A STROLL WITH THE PADRE
It was terrific. But anyway, he seems to have
got over it/
The wind and the rain on the plateau were so
fierce that it nearly swept our feet off the wooden
causeway that led to the battery. And it was a great
relief to stumble down the muddy steps into a hole
warmed by a fireplace contrived from petrol tins.
Nevertheless, the chimney drew very well. Here we
found an officer and a few gunners.
'What do you do all day in this hole of yours?3
I asked.
'My men write letters and I censor them/
He looked at the formidable pile that had
accumulated on his table and gauged it with an
expert eye.
'There's about an hour and a half's censoring
there/ he said, 'but by the time I've got 'em finished
they'll have written just such another pile. It's
appalling!'
At a white wood table the gunners sat writing
intensely their interminable epistles.
'But what can they find to say?'
It hardly ever varies. "I am well. The food is
good. We are living in mud. . . /' and the rest's
family affairs, household tiffs that last a couple of
weeks—which is what it takes to exchange two or
three letters. There's also my official corre-
spondence. It's quite funny now and again/
'For instance?'