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is going round these farms buying eggs for myself, so •
you see I'm not doing so bad."

Sunday. May ig. People send me the weekly reviews
from England, but reading political journalism doesn't
make much impression on my mind. Life is condi-
tioned by the effort of campaigning, and I can see no
further than the moment when I have got this Com-
pany back from its first "show" on the Western Front.
All my efforts are centred on that, and I have, for the
time being, escaped from my own individuality (ex-
cept when I am writing my diary!) This is not a bad
state to arrive at. War has its compensations—for the
conscientious officer! . . .

Written as I lie on my bed after lunch. Mice trick-
ling about among the kit strewn on the dusty floor of
this ramshackle room with its musty old cupboards,
in which the mice live among old black dresses and
other rubbish. Handsome Howitt asleep on the floor,
with his moody sensual face and large limbs. (As
usual he looks as if he were dead.) He is a shy,
simple, rather uncouth boy—brave and reliable, I

"Stiffy" Roberts, the other ig-ycar-old officer, is
stocky and self-possessed and full of fun. Both are
inclined to indolence, but very good lads. The other
platoon commander is Harry Jones; nearly 40, clean-
shaven and saturnine and fluent with jokes and
stories. Has knocked about the world, in East Africa
and Cardiff. Result—a ruined digestion and a lot of
good sense. A knowing old bird. Am not sure how
much he can be trusted. Our fourth officer is on
leave. (Promoted from the ranks and not very pro-

Later. It is now 5.30 and I have left them all scrib-
bling down the notes on training which IVc given