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[Page 13]
Oct. 1
4.
Turning in, but for a sleep tonight. In a low dug out, heavily heaped with time rotted sand, bag'd blocks, and from time innumerable.
A mail in today – three letters from home, one from Mother July, from Grandma, and a letter Geoff had sent Mother from the land.
Already the word of Muston being turned into Flats, Lindsay evidently the Architect as Mother mentions Court spending a day there.
Outside the dugout Frank and self yarning to two of the 54th and their yarning full of the elation of all their objectives taken.
Waiting the busses outside Steenvoorde yesterday, the 8th waiting too, a party of them strolled over to talk, they mellow with rum, consequently ready for stunting.
In their first innings in this sector last week they'd only two killed: they by our own barrage.
To some others that joined in after they'd yarned a while, they introduced us as the 1st ANZAC . A.M.C. full capitals – and with becoming dignity. The new arrivals honoured us: and talked of their M.O.
"Our old quacks a M.C.: if yer sick 'e'll give you the benefit of the doubt every time! What d'you think of that?"
Always their talk is full of colour – they'll take a dozen trenches in an hour, and all the while in no spirit of boast or brag. Simply they're full of the pride they have of their own mates – that we have of them.
And now too they're admirous of the Artillery: one tonight gave word of its being 'now an Artillery man's battle'.
On the Somme it was an Infantry man's, and the beggars made it all their own.
Supper tonight: Mat in a small parcel of a towel and pair of sox (a hundred thanks for the sox Mat) enclosed a tin of asparagus, and a small tin of sweets. So for supper, asparagus.
Yesterday morning I read half of the selected Poetry of Brooke: this morning back to Keats, and read fully.
"I stood tip toe upon a little hill". Yet I haven't read "The City of Fear" fitingly, it should be read in Ypres, where it was written.
The 'City of Fear' to me, on the Somme was Bapaume.