Last night I was out on a working party—a moonlight night with sleet falling, and did not get back till past two. The first thing my flash-light fell on as I entered my dug-out was a pile of letters from home. At past 3 a.m. I was still reading them, when H. and B. woke up and asked if there was anything for them. There was. So there we were all lying in our bunks and reading our love-letters till nearly 4 a.m.
Yesterday I had a very exciting time. I was doing some reconnoitring along the front when a bullet whizzed by and almost scorched the ear of my sergeant. We hopped into a trench about two feet full of water. But whenever we showed ourselves the sniping started up again. At last we got tired of wading, so climbed out and made a dash across the open. None of us was caught, but by pure bad luck another sergeant of mine, who was waiting quite 300 yards away, got it in the back. He was a big, heavy chap, and we had quite a slippery time carrying him out on a stretcher to the dressing-station. That's the second N.C.O. who's been hit with me in the last ten days. The other chap got it in his side.
Either of these wounds would have been nice to get for anyone who wanted a rest. But I don't want to get out yet; all the really sporting part of this war will be this summer. We are praying that we may come into action at the gallop, “Halt, action front!” bang off our rounds and follow up again.
For some reason, to-day my memory has been full of pictures of that wonderful leave we had together in London. Things have come back that I'd forgotten—visits to theatres, to restaurants, rides in taxis, so many things—all the time there's that extraordinary atmosphere of intense love. I suppose I must have spent the night dreaming of you. Living in the daylight hours in this deep dug-out makes spring seem like winter; I expect that helps me to remember. How I wish I could have those ten days again. Perhaps our next will be in New York, when I come back in khaki for an odd week. The thought of such a happening in the future and the recollection of the meeting that is past are like coming to a fire out of a dark, cold night. This war is so monstrously impersonal; the attachments one forms with those among whom he lives are so few, that the passionately personal affections of the old days shine out like beacon fires. It will be wonderful when the war ends and one can sit still in a great hush.