I am afraid you are giving me credit for more than I deserve, I did nothing at all but feel most remarkably frightened. We are still in the same old wood, & for some unknown reason have not yet proceeded to the trenches as we expected. However things are now considerably quieter, there have been no more very fierce battles, & we are no longer paid so much attention by the enemy’s shrapnel. At night we go & dig, a work which is never very pleasing, but at which the men keep most remarkably cheerful – a thing which is all the more wonderful when one knows what a tremendous lot they think of their Bank-holiday. All would be well if only the rain would keep off but for the last few days we have had the misfortune to be blessed with several thunderstorms which make this Robin Hood existence somewhat less enjoyable. Knighton & I have built ourselves a dug-out where we can keep more or less dry. He has a copy of Barrack Room Ballads which he cannot read himself, but loves to hear read, so I have been enjoying myself reading them to him. This morning I spent concocting a short poem which he is sending to the Market Harbro’ Advertiser, if they publish it I will send you a copy – it is a great effusion. A good old hearty grouse at our general Bank Holiday conditions. Our lost trenches have not been won back yet, but there is a rumour that they very soon will be; probably they will move a regular division up to take them, & the old Hun will have a very thin time indeed for a bit. I only hope he does, he deserves it. There is really no news because we can do absolutely nothing but sit in this old wood & every day is exactly like the last. So I will now retire to censor the mens letters.