In the waning light the result of military operations was scarce noticeable. The fine spell had brought the grass on and one could feel almost like a peacetime traveller. A stream that is a very glum affair by day, was catching the last of the light, the clumps of scraggy trees concealed their war-gashes and the hideous holes in the building went un-noticed in dark silhouettes against the tinted sky. We have had with us lately the sort of man I like and can get on with – a middle-aged ex-navy man, with a dark moustached visage and keen glittering eyes. His language and outlook generally are quite astounding. Once, when limber gunner, he deprived undetected all the neighbour tommy batteries of their gear. He is “Brigham” Young.
We have the gramophone in our hut tonight, under the superintendence of the Villian, whose redeeming point is his fondness for music. He has been very lively during the past few days, but the dulcet sounds have soothed the savage breast.