During inspection a Fritz plane cut an amazing caper in the sky, giving some elaborate smoke signals that left a huge scroll of white vapour hanging around. Another incident was meeting under “impossible” conditions an old school-chum, Tom Seddon, as the red hatted olympians stalked majestically passed. I noticed one of them going through strange facial contortions as he looked from me to W. and from W. to me. Eventually he sneaked behind and greeted us in undertone to which we muttered our replies. Our new C.O. also had a word with me. I got a good “one on to him” when he said my face was familiar, with “Yes, Sir, I’m the man you gave fatigues for not shaving the other day”. The Villian returned from leave yesterday more pessimistic than ever. Of the fatigues I referred to I am still ashamed. Along with that little gambling expert, we had to clean the “Cape Cart” (used for carrying food-stuffs), out of sight we “cleaned” it with water from a shell-hole full of bones from the cookhouse. Here and there Belgian peasants plough and harrow the farms as though the war was not. By the way, the school-book type of “the horse with very arched neck, small head and projecting lips” is actuality. The farm horses here are of that kind.
Walk March 