23rd. Battalion,
Dibgate Camp
Shorncliffe,
June 18th. 1915.

My dear, dear, Fern:

It was my intention, dearest, to write you a long letter to-night, telling you all about our camp and what we are doing, but I am afraid it is now too late to do more than tell you how I love and long for a sight of your dear face again.

George and Arnold and myself started in to write letters about 8 o'clock in my tent, and I decided to write home first, and then to you, but I had so much to say and suffer so many interruptions from these noisy infants, that it is now about 10-30 and I must away to my blankets. We have been scribbling here by the light of three candles stuck on a packing box which we use as a table. There are no luxuries here. Three millions of men like ourselves are drilling about England, and as little material is washed as can be.

So George sits on the floor with his back against the pole, and Arnold on his trunk, while I make use of your dear writing case on my trunk. They're both sleeping soundly by now, and I have only the moon and the eternal stillness of those rolling hills and valves with the myriads of tents mile after mile to keep me company.

Fernie, darling, I love you so. I know now how much I really love you, my baby. I do to bed at night with a strange unsatisfied feeling, and I wake in the night with your dear face before me. I meet you in my dreams, and in our long daily marches over the sweet winding hedge-bound and shady paths of this lovely country. I seem to feel for your hand in mine, or the light touch of your fingers on my arm. How you would love this England, darling. Someday I shall take you through it please God in happier times.

I shall write on Sunday, and try to tell you all about it as far as my feeble pen will reproduce the sweet beauty of rural England.

I love you, I love you, oh my own sweetheart.
Your soldier boy,
ERROL.