Timothy is immense. He is that rarest of birds, a wholly delightful
egotist. He is the sun, but we all bask and shine with reflected
glory. The men are splendid, because they are his men. I am a great
success because I am his subaltern. Fortunately we all have a sense of
humour and so are highly pleased with ourselves and each other. After
all, if one is a Captain at twenty-two ...! But he's a good soldier,
too, and we all believe in him. Timothy's all right, in spite of _la
jeunesse_!

* * * * *

Rain! The men are fifteen in a tent in a sea of mud. Poor beggars!
They are having a thin time. Working parties in the trenches day and
night; every one soaked to the skin; and then a return to a damp,
crowded, muddy tent. No pay, no smokes, and yet they are wonderfully
cheery, and all think that the "Push" is going to end the war. I wish
I thought so!

* * * * *

These rats are the limit! The dugout swarms with them. Last night they
ate half my biscuits and a good part of Timothy's clean socks, and
whenever I began to get to sleep one of them would run across my face,
or some other sensitive part of my anatomy, and wake me up. I shall
leave the candle alight to-night, to see if that keeps them away.

* * * * *

Last night the rats tried to eat the candle, and very nearly set me on