December 20th, 1916.

Dear Mr. T.:

Just back from a successful argument with Fritz, to find your kind good wishes. It's rather a lark out here, though a lark which may turn against you any time. I laugh a good deal more than I mope. Anything really horrible has a ludicrous side—it's like Mark Twain's humour—a gross exaggeration. The maddest thing of all to me is that a person so willing to be amiable as I am should be out here killing people for principle's sake. There's no rhyme or reason—it can't be argued. Dimly one thinks he sees what is right and leaves father and mother and home, as though it were for the Kingdom of Heaven's sake.

Perhaps it is. If one didn't pin his faith to that "perhaps"—–. One can't explain.

A merry Christmas to you.

Yours very sincerely,
Coningsby Dawson.