Billets rotten.
We are right under a large Church, the bells of which clash out volubly each morning, about half an hour prior to reveille. The remarks of the awakened sleepers are hardly devotional. Still earlier, the cook chops wood on the hard cobbles, which almost rivals the bells in their responsive tintinnabulations.
Amazing to find myself, the erstwhile new chum, almost the oldest soldier of the remnant of my battery.
Any dicta of mine anent Germany and the Germans have been haphazard and ill-digested, and I am continuously changing my views.
Walk March 