They took us to the French and English "front" and away from Greece; we were in Bulgaria and Servia.
It was at a place where the three boundaries met.

We saw remarkable mountain ranges and deep snow, and some fine artillery.

But throwing shells into that bleak, white jumble of snow and rocks--there was fifty miles of it--was like throwing a baseball at the Rocky Mountains.
Still, it was seeing something.

Now, I have a room, and a very wonderful one.

I had to bribe everyone in the hotel to get it; and I have something to write and, no more moving about I hope, for at least a week.