le front used to be, for two and a half
years, before the Boches withdrew to their Hindenburg line. This
section of ground is miles from the present front line, in fact
you can only hear the guns rumbling in the distance. This whole
countryside is a ruined waste--villages destroyed, weeds
overgrowing everything; and no inhabitants except troops. It was
strange to walk over the old trench systems and the broad green
band between them (still thickly strewn with barbed wire) that
used to be No Man's Land. One thought of the Englishmen,
Frenchmen and Germans who sat for so long in those trenches,
peering at each other furtively from time to time, each doing all
he could to kill the enemy, and from time to time raiding one
another's lines. I examined the deep, well-ordered Boche
trenches. All dug-outs and practically everything of military
value they had destroyed prior to their departure, but a few
concrete and steel emplacements and snipers' posts still
remained--beautifully made and all in commanding positions. The
destruction of the villages, farms and lands by the Germans on
their retirement was absolutely systematic--not a house or a
structure of any kind left standing. This area depressed one much
more than the ordinary zone near the lines, because it was all so
deathly empty and so weirdly silent, like the ghost of some
prehistoric world. Up in the battle line you have at any rate
life and activity--but here nothing at all, simply destruction
and a silent desert. I noticed in this area a French Military
Cemetery with names dating back to 1914!

I am keeping splendidly well and am absolutely happy. By far the
happiest time of my life since leaving school has been the past
six months. My brother officers are a grand lot of fellows. Our
own section of the Company is commanded by a young captain with
the M.C., who has spent most of his life in the Colonies--a
first-rate man he is. There are four other officers besides
myself, all of them splendid comrades, especially one who was
along with me in the old days back in April and whom I am proud
to consider a bosom pal--a little Irishman, called O'Connor. He
and I and poor old Jock Tarbet had always been the greatest of
friends since my arrival in the Company. Alas! there are now only
two of