Just a line or two while I am waiting with nothing particular to do for once in my life. We are, touching wood and crossing fingers, extremely fortunate just at present as regards the weather, and though we are almost half way through November, there has not been any very terrible rainfall: in fact trenches are most respectable, so, as you can imagine, life is by no means bad. It has of course become considerably colder than it was a month ago, nobody minds cold so long as it is dry. Our American visitor has left us. He was an excellent fellow; very anxious to learn, and by no means unduly full either of himself or his country. If there are many such as he in the U.S. army they should do very well indeed. I heard yesterday from Col. Jones but cannot make out from his letter quite where he is or what he is doing. I rather gather he is still with our first Battalion. I must write to him and try to learn some further details as to his whereabouts, if that is possible. Our latest recruit from school is making a reputation for himself already, and is undoubtedly a marvel at patrolling. He seems absolutely fearless, and goes about all over the place by day and night. He is one W.M. Cole by name, very small, meek, and innocent looking and a jolly good lad in every sense of the word. An old poacher-sergeant goes about with him and takes care of him – a truly awful blackguard but a first rate man, and worships Cole like a young god. There is no news of interest; the war is still going on very much the same way as before, and we are a very merry party – perhaps the best lot of officers as a whole that we have ever had.