd in your natural as the mob that came in from the latest push. I was sorry for the boys—some looked only 15 years old. They were mixed with big, sour, dour, square-head swine. We are looking forward to giving them another dig soon.
The men are not commenting much on the U. S. A. coming in. They don't comment much on anything, now everybody is in; but it will make a big difference.
It's a very nice war in "Blighty," with nice time, polished buttons and a pair of swanky boots and heaps of glory reflected from the lads out here. But out here—well, a fellow might fight a Hun, but damned if he can fight a shell!
Still, it's marvelous how little notice one can take of them when they're somewhere else, but it don't half buck up one's ideas when they get personal. The soulful Huns usually open up at night time when fellows are trying to forget—shells and guns, lice and biscuits. (Oh, those army biscuits!)
Well, George, this has got to finish. Gas is coming over now in shells, dozens of them; I must put on my mask. The air is growing sweet and sickly. Isn't he a rotter?... All clear again. Jove, he dropped them close! Some experience between those two lines, eh? Hope this finds you in the Pink. Best regards to everybody.
V—STORY OF AN AMERICAN AMBULANCE DRIVER AT BATTLEFRONT
(Told by James M. White—"Somewhere in France")
The thrilling experiences through which drivers for the American Ambulance in France pass are narrated in this letter. Mr. White has been decorated with the Croix de Guerre.