Another glorious day dawns in this man’s army. While we cannot wait to reach France and give the Hun what-for I can’t deny that an autumn day in England is always one of the finest experiences on God’s earth. Wiltshire is so charming, my darling, and to write this journal as the sun sets behind the pillars of Stonehenge is a moment plucked from a magical tale.

Day after day we are still practicing our manoeuvres; there is a vast trench network chiselled into the chalk. I think we will excel at this fighting lark, since we run drill after drill and many of us find we’re running them in our sleep.

We got our military-issued boots this morning, but my new friend Harry and I are planning to keep wearing the ones we bought when we joined up as they’re better made. They might request the officers discipline us but most turn a blind eye as they do the same. Once the white dust from the plain gets on them it’s hard to tell whether you’re in the thin-soled official boots or something decidedly more water-proof.

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They have issued rifles to around half the men. Live fire exercises are taking place daily, and at least we will be used to the sound of gunfire by the time we reach the front. For the sake of our sanity, they ‘cease-fire’ for meals and at night.

They must have issued at least one battalion live grenades, as word reaches us of a tragedy. A Mills Bomb fell short and shrapnel peppered the poor devil who threw it; some say it’s his own fault for trying to chuck it uphill, others say it went off too soon. Either way, the unlucky fellow may not pull through, and if his trench-mate’s hearing doesn’t return in time, he will not be joining us in France.