Feb. 16/15

Dear Mother

We are now in France, a few miles behind the firing line, & in sound of the guns, but more than that I can’t tell you.  They wont even let us tell the name of the boat we came over in, or where we landed, nor how long it took us.  We got off the train this morning.  I don’t like travelling in cattle cars and I don’t like a steady diet of corned beef and hardtack.  Ye gods, this country appears to be wetter than England.  There is water everywhere here except in my water bottle.  We are at present billeted in the threshing floor of a barn and have a pleasing view of vast fields & funny looking trees.  We are not allowed to sleep in the mows.  There is very little to tell, except to let you know that I am well as they won’t let us tell hardly anything.  Send this letter to B[?].  We expect to get to the firing line shortly.

Charlie