Pte George Allen (Lilydale), 8^th Battalion: Is wounded in action, gunshot wound to left arm, and is evacuated to hospital in England.

Pte Charles Osborne (Lilydale), 8^th Battalion: Is evacuated from the field to hospital in France suffering from scabies.

Gnr William Atkinson (Lilydale), 116^th Howitzer Battalion: In France. In a letter to his wife – ‘Yesterday, a bundle of sixteen letters reached me. That is the first lot since leaving England so you can imagine how pleased I was. We are out behind the line now, having a few days’ spell, after having a bit of lively action. I don’t know when we are to go back again, but I thought it was to be to-day, but so far nothing has been said, so perhaps we are going to have a few days longer. It has been lovely to have the last few nights’ undisturbed rest.

While in action, we telephonists, for that’s what I am now, were going night and day, and I tell you it was sapping our energy away. However, I am feeling ‘tres bon’ now. We have been in the hottest position our brigade has ever been in, I am told, and, my word, it was hot too. I think I told you how I lost a pair of socks through having to run away in the mud when Fritz started shelling. I have had some great experiences, but they have been accompanied by some narrow squeaks, too. That gave them a bit of taste.

The position that we were in when I first went up became untenable, so we had to shift, and dug into a bank further back and before we had finished our pits, Fritz was on to us with his big stuff, and after that, regularly a couple of hours before dark he would hunt us away. We didn’t waste any time in running either. It sort of gives a chap pace when he’s getting away from the big ones. However, that is past now, so we can smile about it.

No, it’s not true that Oswald has lost his arm. I saw him a few days before leaving England, and he was alright then and getting about fairly well on crutches. I was sorry not to see Harry Tudor, but I didn’t know where he was. I was a very long way from the scene of the big explosion in London. . . . You don’t know how much we look forward to mail days. You see, our letters are all that keeps us linked together now. Of course, there is family love, but apart from that there are only letters and thoughts. I think you will follow what I mean. To-day is simply great — just like one of our spring days — and, if only I had civilian clothes on and was under an apple tree with a book, I could think I was home. I am a bit of a cook now; sometimes I make custard for myself, and to-day I have made some jelly for tea.

This country was known as ‘Sunny France’, and today it seems true; but before this ‘Muddy France’or ‘Rainy France’ would be nearer the mark. This part of the country is pitiful to look upon. One time, happy peasants worked in the land, villages flourished, and life went merrily on; but now there is nothing but a mass of ruins. Here a wall stands, there a chimney, and somewhere else a post, to remind us of the one-time homes. It cuts us to the heart and makes us more resolved to fight on to the end. If we could only show the shirkers over there a handful of this awful destruction, I am sure it would arouse their sense of manhood and they would take up arms, don the khaki and come along and help.

On my way up here I passed through, and one night camped on, the famous battlefield of last year — the one where ten thousand of our best lads laid down their lives in the defence of right (Claude amongst them), namely Pozieres. You will know, as I have told you where Claude (his son) was killed. The awful sight is indescribable. All that remained of trenches was a gutter, and there wasn’t a square yard that hadn’t been shell torn, and I gazed on the steep heights and thought of the price it cost to take it. But it doesn’t do to brood too much on this sort of thing. Here and there I could see a little cross in the paddocks that indicated the last resting place of some mother’s boy. All that remained of the village itself was a sign board with the name Pozieres on it. And then I thought, here, nine months ago, Claude passed through a veritable hell, for, that’s what it was, and on the dawn of victory, passed way. Truly, he played the game, gave his best, and I firmly believe, now has his reward. That, to me, is a very comforting thought.

We then passed on, and came to another one-time village, but as it was there, it more resembled a wood heap than a village. Can you imagine the ‘Dale’ all smashed to pieces, trees broken and railway lines all torn down, roads torn up, telephone wires lying everywhere — then you have an idea of what this part of the country is like. It is truly terrible. Churches, the roads torn up, telephone wires, towns and villages are all treated the same, for I have also seen towns with not one whole building in them. The devastation is awful, and we are fighting for our lives, and not a few giving them, to save our own land from like treatment, and there are still fellows who term themselves men, and are not helping. Oh! that they would wake up and face their obligations and responsibilities. The sooner they do, the better for everyone. I wouldn’t like to force a man into this, but I would like to say something that would cause them to face it. But I must stop, as this is rather a lengthy epistle, more than I could send into the censor, but once in a blue moon we get green envelopes, and now I’m making the most of mine.’.