Glorious morning after a night of bombs. Sweet September restored. One bomber was brought down in dramatic fashion by one of our planes which pounced from above, through our own barrage. A howl of jubilation from the picquet and sundry hop-out-of-bed enthusiastically-exclaimed his fall. Reinforcements arrived today and we carry on.
Cogitating the hard history of herbivorous and gramivorous animals hampered in their evolution by the unremitting pangs of hunger due to the little nourishment in their food. Under different conditions they might have excelled man-the-monkey. Their ideas are confined to food. If you use a wisp of hay to wipe the slush from their fetlocks, you face an apparition of glaring orbs and protended lips, groping for the filthy handful which you then employ as a sort of boxing glove against their astonished probosci-ae-a-es (or) –oscises – whichever be the plural of that singular word.
Reinforcements arrived, squatting on the grass attacking bully and biscuits and trying to look like veterans. The plane brought down last night was a six seater – all were killed.
Sitting on a broken tombstone, near what remains of a village church. The ground is strewn with shattered crucifixes and gaping tombs, rank grass grows over all. At the bottom of the tomb I saw a young toad, caught by one toe under a piece of a fallen slate. I couldn’t get down and had a risk of liberating his death – by dropping bits of stone on the slate, until it shifted and he crept off.