Dear Steve: September 9, 1917

I’m in charge of a working party and have a bit of time on my hands. Unfortunately this is all the paper I can locate, but it will do as far as it goes. Have had no mail for almost weeks and do not expect any until I am definitely located and assume the duties of a rear rank private for which I have duly qualified.

Carman is, I believe, at East Sandling. Arrived there a couple of days ago after I had left W. Sandling. I wish it had been a few days sooner. If I were home in Canada I would be celebrating my first Sunday after the opening of the Fall term. Instead of that I’m beginning a new course in modern warfare. I have met a few old acquaintances over here – a very few. But time has not hung heavily on my hands by any means. This country is away behind the times in many ways. They reap largely by hand and the sanitation of their towns and villages is awful. A pile of manure literally adorns the front door step in many cases. The very children have old pinched looking faces and they start to work when they’re the knee high of a grasshopper. S.O.S. for more paper.

Cheerioh J. C.

September 9, 1917

Just a continuation of this morning’s preamble I’ve got home and had one grand dinner and feel better, thanks. I thought to draw a pass but was "too late". It’s the first time I really felt energetic enough to think of rambling afield and I have to stay at home. Well, my correspondence shouldn’t suffer. There is always something that may be done if one has the will to do it. There are some boys here I might look up but when you are away looking them up they are probably looking for you or mayhaps they’re on the trail of the Lonesome Pine or some other trail.

I suppose you will be through harvesting now. I gather that the season will be a late one from weather descriptions in previous letters. Have you decided yet whether a college education helps you to run farm or not? Give my best regards to George Saunders. I hope he’s able to keep warm this winter. He will be spared many cold, nocturnal drives up to the 12th concession anyway. I won’t write to Mother today but I suppose this will suffice for the present. There really is very little to say and what one can say is liable to take the form of a vapid monologue of nothings. Did you get my last letter written before I left England? You should have it almost by now. There were a couple of cheques in it that I wouldn’t like to see lost – one for my life insurance, due in November. I hope you are not overcome looking after my business interests and for lack of space I will close with love to all.

John