With B.E.F. June 10. Dear Wile, 
(O blast this pencil. 'Ere, Bill, lend's a knife.) 
I'm in the pink at present, dear. 
think the war will end this year. 
We don't see much of them square-'eaded 'Uns. 
We're out of harm's way, not bad led. 
I'm longing for a taste of your old buns. 
(Say, Jimmie, spare's a bite of bread.) 
There don't seem much to say just now. 
(Yer what? Then don't, yer ruddy cow! 
And give us back me cigarette!) 
I'll soon be 'ome. You mustn't fret. 
My feet's improvin', as I told you of.
We're out in rest now. Never fear. 
(VRACH! By crumbs, but that was near.) 
Mother might spare you half a sov. 
Kiss Nell and Bert. When me and you- 
(Eh? What the hell! Stand to Stand to! 
Jim, give's a hand with pack on, lad. 
Guh! Christ! I'm hit. Take 'old. Aye, bad. 
No damn your lodine. Jim? 'Ere! 
Write my old girl, Jim, there's a dear.)