3rd and 4th (March 1918)

Another day in bunk.  I let the mountain come to Mahomet.  Whilst I sat sucking thermometer, mountain made a tour of the hut, sniffing with evident satisfaction into W’s baccy tin.  Result, about a dozen pills poured down my throat out of his hand and told to report tomorrow.  Intrigued by my ability to push the pills down with my finger, he bent over me saying “Good God man, how do you do it?  Doesn’t it make you vomit?”

Weather black, raw and dismal – the kind when you expect to hear a stray cat howling round the house.