How maddening it is for poor old Tom!  It’s most damnable hard luck being kept there without leave such a long time.  And I expect that he also has rather lost interest.  At first the men were a great source of interest, and the horses and everything.  Then France and the front were very interesting.  Lastly, being under fire was very interesting.  But now that we are back in Rest, I begin to feel I shall be rather sorry to go through it again.  And Tom has had so much of it.  Yes, he ought to come home.

The cottage people here have those lovely pale salmon winter chrysanthemums in their gardens.  Don’t you like them?

Since we arrived in this wee village a week ago, I haven’t been on a horse once, and have never seen anything outside the village itself, which consists of one street and a side-lane.

November 14.

I wasn’t able to write yesterday, and there may be several blank days to come.

Roger is temporarily away, and I am in charge.  The thing that’s happening is this:  A and B are coming down 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.