As well as the rain, a bundle of letters from Hun prisoners of war to their folk in Germany fell over night, some of them being still hung up in the tree tops. Our Airmen entrusted with their delivery over the Bosche lines must have miscalculated. All on official letter cards made for the purpose and unsealed; but being no German, I could not read Karl’s messages to Gretchen.
A Tommy captured a live mole; its skin was beautifully sleek and soft. The wretches took it away to the Cook to skin it. I have long given up interfering in such matters – like interfering with a man beating his wife; it does not pay. Anyhow, what’s a murdered mole, when men are being butchered in millions.
Walk March 