France
May, 11, 1917.
Dear Mother,
Well, I am still in the same old hole over here and rather expect to be here for a few days yet.
The weather lately has been fearfully hot, just about like the weather you’ll be having when this letter reaches you.
We have practically nothing to do here now except censor letters. So, the last couple of days I’ve been trotting around the country visiting. I know a good many of the officers and men in the Battalions near here now. Marling and Hughes are the only two of our 93rd officers I’ve seen lately. Stock was in the same battalion as Hughes, but was wounded. Sexton and Hatton also are both in England. Poor old Milburn is gone. [Gns?] Richardson and Duprey are somewhere around here, but I haven’t run across either of them yet. I’ve seen a few of our 93rd men, but they are scattered all through the battalions now.
I saw a nice little scrap the other evening. We have an observation balloon up not very far from here and the other afternoon a Fritz plane suddenly appeared and opened fire on it. Immediately they started to haul the balloon down, and our anti-aircraft guns opened up. The balloon wasn’t coming down fast enough to suit the observers, as they both jumped out and started down on their parachutes. Fritz came back three times and rapped away with his machine gun at the balloon, but did not succeed in setting it on fire. A plane of ours then came up and chased him away. A little later we saw a flight of about a dozen of our planes heading for the enemy’s lines to wipe out this insult.
On account of the hot weather here the men have already turned in their sweater-coats and underwear and have cut their trousers off above the knee. That is the regular summer style.
I don’t think that I mentioned before, that before I left England we received a couple of [245th?] men in a draft from Canada. Their regimental numbers are so big that they are a nuisance to keep track of.
Well, I’ll close now. Give my love to all.
Your loving son,
Grant Mowat.
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