As I stood in the breakfast queue I saw that the east was shot with a
delicate rose colour. The purity of the dawn seemed extraordinarily
beautiful compared with the sordid dinginess of the mud and khaki that
were always with us.

We paraded, but at first the parade did not seem so tedious as usual. I
was in the rearmost rank, standing next to a friend, Private Cowan, and
we were able to converse in whispers. He remarked that the morning was
like a "symphony in blue and gold." Even the glistening mud, usually so
hideous, was flecked with luminous patches. But my feet were becoming
numb and cold again. I felt that the pain they were giving me was about
to deprive me of all pleasure in the rising sun to which I had been
looking forward ever since reveillé. I fought against it, but it was
stronger than I. I became angry and trod the mud in order to get warm. I
gave up the attempt and waited impatiently for the end of the parade.
When the sun's rim cut the horizon and sent a shaft of light across the
land, it merely irritated me.

Three lorries arrived, our party was called out, we left the parade
ground and scrambled into them. They quickly bore us to the place where
we had worked the day before.

The sun was shining brightly. The long rows of stacked sleepers
stretched out before us. We wondered what our work would be. Someone
suggested we would have to restack the sleepers in their former places
and we did not consider the suggestion absurd.

Our Sergeant had gone to get instructions. He returned and told us a
mistake had been made the day before. We nearly groaned with