Had a glorious gallop for about a mile on Rangatira. Started in the rear of the ride but finished up in front and minus my hat. We are within view of a ridge over which the front line passes; French mortars are growling over there and smoke drifting about. The stew this evening was of the unappetising order which we common soldiers dub “dog’s vomit.” Went on my usual nocturnal prowl and produced a crayon drawing of hay-cocks. When you see the Lilliputian dimensions of the blocks I have to use for sketching, you will sympathise.