The pink clouds are sent up by crumps as they explode amongst the
remains of the brick houses.]

_November 1._

It's a superb day, and we are back at ----, one of our old billets,
right away from the beastliness. And although leave won't be for another
week or two, still, it will come soon. And Swallow is in tremendous
spirits.

Here is a drawing done surreptitiously of a tank in full view of Fritz.
You see those little stumps of trees? Well, I'll tell you what those are
called when we meet, and also what village is just on their left. You
may say it was stupid to sit in full view of Fritz, but it was the day
after an advance, and there's hardly ever anything doing then in
the way of sniping. The guns, of course, are all pooping off, but they
weren't shelling just there, so it was quite safe. This drawing gives
you some idea of the desolation, but none of the unevenness of the
ground. You can't walk in a bee-line for three yards without getting
into a hole. The last time I was in those parts, by the way, I came on a
rather jolly cottage wineglass that had been thrown out into some soft
mud, and was not even cracked.

_November 6._

[Sidenote: COCQUEREL]

An extraordinary change. Let me now give you an idea.

We are in a pretty little country village miles and miles away, and
(although one of Fritz's aeroplanes flew over the church as bold as
brass just before we got in) the quiet and peace of the place is very
refreshing. And, droll to relate, I'm writing this in bed, with a touch
of flu--such a bed, too, all soft and billowy. In ordinary life it would
be condemned as a "feather" bed, but now it is a bed for princes.

And the room. A rather dark old-fashioned paper, an old clock ticking,
an old shining chest of drawers with a marble top, and clothes hanging
on pegs. Hale has arranged the pistol, and ammunition, and maps, and
gas helmets, and steel helmet, and spare kit, with great elaboration,
all over the room. At the present moment he is "sweeping out" with the
appropriate hissing noises. The dust will, I hope, subside during the
course of the day.

Hunt has got Jezebel, Swallow, and Tank into a disused barn, where they
will be warm and happy.

Out of the window I can see hens pecking in an orchard, and an old grey
pony browsing. The leaves are yellow, and there's no wind.

The old man and the old lady to whom the cottage belong have brought me
in some little "remedes," which Tim refuses to let me ha