No disturbances last night other than another whiff or two of sneezing gas and some stray shelling. A number of us are now inhabiting a bath house. I remember you remarking how when a person dies you are at once conscious that there is no one there. I feel exactly the same when confronted with the dead bodies on the battlefield – it is horrible, but “there’s no on there.”
The weather broke with a mighty thunderstorm, which poured torrents through the shot-riddled roof of our bath-house. Two of my companions hurriedly disrobed with a view of an extempore shower, but, just as they were stripped, the rain stopped, so they dressed again, expletively.
A Hun airman treated us to another balloon-burning spectacle this afternoon, bagging two, this time, in rapid succession. The guns were firing during the thunderstorm, but I think old Jupiter Pluvius put up the better showing.