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fully from a thorn bush, producing the most liquid
and delicate fantasia anyone could ask for. Old vines
are half hidden by the spring growth of weeds and
grass. A tiny fly-catcher perches six feet away on a
bush, and a redstart preens himself nearby. Files of
camels plod along the road far below, and limber-
wheels crush the stones as they clatter along. (Eight
mules to each limber.) Fig trees have a few young
leaves. Clematis is over; wild roses are beginning, on
big bushes. Down the hill some gunners are busy
around their sixty-pounders, turning some sort of
wheel with a rattling noise. I watch their tiny arms
working like piston-rods. Then the unmechanical
warbler begins again with a low liquid phrase, and
a pair of buntings flutter on to a crab-apple tree near
the ledge of rock where I'm sitting.

Then a whistle blows down by the battery; a motor
bike goes along the rough road; machine-gun fire taps
and echoes to crashings away among the hills—prob-
ably only practice-firing. It is a heavenly morning
and a heavenly place. The war is quite subsidiary to
the landscape; not a sprawling destructive monster
like it is in France. Am now second-in-command of
A Company. (C Company commander is back from

April 4. A hot cloudless day. Saw a lot of griffon
vultures; also a flock of what the Doc. says must have
been black storks, moving steadily northward—rather
like aeroplanes. Wonder where they were making for.

Everyone has quite decided that we are going to
France. Probably untrue.

These hills are more lovely every day with every-
thing bursting into flower and leaf. We move down
to Ludd on Sunday. I don't want to leave these hills.

Perhaps we shall return. I wonder how I should