Then come some French picture post-cards.  Most of these present soldiers—­soldiers posing, soldiers exchanging international handgrips, soldiers grouped round a massive and decolletee lady in flowing robes, and declaring that La patrie sera libre! Underneath this last, Private Ogg has written:  “Dear Lizzie,—­I hope this finds you well as it leaves me so.  I send you a French p.c.  The writing means long live the Queen of France.”

The next heap consists of letters in official-looking green envelopes.  These are already sealed up, and the sender has signed the following attestation, printed on the flap:  I certify on my honour that the contents of this envelope refer to nothing but private and family matters. Setting aside a rather bulky epistle addressed to The Editor of a popular London weekly, which advertises a circulation of over a million copies—­a singularly unsuitable recipient for correspondence of a private and family nature—­Bobby turns to the third heap, and sets to work upon his daily task of detecting items of information, “which if intercepted or published might prove of value to the enemy.”

It is not a pleasant task to pry into another person’s correspondence, but Bobby’s scruples are considerably abated by the consciousness that on this occasion he is doing so with the writer’s full knowledge.  Consequently it is a clear case of caveat scriptor.  Not that Bobby’s flock show any embarrassment at the prospect of his scrutiny.  Most of them write with the utmost frankness, whether they are conducting a love affair, or are involved in a domestic broil of the most personal nature.  In fact, they seem rather to enjoy having an official audience.  Others cheerfully avail themselves of this opportunity of conveying advice or reproof to those above them, by means of what the Royal Artillery call “indirect fire.”  Private Dunshie remarks:  “We have been getting no pay these three weeks, but I doubt the officer will know what has become of the money.”  It is the firm conviction of every private soldier in “K(1)” that all fines and deductions go straight into the pocket of the officer who levies them.  Private Hogg, always an optimist, opines:  “The officers should know better how to treat us now, for they all get a read of our letters.”

But, as recorded above, the outstanding feature of this correspondence is an engaging frankness.  For instance, Private Cosh, who under an undemonstrative, not to say wooden, exterior evidently conceals a heart as inflammable as flannelette, is conducting single-handed no less than four parallel love affairs.  One lady resides in his native Coatbridge, the second is in service in South Kensington, the third serves in a shop in Kelvinside, and the fourth moth appears to have been attracted to this most unlikely candle during our sojourn in winter billets in Hampshire.  Cosh writes to them all most ardently every week—­sometimes oftener—­and Bobby Little, as he ploughs wearily through repeated demands for photographs, and touching protestations of lifelong affection, curses the verbose and susceptible youth with all his heart.