Bugles

A battery of artillery paused outside my hospital room this morning. It was the smell of their campfire that first alerted me to their presence. I thought I was imagining things until a personable young bombardier stuck his nose around the door, looking for somewhere he might obtain water for the horses.

They were bound for the front, although naturally not at liberty to confirm any such thing in the presence of civilians (loose lips sink etcetera). Before they set off again, many of them pressed little notes upon me, intended for sweethearts, mothers and families, all addressed in careful schoolboy handwriting.

The bedside locker is full of the letters now, and with each shell-blast heard in the distance this evening I wonder how many of the pitiable things I will need to somehow commit to the mails tomorrow morning.

Otherwise a quiet day. Stitches healing apace.