Thursday (17 April 1919)

Blowing big guns all day.  The equator is a myth, and we expect to enter the Panama Canal in a snow-storm.

Reading Balzac’s “Eugenie Grandet”.  Becoming quite an adept in flying about in mid-air ascending and descending my hammock.  This is the only exercise I get.  Physical jerks are a thing of the past: the army suffers from ennui and would rudely resent any such proposition.

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