g and laughter, of anticipations, hope, and the
yearning for LIFE: of long-drawn-out confabs over the glowing embers of
a red-hot brazier, the crimson glow shining upon faces that showed so
little of aches, fears, longings, masked behind the curling smoke from
screening pipes. Silence fall oft-times upon the khaki figures clustered
round the genial warmth. Each man to his own dire thoughts ... home,
wife, or girl.

Tucked within blankets, heads propped on hands, pipes and cigarettes
going, they peered with unseeing eyes into the mad crackle of burning
timber. Softly would the melody of a song be hummed, caught up by chorus
and wafted out into the indigo mystery of the night. Quiet for a few
minutes, an occasional snore and then sure as fate a last parting shot
from the Duo.

No. 1: "No one knows."

No. 2: "No--and the impossibility--"

No. 1: "Yes. Yet they must. If not, how do they exist?"

Pause and a soft chuckle.

No. 2: "Of course they have. Yet the agony--."

Curiosity overcoming the remainder a series of questions popped up.
"What is impossible?", "Why must who?", "What agony?"

No. 1: "You see, no one knows?"

Exasperated chorus: "Knows what?"

No. 1: "Why, if flies have toothache."

And then oblivion claims into its own soundless peace the outstretched
forms of rough warriors and removes them from grim reality into the
passing realms of a fantastic dream--Arcadia.

Mail days are pleasant. Excited anticipation for your name as each
parcel or letter is read out, dull disappointment if your issue is
napoo.

Parcels. Oxo cubes, of course. Utilised because of adhesive qualities
for throwing at a target as darts. Cafe au lait, a useful preparation
for spreading on bread in lieu of posie (jam) that has mysteriously
evaporated. A pair of silk socks, purple with gold spots. Will come in
useful as a rifle rag. A long, wide woolly article resembling a cross
between a scarf and a blanket ... do as a pillow. A large cake, two
packets of chocolate and fifty fags. Hum, won't go far among ten. A pot
of jam--go fine on the cake or may tackle it with a spoon. And a brief
note hidden away at the bottom--"For my boy."

God, how it hurt. What surging memories of a mother's love, of a
mother's eternal tender care, swarmed up mistily before the eyes.
Secretly, half-ashamedly, are such missives carefully put away. The mind
vividly pictures the animated packing by willing hands in the humble
homestead--a lump forces