Feb 1917, Somewhere in France
As I have nothing to do this afternoon, I thot that I would write you another letter. It is raining to beat the band out now and muddy as it is almost possible for it to be.
My boots and puttees, almost up to my knees, are covered with mud, and my greatcoat is the same up to my waist. Oh, this is a lovely place, I guess not . . .
With love to all,
Your Loveing Brother,
P.S. Excuse pencil please. My fountain pen has dryed up like myself. P.W.M.