Mt. St. Eloy., France
Y.M.C.A. and Canadian War Contingent Association
With The Canadian Forces.
My Own Dear Mother, -
Argyle and I have just been down for the mail and it brought me two letters - one from you and one from Agnes
We are still in the camp that I wrote to you from a few days ago, on the sewing job. Fritz has not bothered us so much during the last few days. Occasionally he puts over over a few shells, but not as bad as the ones I told you of in my last letter.
I am so sorry that you were not receiving my mail more regularly when you wrote. Probably it would all come in a bunch. I never fail to write at least once a week, and often twice.
A couple of days ago I rec'd parcel with Khaki socks, raspberry jam, etc. The jam jar was broken but was so well wrapped up that no jam had leaked out. My but the real butter does taste good. You cannot imagine how I enjoy it after the army rations of margarine. It was in perfectly good shape when it arrived, but the biscuits and candy were pretty well broken up, the tin box being broken in.
Argyle and I are sitting in the door of our hut writing, We have a good fire going in the brazier beside us, and it is quite light although it is nearly 7.45 P.M. We use the daylight-saving time.
We have had quite an easy week, and have missed a very hard trip into the trenches. It has been so wet and we fear that the trenches are in pretty bad shape
I am going to ask Dorothy to copy my letters once in a while and send them to Aunt Nell and to Hamilton, so that they well know how I am. It is so hard for me to write letters. I would write to Aunt May & Aunt Jessie, but ,Aunt May's address was torn off the parcel she sent, and I have lost Aunt Jessies. I wish that you would explain to them, and I will write as soon as I get their address
I bought a silver plated Gillett razor a couple of weeks ago in a silver plated case It was a dandy little set, and I got it for 5 Francs ($1.00) because the chap had another good razor and needed the money
I had two or three good shaves with it, but when I came to use it a few days ago, it had been stolen, razor brush, soap, polishing out fit and all. It is a terror the way things go over here. I am without shaving out-fit again and so have to fall back on Argyles - What a blessing it will be to have a room of my own again and all my own clean clothes and bed and everything. I'm afraid I will not know how to act.
I think that I told you not to send me a parcel for a while - until I told you to. Well that still holds good. When I wrote that letter I expected 'something doing' e're this, but it is now only a matter of a few days, and I may write to you from 'Blighty'. Of course all the fellows are looking for good 'Blighties' this spring. You know what a 'Blighty' is don't you mother. A nice little wound, just bad enough to get you over to a hospital in 'Blighty (England) for about six months. Next to going home a 'Blighty' is the height of a soldier's desire, and no doubt there will be a good many this spring
The khaki socks were lovely mother. They are really the most servicable colour. The boys laugh at the quantity of socks that I pack around, but I tell you I have great food comfort, and even when they get dirty I hate to throw them away, they are so nice and thick and soft. When I get back into civilian life again, I'll have to have you knit my winter socks mother
I will say goodnight now to you all with the very best love from your own soldier boy
Pte W. M. Pecover
Take me back to dear old Blighty
Put me on the train for London Town
Take me over there; drop me anywhere
London, Leeds or Manchester -
Well I dont care.
I want to see my best girl;
A cuddling up again we soon will be.
Take me over to Blighty:
Blighty is the place for me.
There's a long, long trail a-winding,
Into the land of my dreams
Where the night-in-gales are singing
And the white moon beams.
There's a long, long, night of waiting
Until my dreams all come true -
Till the day, when I'll be going down
That long, long trail with you.
Pack all your troubles in your old kit bag
And smile, smile, smile
While you've a lucifer to light your fag,
Smile, boys, that's the style.
What's the use of worrying
It never was worth while
So pack all your troubles, in your old kit bag
And smile, smile smile
I want to go home: I want to go home
The bullets they whistled
The cannons they roared
I don't want to go to the front any-more.
So take me over the sea
Where the enemy can't get at me
Oh my! I don't want to die.
I want to go home
When this awful war is over,
Oh how happy we will be;
We will put our civvy clothes on
No more soldiering for me
No more church parade on Sunday
No more asking for a pass
We will tell the sargeant-major
He can send his pass to grass.
Thise are some of the “songs” that the boys sing all the time - in the trench mud - in the dugouts - on the march or in the huts.