The following amusing letter comes from Sapper Burrell, 1/2nd Field Company, East Anglian Royal Engineers, now stationed in Egypt. It gives us some idea of the monotony of life in that part of the globe upon which Germany has covetous eyes, and will arouse our sympathies for the lads out there, many of whom are Lutonians.

With the thermometer at 120 degrees (F), and the flies about 300 times that amount, the noble sweat-clad sapper prepares to face another day, and Sunday at that, on the golden desert, the same desert that attracts holiday makers and sightseers. How will he spend his day?

His stock of literature is exhausted, even to the labels on jam tins. His constant practice of face-gazing in the tent enables his to recognise his fellow sapper opposite him even in the dark, at a fair range.

If he was not a soldier he could probably spend an hour conjuring up in his mind as to how he shall satisfy his hunger. But being a sapper he knows only too well what his midday meal consists of, even for days ahead, for it is all stored in its own air-tight larder round the tent pole - some peach, some apricot - the very essence of vulgarity in the jam sense?

What about botany? Well, he could become a botanist, but to do that he must also be a professional pedestrian, as the nearest weed would probably loom up some 20 or 30 miles away. If he was given to writing, he could possibly produce and ode to the desert. But, there, the desert get called enough names as it is.

No, he must content himself more locally. Why not classify his kit? Pooh! He knows the exact number of buckles on his equipment and their respective uses by heart. He knows to a fraction how much wool it took to make his socks; in fact, the kit complete has been through it in the like manner.

Something entirely new is necessary. They say necessity is the mother of invention. Not so, however, or the British Army would be full to overflowing with Edisons. He may feel inclined to sing, but there are seven others in the tent besides himself, and a mess-tin is made to fit the eye of an offender in these cases.

And so it goes on from day to day and week to week and, I suppose, it will be year to year, the same exciting, nerve-racking mode of living, until one of those poor sappers drop off, some into old age or senile decay, while other are tortured with magic visions of gilt-edged discharge sheets, or trips to their homeland.

You will see one engaged in a serious rehearsal of home-coming, see him embrace his dear ones. But, unfortunately, the fellow next to him objects to being hugged while in possession of a mess-tinful of scalding tea, and immediately brings the offender from his day-dreams with the aid of his boot.

Hence the arrival of the hospital cart and the departure of another sapper, and consequently more room in the tent and something exciting to talk about.

[The Luton News: Thursday, June 29th, 1916]