Roaster. The long threatened exchange of mules for horses has at last taken place and I rode over to the D.A.C. with who it was effected, mounted for the last time the Chieftain, leading by his side one “Neversweat”, a somewhat forlorn and raw-boned mule. What mules remained to us were later on paraded before our O.C. and assorted into fresh teams, and lo! I am still a muleteer. But my mules! Gigantic and misbegotten creations! One dusky and angular colossus, the Irish Hunter, that I well remember, during many bitter hours, lugging through the mud of Passchendaele, and his only possible mate – not quite so bulky but even more altitudinous – the great moping Poet! I have not yet attempted the ascent of either of these Averni. As a neighbour remarked, I shall require a ladder to mount and a parachute to descend. I was to have made a trip tonight but, being on picquet, a very short man took my place. I didn’t see him get up.
Walk March 