Then stables.  Sergeant Hodge reprimanded for not having reported a bad kick.  Southcombe slacking a bit.  Must keep an eagle eye on that young man.  At the end a whistle (no trumpets allowed).  The horses all neigh and toss their heads and paw.  Nosebags are put on, and after touring round to see that all is correct we slope off to tea, which Hale and Co. have got all ready.  Luxurious menage as of yore.  But good when you’re hungry, there’s no doubt.  We are moving again—­probably to-morrow.

July 10.

We have moved.  The sixth time altogether.  Not far though.  A close view of the sweet-william hill.  It must be sketched.

I am sitting on some sacks of corn, wondering why Fritz doesn’t lob over a crump or two, just to wake us up.  Jezebel is gorging herself close by.  Swallow eats a bit, and then suddenly looks up and sniffs nervously.  I suppose he has heard a beetle trotting by, or seen a twig fall off a tree.

The horses are all picketed out in a field, and we are in bivvies.  Hale has made me a bed out of some poles and wire netting, as he says it is a clay subsoil and I mustn’t lie on the grass.  I suppose he knows.

July 12.

[Sidenote:  THE HORSES]

I’m writing this in a queer dilapidated mud cottage, inhabited by an ancient ex-soldier aged eighty-three.  He is very difficult to understand.  His language is quite foreign to me.  But he owns the quaintest little doll-like image of the Virgin in a glass case, and several Bristol balls!  I nearly fell flat when I saw them.  His grandfather, I think he says, was in England once.  The cottage is quite close to our present camp, and we go in for meals when it’s very wet.

The bed Hale made me is growing into a house.  He has discovered various old sacks, bits of tarred felt, and planks, and the place is becoming a most attractive little abode.

Then you must imagine an old wild-cherry tree, and lots of young oaks and elders, etc., all round.  Jezebel and Swallow live close by.  Jezebel has acquired a new trick.  You know she doesn’t like having her tummy groomed.  Well, now (especially, of course, when it’s very muddy) she waits till Hunt has finished dressing her, and then, as soon as his back is turned, she lies down and rolls.  Hunt is in despair.  He used to be really fond of her.  But now I believe he’d kill her if he could, sometimes.  All his labour entirely and ridiculously in vain.  I’m convinced that she does it on purpose, because she always chooses just the moment when he has achieved a beautiful polish on her, and either has to go off to breakfast or else to get the saddle or something.  It’s as good as a play.

We are learning the “tactical” merits of all the roads and woods and hills (such as they are) all along our sector of front, and as much as we can, with field-glasses, of the other side.  An offensive.  What fun.  But exactly where are we going to offend?  Rumours everywhere.  If, we say, that village or that ridge has to be taken from this or that unexpected position, how shall we do it?  Suppose we get Fritz on the hop, as they have near Peronne.  Where are the most covered approaches to the slopes of that hill?  Shall we carry the thing off as splendidly as those squadrons did before Peronne, or shall we bungle the show?  You’ll see.