Haversacks are supplied by the army, but it takes such a time to get
anything, that, if the matter is urgent, it has to be done without the
army. We (the bloomin' orficers) have a "mess-cart" for all our absurd
wines and tinned peaches and things, but the men often have nothing but
the contents of their haversacks.


_June 25._

[Sidenote: READY FOR THE PUSH]

We are in a funny state of waiting for something to happen. Rumours
flying about all the time. We live on them--a bite off one, a slice off
another, a merry-thought off another. And so we learn the news of the
world. Papers when we get a chance of going into some town, and then
only two days old, or else French, which are very scrappy. Often we get
no news at all for three or four days, except what some passing
ambulance will vouchsafe. And usually they don't really know much. So
when there's an extra heavy strafing or an extra quiet lull we learn
that the entire German staff has been captured, or Rheims evacuated, or
Holland sunk, or something else equally strange. The M.G.'s were
hammering away furiously last night, and the whole line was lovely with
star shells hanging like arc lights in the air, and then dropping slowly
to earth. They light up everything like immense moons.


_June 28._

Starting from the farm where the horses are hidden at nine o'clock last
night (twenty-one, as we call it out here), after a hot meal, we