It ran:
"Dear Mother:
"I'm sorry to say I am knocked out pro tem. I was fooling about
where a C.O. didn't ought to, and a Bosch bullet got me so that I
can't write. But don't worry at all about me. I'm too tough for
anything the Bosches can do. To show how little serious it is,
they tell me that I'll be conveyed to England in a day or two. So
get hot-water bottles and bath salts ready.
"Your ever loving Leonard."
This was good news. Over the telephone wire we agreed that the
letter was a justification of our yesterday's little merrymaking.
Obviously, I told her, he would live to fight another day. She was
of opinion that he had done enough fighting already. If he went on
much longer, the poor boy would get quite tired out, to say
nothing of the danger of being wounded again. The King ought to
let him rest on his laurels and make others who hadn't worked a
quarter as hard do the remainder of the war.
"Perhaps," I said light-heartedly, "Leonard will drop the hint
when he writes to thank the King for the nice cross."
She said that I was laughing at her, and rang off in the best of
spirits.
In the evening came Betty, inviting herself to dinner.
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