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[Page 104]
I notice the number at top right hand of this page and I am recalled if not to a sense duty at least a desire to wind up this sadly written sadly interrupted diary come love story. It would require a genius to give you an impression only of this place, this people, this atmosphere. I can only give a badly put together catalogue.
To you who will want something personal & something of what "People said" I can only give a sketchy paragraph.
I am writing in the mess room of the Aust. Div. H.Q. a room famous in the time of "Biscuits" otherwise Colonel Arnott who practically "made" the well appointed camp that two years ago spread out from here to the Desert for miles and umptine miles, a white city of tents. There are still tents, a mile or so but not a wide line a mere nothing to even a two year old soldier, but the tents are slowly coming down, the incinerators are throug throwing off long low lines of blue smoke and Gypos rake in the ashes for the very last trifle of buckshee bits that Australian Light Horse might leave behind.