Sunday Afternoon, 5 February, ’16.

My dearest Lal: —

. . . We are still in the same camp at the base, waiting instructions, and I shall be glad when we move. There’s nothing to do but fatigues all day, and it’s getting monotonous. There’s a big English camp quite close, and we have (at least our outfit has) to go up there all the time, filling trucks with supplies. There’s a little wee railroad system — narrow gauge — which apparently takes the supplies to different units. You generally get through about 7.30. The meals are rotten — the boys who have been up the line say it’s fifty times better up there. However, I guess it’s all in the game; anyhow, I feel most awfully fit. Last night, there was a concert at the Y. presided over by a chap-lain — I don’t know his name, but he’s about the best type of parson I’ve seen for a long time — no hot air — seems to understand just what’s wanted. I heard a fellow say that if more parsons were like him, there’d be a jolly lot more fellows go to church, and I heartily agree.

Today, we all had to attend church in a cinema building over in the English camp — C. of E. service. — The sermon was quite uninteresting. It’s amazing how a man can go through life without getting in close touch with his fellow men. This particular man was utterly out of his element preaching to a bunch of Canadians on active service. . . .

Remember always I am thinking of you.