[Saulbrook Ward,] (when I see the corpses again; last week was beyond anything
4th London Hospl, I had been up against before. I should love to have the Hardy
Tuesday. 24th. Letter. The book of poems will really be out next
week they say. Binders were slow.
Love from Sig.
My dear Uncle,
I was very nearly your (late) nephew, as the sniper only just missed failed to makeing a good job of it, & the bullet missed my jugular by a fraction of an inch, & the spinal column by not too much. But, as I wrote in the Head Sister’s album, (by request),
“Good luck to the hun
Who got out his gun
And dealt me a wound so auspicious;
May a flesh-hole like mine
Send him home from the Line,
And his Nurses be just as delicious” –
(An effort which aroused delighted simpers of female gratification).
“The Line” was the Hindenburg (not the “Siegfried”!) & we were trying to take Fontaine-lez-Croisilles, (7m. south of Arras). (which is still holding out, curse it).
This is Lotus-Land, with [Doris] & Mrs. [Gosse] & other sweet people drifting in of an afternoon laden with gifts - & the only bad thing a bad Gramophone, which grinds out excruciations of Little Grey homes in the West, etc. Mother is busy being messaged, & is not allowed to come up. I expect to be here another week or more. It has healed up all right in front, but not behind. I think another dose of the war will just about send me dotty. I get the horrors at night