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gloom to an orchestral accompaniment of croaking
frogs. Muttering voices of officers in the next compart-
ment. In here, the other three are asleep in various
ungainly attitudes. Young Howitt looks as if he were

Monday, May 13. (Domvast, a village 13 k. from
Abbeville.) Early yesterday morning we detrained at
Noyelles, near Abbeville. On Saturday evening we
were on some high ground while passing the environs
of Paris. Gazing out across that city I Vondered
whether I shall ever go there as a civilian. It looked
rather romantic and mysterious somehow, and a
deep-toned bell was tolling slowly. Four hours' march
from Noyelles. Got here 6.30. Into billets—farmyard
smells—all just like two years ago. Weather fine, with
a breeze behind us all the way. Country looking very
beautiful. But May is a deceptive time of year to
arrive anywhere; it creates an illusion of youth and
prosperity, as though the world were trying to be
friendly, and happiness somewhere ahead of one,

Domvast is a straggling village lying low among
orchards with the forest of Cr6cy a mile away to the
west. I went up there this morning in the rain. Endless
avenues and vistas of green—very comforting when
compared with Kantara.

I feel rather ghost-like, returning to the familiar
country and happenings. Buying eggs and butter
from Madame in the billets. The servants in the
kitchen stammering Expeditionary Force French to
the girls. The men in barns still rather pleased with
their new surroundings. All the queer Arcadian busi-
ness of settling down in a village still unspoilt by
continuous billeting and a good 30 or 40 miles from
the War.

tylay 14. Sitting in the Company Mess on a fine