France

18/3/1918.

Dear Mother.

It is raining like the blazes today after a day of perfect sunshine. Spring is now with us so I suppose that we had better put our spikes on our boots and practice be noble art of going over the banks, which is a part particular spring sport over here. One very noticeable feat of the country is the large number of young Huns and ‘humming shells’ that are about.

The shooting season opens shortly and we hope get a good bag. Nice fresh young Huns are greatly prized by the Intelligence Staff as they become very confiding after two extra special army rations of over-proof rum. Some of them their information they give away voluntarily is really surprising and shows that there is very little comradeship in the Hun ranks. To save their own skins after capture it is their first thought.

Killing Huns are rather bloodcurdling sport. Some of them die game but a good many of them raise a piercing squealing ‘doomed’ sort of howl when they see bayonet coming and they realise and they really realise all is lost and they are going to be killed. It can’t be helped. As the sooner the beggars are all killed the sooner we get home and we really do want to get home you know therefore we kill as many as we can. We have a good deal of patrolling to do now and incidences of the above are fairly with frequent.

But enough of this bloodthirsty talk. I seldom tell you any of these things trivial occurrences which are daily events in our lives when in the line because you must be fed up with the war talk.

I receive a parcel of cocoa, nut ice etc from you about three days ago. The mufflier? is a real beauty and I have substituted it for the original one, that you gave me when I left Australia two years ago. The coconut ice was rancid but eatable. We gave it to our batman worse luck. However, I thank you very much for it. The condensed milk I ate all by myself and I must thank Edie for it add ‘special’ as I noted on the tin, it was her gift.

The Aunts and Uncles in England are writing less and less frequently now, so I suppose the novelty of an Australian nephew here that they have seen me and cross questioned me. (French?) ‘San jerian it is cest la guerre.’ Mrs Hookham is the most frequent English correspondent have as she is worth rest put together for cheerfulness. Please don’t be jealous of her is because there is a bond of sympathy between us on account of Will you know. I also had a letter from Mrs Everett and a parcel from Mrs Everett, a couple of days ago, which I am answering after I have finished this letter to you. Lucie also wrote to me and some how I never seem to write a decent to her in return. I must try now.

Unless you hear of any thing definite in connection with my change of allotment, please let me know as the easier fix it up from this end than from the Australian end if anything goes wrong.

Close now from your most affect son

Walter