Back at Bus-les-Artois to the same old round of duties and the same old donks – if this were a novel the latter would have scented me in the distance and whinnied their welcome – in hard fact they remained perfectly indifferent and for my part I hardly recognised them owing to the growth of their coats. The crops have also grown wonderfully in so short a space, some fields of scarlet clover are a brilliants blazes of colour; and poppies make vivid patches in the green. I see quite a number of new faces in the battery, showing how rapidly personnel changes in a unit. It is curious to see that as soon as I got back here I heard the cuckoo’s call, yet never heard a single one at the hospital. Perhaps the wood there is not large enough to support one – they have, I believe, a reputation for greed and intrusiveness. (The warning trumpet puts an abrupt end to these startling disclosures).
Walk March 