This letter is rather disjointed; I'm in charge of the battery for the
time, and messages keep on coming in, and one has to rush out to give
the order to fire.

It's an American night--snow-white and piercing, with a frigid moon
sailing quietly. I think the quiet beauty of the sky is about the only
thing in Nature that we do not scar and destroy with our fighting.

Good-bye, and thank you ever so much.

Yours very sincerely,
CONINGSBY DAWSON.




XLIV

February 1st, 1917.

11 p.m.

DEAR FATHER:

Your picture of the black days when no letter comes from me sets me off
scribbling to you at this late hour. All to-day I've been having a cold
but amusing time at the O.P. (Forward Observation Post). It seems brutal
to say it, but taking potshots at the enemy when they present themselves
is rather fun. When you watch them scattering like ants before the