Sunday (9th February 1919)

We are now having the bright cold season.  Each morning a red sun rises above the buildings and smoke stacks of Deutz, and each evening ruddily sinks behind the forked apex of the “Dom”.  There is no wind.  The bare trees stand motionless, firmly outlined against the clear sky.

During our nocturnal prowl on “Town Picquet” we encountered numerous tipsy denizens of the demi monde, male and female, squeaking, giggling, and reeling about.  For this they were born, reared, educated, and prepared for life!

I hanker for the throbbing of propellers – single, twin – any old kind: so long as they revolve and push across the intervening brine something that will remain afloat.

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