Dear Steve: September 18, 1917

I have written many letters and I haven’t forgotten the home folk either. But it is always wise to utilize all spare time for correspondence and take advantage of any writing mood for there are countless seasons when letter writing is a weariness of the flesh.

Our favorite song is "Apres le guerre finet Soldat Anglais parte ici" with several vulgar modifications and additions that would not look well in print. And anyway, I don’t know how to spell or pronounce French not even the patois of the soldier. We have quite a collection of ex-sergeants like myself in this tent and the quarrels they have (verbal always) are lurid in the bitterness and vigour of epithets. I’m getting as meek as a lamb, for when I start talking in a similar manner I mean fight as a rule, and so I keep on the outside looking in.

Blakey just commented a few moments ago that the people of this country were very fond of flashy colours with a pool of deep purply coloured water in front of the house, and a pile of manure with a red rooster on top of it commanding the entrance to the doorway. Pretty good!

Blakey used to buy livestock for his dad and he can lay it on thick when he wants to, all about cattle and hog deals around Kingston, Picton, & Toronto. Willie Simpson calls him the "cattle thief".

The other night they were talking about cattle and the conversation drifted to dangerous bulls with various hair breadth, matador & troubadour experiences. But Willie put the cap on the climax by telling of his experience with old Geo. Smiths bull.

He was walking in a field near Smith’s orchard when he suddenly noticed the bull bearing down on him with menacing looks. What did he do? Do! He just ran his best gallop for the orchard. But the Bull gained on him and just as he got near the shelter of the orchard he felt the jar of the Bulls horns on his rear. The Bull gave him a mighty toss and he landed in an apple tree with such impact that it knocked the apples in every direction and with such force that one of the apples landed between the Bull’s eyes and knocked him dead, dead as a door nail. So help me Hammer! What a tale? And it’s all Bull!

I have just gone for dinner and decided to finish my writing where I could use a pen. Willie Simpson, like myself was a Musketry Instructor. He tells one good story about rapid fire.

"Rapid fire is a very important branch of musketry instruction and a man must be quick enough to get off 15 rounds in one minute. It takes considerable practice and concentration, mind you, to bet off 15 accurately aimed in one minute, but men have done better. At Hythe (School of Musketry) they told me of a man who got away 37 well aimed shots in a minute and he was something of a speed marvel. Pretty good, you know! But I had one boy in my class, just a bit of a lad, you know him perhaps, used to be in the Bugle Band. Well I trained that boy up and encouraged him and he gradually go up speed in firing until one day we went down to the miniature range. He lay down and took aim with such speed and accuracy that at the end of the minute there was a solid steel rod of lead, ten feet long, where the bullets had piled up one upon the other in rapid succession. That was speed and accuracy for you."

We all took a long breath and tried to visualize that steel rod of lead.

We don’t get much money but we do live, and manage to have a little fun out of life.

There is a movement on foot among us to write a letter to those instructors back in Sandling who instead of volunteering for service in France went whining to the M.O. about their ailments and with such favourable results that they are now in B and C category. I don’t altogether favour the idea, but would like to send them a few posters representing the favourable aspect of the situation here. Something like this:----

Hunting – the land we are now in abound in hunting of various kinds and it is one of the favorite pastimes. It is well if the weather is favourable, to do at least one hunt per day. You do not have to go far for the game and so men with flat feet and varicose veins will not be tired out before reaching the scene of operations. If you eyes are weak, the government spectacles supplies by the eye specialist will enable you to discern the game. In cases of specially defective eyesight, the French government supplies enormous searchlights that are a wonderful aid. But to prevent too much use of these labourious instruments it is well to provide yourself with a pocket electric torch, which is a great aid in illuminating the game and making it move so that it can be detected.

It is especially advised that men with weak hearts, go hunting at least once per day, lest the abundance of game, and the prodigious size thereof, cause an excess of excitement that might in special cases prove fatal. For the rapid growth of the animals and the rate of increase of the various species of game is nothing short of marvellous.

I might go on at much length discerning the nature of the game but will say that it be a sport costs little. You do not need any extravagant outlay of weapons, or of traps.

The game I speakof is insectivorous and the soil of this country seem to be inoculated with them. They abound in blankets, dugouts, trenches and rapidly spread to shirts, kilts, and clothing where they announce their arrival, not by a blowing of horns nor loud demonstration, but by quiet cuddling ways, giving now and then little nips of delight which are scarcely noticed at first, because at first they come in ones and twos, and then they come in swarms, by which time you are used to their playful biting ways and habits of scuttling for shelter and warmth at irregular intervals. And so the game goes on. You keep up your daily hunt lest the big ones devour the little ones, for it seems to be the case in this species of insect. That the faster they grow, the faster they want to grow and the more they feed, and magnify their bodies until one is forced to kill them off lest you suffer with your shirt in the way the Arab did when he shared his tent with his camel.

Have I said enough? I hope I haven’t disgusted you all by this brainless argument. I feel run out of much to say and will hike myself over to my tent and think up a further line of rot.

I have just read it to the boys – re the hunting as above outlined and it is away over their heads.

They think I’m a nut when I start any argument or read them some of my letters, and I hope you folks appreciate them better. If not let me know about it for it is much easier to go to the movies or the YMCA canteen concerts, or lie in my tent and stagnate mentally.

Anyway, I’m going to ruminate away to my hearts content and take advantage of my corresponding moods when they come, regardless of the expense to my relatives at home.

Yours in F.L. & T.

Cannon