18 December, ’16.
My dearest Lal:
Just a very short note. We are moving billets, hence the hurry.
I was highly amused to hear the tanks are made in America. Germany also claims originating them. No, dear, let poor old England have something. They were designed and built in a town in the North of England which I know well. And, by the way, don’t get the impression they are the whole cheese; they wouldn’t be worth a nickel without the human element — the infantry. However, soon I will see one work, enter one, and will give you my impression (with one eye on the censor, of course).
About the war — and me — there isn’t much to be said. Things are still delightfully quiet. It snowed today, and tonight it’s beastly cold. The new billets, I think, will be an improvement. Hope so.
I haven’t been out on a working party for a few days, and am anxiously hoping one won’t come my way till Xmas is over — but I have fears.
Most people, I think, imagine, when you are at the front, you spend all your time in a trench, looking out for Heinie. My last few days have been spent digging holes to bury old cans in, and hauling flags for the floor of a large tent. Nothing very warlike or romantic about that, is there? But all these little things have to be done, you know, and about a million of them.