And they will call me dull and morose and cynical—and even priggish when I keep myself aloof from them. And the ladies for whom I gave my strength and more will leave me for the healthy, bouncing beggars who stayed at home—even as nationally the Neutrals get the good things now. And there are thousands worse than I—may we all die together in one final bloody holocaust and before the Peace Bells usher in the realisation of our fears. And then, on howling winter evenings, our spirits might ride the cloud-wrack over these blood-soaked hills, shrieking and moaning with the wind, to drown the music of their dancing, so that they huddle together in terror, the empty-headed women and the weak-kneed, worn-out men as we laugh at their petty, soulless lives. Within a week I shall be dead or mad. _Aug. 19._ Very hot to-day—feeling feverish and weak—what futile words! _Aug. 20._ Division on our right attacked and captured objectives. Three lines in the _Daily Mail_ to-morrow—three hundred corpses grinning at the stars to-night—in three years oblivion—War! _Aug. 21._ Working on Ferret Farm. On way up Fritz got six shells bang into the middle of the parties in the sunken road—one sapper and several P.B.I. hit and Day badly damaged in the face with a stone. The limber horses behaved wonderfully, and one team didn’t move an inch although a shell burst right under their tail board. Very lucky not to have had lots more casualties. On the track we were shelled again and had to pass through heavy gas in the region of the stream. Almost immediately after starting work Bosche put down a heavy barrage and we lay on our faces for three-quarters of an hour. Heavy shelling continued all night with a lot of machine-gun fire and gas. Was busy with casualties all night and feel like a corpse myself now. _Aug. 22._ Beastly hot day and was tortured to death in the evening by mosquitoes—during this warm weather one usually knocks about in the day-time in one’s shirt which becomes saturated with sweat, and then dries off again in the cool of the evening—the mosquitoes love the stink and after dusk they feed on us in millions—there is no respite, you grow tired of killing them and dawn finds you on the edge of insanity, swollen like a long-dead mule. It is these things which constitute the horror of war—death is nothing. Wrote a cheerful letter home saying that I am very well and happy. _Aug. 23._ Was riding up last night through a strafe with Day when a gas shell exploded just in front of our bicycles—we jumped off at once but before we could get our bags on we swallowed rather a large dose—didn’t worry very much and carried on with the night’s work. _Aug. 24._ In the morning bust up completely and spent the day in bed—pulled myself together and managed to get up the line again at night.