n to us, and others are going
to relieve them. So the arrangements and correspondence are vast. All
the billeting of this town is pushed on to my hands, too; and though
it's only a small village, there's a good lot to do. I can't collect any
thoughts to write to you. You understand, I know, and so I needn't say
more. I'll write again at length when things settle down. This sounds
muddled. But I count on your understanding that I've got more work to do
than I can manage.

_November 16._

[Sidenote: THE OTHER SQUADRONS ARRIVE]

To-day, by some amazing fluke, there's a lull. One squadron has gone.
Sir John is on his way down. Julian starts early next week, and Gerald a
few days later. So within a fortnight we shall all be together. Which
will be good.

Some infantry came in from the line to-day. Oh ye gods! the British
infantry! No rewards, honours, no fame, can ever be enough for them. We
have not yet gone through what they have to go through, but we have been
in and out amongst them all the time, and we know. Thank goodness this
spell of dry weather seems to have come for a few days at least. Cold at
night is nothing. It's wet at night that just kills men right and left.
Alan died yesterday morning. Died of exposure. He caught a chill while
we were up in front, and then got much worse, and it finally developed
into peritonitis and pneumonia. And now he, too, is dead. We were all
very fond of Alan.

Death is such a little thing. A change of air--no more. Death is the
last day of Term, the last day of the Year. Regret? That's because we
don't understand, quite.

_November 17._

I sent you off another beastly little scrap of paper to-day, because it
was impossible to write more. Here (7 p.m.) is another moment, so I
snatch it.

Listen. Of course it is true that leave has been cancelled, but we hear
(Rumour) that this is only for a few days owing to submarines. _If_
leave reopens again, as seems likely therefore, I go next. I shall have
to hand over Orderly Room and all current correspondence, etc. That
means, with luck, I leave here on the 2nd. Don't, of course, count on
this; but let's toy with the idea.

_November 23._

I am sitting in the sun, having read your letter. The valley of the ----
is below me, a mile wide, all reed-beds and half submerged willows, with
the main stream lying like a blue snake amongst pale acres of sedge.

Damn! I was going to write a long and cosy letter, but was called back