23rd Battalion,
Dibgate Camp, Shorncliffe.
July 6th, 1915.

Dearest Dad and Mother:

I have just had a long letter from Mally telling me all about you all, and one from Fernie wondering what is the matter with the English mail. I hope the letter I wrote on the boat and posted when I landed did not take too long in reaching you, but the American mails are very unreliable at present, usually about two a week at unknown intervals.

For the past week we have been practically confined to the camp. Our day started at eleven in the morning and ended about 1 o'clock the next morning. Musketry all afternoon and night marching and entrenching from 8 to 12. We are getting to be regular ground-hogs at the burrowing game. There is a long walk and a hill to climb at the end of it that goes straight up in the air; at least it looks that way to one when carrying a twenty-five pound pack. Then we come to our manoeuvre ground and either dig ourselves in or conduct some operation in the trenches already prepared by the engineers. The boys have nicknamed the hill 600-meter Hill because, as they say, it is so hard to carry. Night marching is rather tiring as it has to be done in absolute silence. However, the boys are very cheerful. We have a splendid lot of men and I think things should look up a bit for the Allies when we get to the front. Discipline here is very rigid for both officers and men, and we have a fire-eating little Adjunct from R.M.C. who makes it his business to put the fear of the Lord and Kitchener into every young pup of a subaltern who lands into camp. If everything goes as it should they are not too particular about formalities, but for the first week or two, until they had tried is out, we got it hot for every little slip. Our C.O. is Colonel Fisher of the Victoria Rifles of Montreal, and I think a very good man. He leaves for the front to join the 14th Battalion sometime very soon.

I have just spent three days in London. Major Smith and Mrs. Smith went up at the same time and we stopped on at the same hotel, the Regent Palace, in Piccadilly Circus. It is a fine hotel, but rather plebeian an overcrowded. All the fat shopkeepers seem to take their fat wives there to lunch. However, it is excellently appointed and very reasonable. Fancy being able to stop at a hotel bigger than the King Edward in the heart of Westminster for 6/6 per day with breakfast, lunch and in the Louis XVI dining room at 1/9 and dinner at 3/6. One can certainly live very reasonably in England, although contrary to general impressions I think the prices of most things that one buys, outside of mere eatables and house rent are just about the same as in America. I arrived in on Friday night and went to the theatre, the Alhambra. Saturday morning I fooled around the city and in the afternoon went out to see Mr. Adams' mother and sister. They live at Brondsbury about 20 minutes drive out from Piccadilly. We had a fine long chat and I found Miss Adams very pleasant and interesting. She has a very great look of Beryl about her, but has Mr. Adams' curly black hair. Stanley is more like his mother, and I presume the sister and Beryl must take

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