28 May, ’17.

My dearest Lal: —

. . . . The last letter I wrote was on the eve of going in; not in from away back, but in from another line of trenches. It was the advance point of the extremest advance point of the whole works, as it figures on the map of things at this time on our front — which I guess is the most advanced point that the British hold on the North Sea — And — well — here I am! That’s the main thing. We are out and out for a rest. This is only our temporary camp. We are through — oh — ye — Gods! Through! Think of it! For — maybe — even four weeks. I could cheer on paper if it were possible. We are going back — back away from it all — back away from shells — and Heinie and all his works, and just get our nerves back. Since April 8th, I have not been really away from things; no one who does not understand can realize what it means. . . .