apparently is pleased, for on the strength of it all I have been made a lance-corporal—­only do not yet get paid.  That will come later.  Of course, this is no big honour, but coming at such a time as this it shows they have some confidence in one’s ability.

“There are so many senior in front of me that the possibility of further promotion is somewhat remote.  One of our majors has got the D.S.O., one of our company lieutenants a Military Cross, and a lance-corporal a D.C.M., and so we have not come out without honour.

“I am feeling O.K. myself, and by the time you get this shall be back on a month’s rest right away from the line, and until I write again you will know I am out of danger.  Your parcel arrived whilst in the trenches, and was very welcome indeed.  As far as cash goes, don’t worry.  Don’t send any money, and don’t worry; there’s no need.”

June 8th, 1916.

“We are now out on rest right away from our line, in our old village.  We are not sorry, as you can imagine, and to sleep in our own little beds once again is lovely.  I had a bath this morning, a nice change, and feel quite fit.

“Having now my first stripe, I have to go to No. ——­ Platoon.  They are a nice lot of fellows, and I shall be all right there with my old friend, another corporal, while an old section comrade of Crowborough times is platoon sergeant.

“As to wants—­if you have an old shirt at home I could do with it.  But I don’t want a new one sent.  Also a pair of strong laces, a nail brush (stiff)—­that’s about all, I think.

June 11th, 1916.

“Things are very active along the line, although very little appears in the papers.  Our sector has been subject to heavy bombardments, and our first night in the trench saw three separate strafes, and the succeeding days brought a big list of casualties, which by now run well into three figures.  The first strafe, which lasted ten minutes according to our artillery observers, brought 1,100 shells of all sizes from the Huns.  I was half buried three times, and but for my steel helmet would have had a nasty scalp wound, whereas all that resulted was a dent in the hat and a headache for me.”

There follows the last letter Sydney Baxter wrote to his mother before the great Somme offensive.  He was facing the possibilities himself and trying to get her to do so too.  I have not cared to print this letter in full.  Those who have written or received such a letter will understand why.

     “My DEAREST OF MOTHERS,