death. The Balliol novels have been written--and my first book is this.

We have not even had time to talk it over properly. I saw you on my
week's leave in December, but then I had not thought of making a book.
Finally, after three months in the trenches you came home in August. I
was in Ireland and you in Scotland, so we met at Warrington just after
midnight and proceeded to staggering adventures. Shall we ever forget
that six hours' talk, the mad ride and madder breakfast with old Peter
M'Ginn, the solitary hotel at Manchester and the rare dash to London?
But I didn't tell you much about my book.

It is made up principally of letters to my mother and to you. My mother
showed these letters to Mr Townsend Warner, my old tutor at Harrow, and
he, who was always my godfather in letters, passed them on until they
have appeared in the pages of 'Maga.' I have filled in the gaps these
letters leave with narrative, worked the whole into some sort of
connected account, and added maps and an index.

This book is not a history, a military treatise, an essay, or a scrap of
autobiography. It has no more accuracy or literary merit than letters
usually possess. So I hope you will not judge it too harshly. My only
object is to try and show as truthfully as I can the part played in this
monstrous war by a despatch rider during the months from August 1914 to
February 1915. If that object is gained I am content.

Because it is composed of letters, this book has many faults.

Firstly, I have written a great deal about myself. That is inevitable in
letters. My mother wanted to hear about me and not about those whom she
had never met. So do not think my adventures are unique. I assure you