I’m wearing your mittens and find them a great comfort.  I’ll look forward to some more of your socks—­I can do with plenty of them.  If any of your friends are making things for soldiers, I wish you’d get them to send them to this battery, as they would be gratefully accepted by the men.

I wish I could come to The Music Master with you.  I wonder how long till we do all those intimately family things together again.

Good-bye, my dearest M. I live for home letters and am rarely disappointed.

God bless you, and love to you all.

                   Yours ever,
                                   CON.

XXVI

November 4th, 1916.

My Dearest Mother: 

This morning I was wakened up in the gunpit where I was sleeping by the arrival of the most wonderful parcel of mail.  It was really a kind of Christmas morning for me.  My servant had lit a fire in a punctured petrol can and the place looked very cheery.  First of all entered an enormous affair, which turned out to be a stove which C. had sent.  Then there was a sand-bag containing all your gifts.  You may bet I made for that first, and as each knot was undone remembered the loving hands that had done it up.  I am now going up to a twenty-four-hour shift of observing, and shall take up the malted milk and some blocks of chocolate for a hot drink.  It somehow makes you seem very near to me to receive things packed with your hands.  When I go forward I shall also take candles and a copy of Anne Veronica with me, so that if I get a chance I can forget time.

Always when I write to you odds and ends come to mind, smacking of local colour.  After an attack some months ago I met a solitary private wandering across a shell-torn field, I watched him and thought something was wrong by the aimlessness of his progress.  When I spoke to him, he looked at me mistily and said, “Dead men.  Moonlit road.”  He kept on repeating the phrase, and it was all that one could get out of him.  Probably the dead men and the moonlit road were the last sights he had seen before he went insane.

Another touching thing happened two days ago.  A Major turned up who had travelled fifty miles by motor lorries and any conveyance he could pick up on the road.  He had left his unit to come to have a glimpse of our front-line trench where his son was buried.  The boy had died there some days ago in going over the parapet.  I persuaded him that he ought not to go alone, and that in any case it wasn’t a healthy spot.  At last he consented to let me take him to a point from which he could see the ground over which his son had attacked and led his men.  The sun was sinking behind us.  He stood there very straightly, peering through my glasses—­and then forgot all about me and began speaking to his son in childish love-words.  “Gone West,” they call dying out here—­we rarely say that a man is dead.  I found out afterwards that it was the boy’s mother the Major was thinking of when he pledged himself to visit the grave in the front-line.