liol tongue. The flower-girl has died her
death. The Balliol novels have been written--and my first book is this.

We have not even had time to talk it over properly. I saw you on my
week's leave in December, but then I had not thought of making a book.
Finally, after three months in the trenches you came home in August. I
was in Ireland and you in Scotland, so we met at Warrington just after
midnight and proceeded to staggering adventures. Shall we ever forget
that six hours' talk, the mad ride and madder breakfast with old Peter
M'Ginn, the solitary hotel at Manchester and the rare dash to London?
But I didn't tell you much about my book.

It is made up principally of letters to my mother and to you. My mother
showed these letters to Mr Townsend Warner, my old tutor at Harrow, and
he, who was always my godfather in letters, passed them on until they
have appeared in the pages of 'Maga.' I have filled in the gaps these
letters leave with narrative, worked the whole into some sort of
connected account, and added maps and an index.

This book is not a history, a military treatise, an essay, or a scrap of
autobiography. It has no more accuracy or literary merit than letters
usually possess. So I hope you will not judge it too harshly. My only
object is to try and show as truthfully as I can the part played in this
monstrous war by a despatch rider during the months from August 1914 to
February 1915. If that object is gained I am content.

Because it is composed of letters, this book has many faults.

Firstly, I have written a great deal about myself. That is inevitable in
letters. My mother wanted to hear about me and not about those whom she
had never met. So do not think my adventures are unique. I assure you
that if any of the other despatch riders were to publish their letters
you would find mine by comparison mild indeed. If George now could be
persuaded ...!

Secondly, I have dwelt at length upon little personal matters. It may
not interest you to know when I had a pork-chop--though, as you now
realise, on active service a pork-chop is extremely important--but it
interested my mother. She liked to know whether I was having good and
sufficient food, and warm things on my chest and feet, because, after
all, there was a time when I wanted nothing else.

Thirdly, all letters are censored. This book contains nothing but the
truth, but not the whole truth. When I described things that were
actually happening round