From letter written by a friend, also in service, to my grandfather:

Thanks for your nice letter, but I’m sorry you’re so stretched that there’s no little chance of our getting together for an evening. If I had any excuse to go to North Ireland I’d take it, but I can’t think of any at the moment. It’s nice to hear of your children, hens, and dogs. I can’t return much along that line—at least as to hens & dogs, because we have no hens and no one tells me anything about Janke….

The war is getting very hard here. Our monthly liquor ration is to be cut out entirely, I hear, and there’ll only be a quart of scotch in the bar each night. How much more can we bear?