7 January, ’16.

Moved into new billets with two good boys, both very nice. We are all in one room, nineteen in the house altogether. Our window overlooks the sea. Feel very pleased with everything, just old lady — young son, boy scout — got breakfast for all of us this morning. Mother sick. Helped him at night to wash dishes — Awfully nice kid.

Yesterday met a man going blind with ptomaine poisoning. Gave him note to Lal — seemed awfully strange sending messages like that, made the distance between us seem closer, and yet, oh, so far away.

In my heart, I don’t think I’ll be home next Xmas. I don’t think this war will be completed by then, and again when it’s over they can’t ship every one over inside six months. It’s Hell; but it’s better to face it than kid yourself.