There was father and the cake all lit up in the center of the table; I mean the cake, not father, of course.  And there was Gladys (I always called her “Glad").  She’d been coming to my birthday parties for years and years.  She always came first and left last and ate the most and got the sickest of all the girls I knew.  It was appalling how that girl could eat.

But, as I was saying, there was father and the cake, and there was mother and “Glad” and all the little candles were twinkling, lighting up my presents clustered around, among them being half a dozen maroon silk socks, a box of striped neck ties, all perfect joys; spats, a lounging gown, ever so many gloves and the snappiest little cane in all the world.  And what have I around me now?  A swab on one side, a bucket on the other, a broom draped over my shoulder, C.P.O.’s in front of me, P.O.’s behind me and work all around me—­oh, what a helluvabirthday!  I told my company commander last night that the next day was going to be my birthday, hoping he would do the handsome thing and let me sleep a little later in the morning, but did he?  No, the Brute, he said I should get up earlier so as to enjoy it longer.  As far as I can find out, the Camp remains totally unmoved by the fact that I am one year older to-day—­and what a hubbub they used to raise at home.  I think the very least they could do up here would be to ask me to eat with the officers.

March 28th. These new barracks over in the main camp are too large; not nearly so nice as our cosey little bays.  I’m really homesick for Probation and the sound of our old company commander’s dulcet voice.  I met Eli on the street to-day and I almost broke down on his neck and cried.  He was the first familiar thing I had seen since I came over to the main camp.

March 29th. This place is just like the Probation Camp, only more so.  Life is one continual lecture trimmed with drills and hikes—­oh, when will I ever be an Ensign, with a cute little Submarine Chaser all my own?

April 6th. The events of the past few days have so unnerved me that I have fallen behind in my diary.  I must try to catch up, for what would posterity do should the record of my inspiring career in the service not be faithfully recorded for them to read with reverence and amazement in days to come?

One of the unfortunate events arose from scraping a too intimate acquaintance with that horrid old push ball.  How did it ever get into camp anyway, and who ever heard of a ball being so large?  It doesn’t seem somehow right to me—­out of taste, if you get what I mean.  There is a certain lack of restraint and conservatism about it which all games played among gentlemen most positively should possess.  But the chap who pushed that great big beast of a push ball violently upon my unsuspecting nose was certainly no gentleman.  Golly, what a resounding whack!  This fellow (I suspect him of being a German spy, basing my suspicions upon his seeming disposition for atrocities) was standing by, looking morosely at this small size planet when I blows gently up and says playfully in my most engaging voice: