4 February, ’16.
Somewhere in France.
My very dearest Lal: —
Arrived in camp here safely and am now waiting orders to move up the line.
Just when I have the most interesting things to tell you, I must confine myself to generalities, so you must understand, when you get letters which contain nothing but uninteresting personal details, that it is not my fault.
The weather here is not bad, but damp and cold. We are in tents (twelve in each) out in the country, and the work is just fatigues, etc. until we get attached permanently to some particular detail. This morning I helped scrub out the Y.M.C.A. hut. Some job, and I’m afraid I’m not very expert at it as yet.
The camp here is about the cleanest and best arranged I have seen. Of course, everything is much stricter — discipline and everything. It’s very obvious that there is a war on.
I don’t think there is any more I can tell you. It isn’t much; is it? But I’ll write more, when I get settled. I hope you won’t forget to write oftener now; will you?
Give my love to Bill. With every best thing I can wish for you.