and when the governess, Death, summons them to bed, they obey her with
unsurprised quietness. It sends the mercury of one's optimism rising to
see the way they do it. I search my mind to find the bigness of motive
which supports them, but it forever evades me. These lads are not the
kind who philosophise about life; they're the sort, many of them, who
would ordinarily wear corduroys and smoke a cutty pipe. I suppose the
Christian martyrs would have done the same had corduroys been the
fashion in that day, and if a Roman Raleigh had discovered tobacco.

I wrote this about midnight and didn't get any further, as I was up till
six carrying on and firing the battery. After adding another page or two
I want to get some sleep, as I shall probably have to go up to the
observation station to watch the effect of fire to-night. But before I
turn in I want to tell you that I had the most gorgeous mail from
everybody. Now that I'm in touch with you all again, it's almost like
saying "How-do?" every night and morning.

I daresay you'll wonder how it feels to be under shell-fire. This is how
it feels--you don't realise your danger until you come to think about it
afterwards--at the time it's like playing coconut shies at a coon's
head--only you're the coon's head. You take too much interest in the
sport of dodging to be afraid. You'll hear the Tommies saying if one
bursts nearly on them, "Line, you blighter, line. Five minutes more
left," just as though they were reprimanding the unseen Hun battery for
rotten shooting.

The great word of the Tommies here is "No bloody bon"--a strange mixture
of French and English, which means that a thing is no good. If it
pleases them it's _Jake_--though where Jake comes from nobody knows.