Severe thunderstorm last night from 7:30—8.00 p.m. and torrents of rain. A slight frost and another lovely day. The concert by Div. Follies of eight men was quite good, and the men enjoyed it; it bored me to tears. John Redmond writes to me he has sent a parcel of shamrock for the men of the 17th! So peaceful in the sun; one hardly hears the guns. I hear leave is to open again next week. Just had a bath and feel clean. I had a talk to the N.C.O.s today, the first time I had been able to get them together for ages—their duties and responsibilities as leaders—and a general talk about the war, and how it is progressing everywhere. Am having a short Battalion parade in the morning, and we have to send 600 men for working party to dig trenches, at 6.00 p.m. The shower last night was very partial, and they did not get it on the line, I believe. Poor Stewart has died at Rouen. He was badly mauled about the face, eye, and brain, with shrapnel. If this weather lasts we shall soon have the trenches in grand order. Two bales of socks have come and Fergie is to let me know how many. He and the Transport are three miles away, which is rather a nuisance, but he’s got such a splendid store and place generally, and is so handy to the trench line, that it’s not worth moving him. I couldn’t manage Barossa Day.


The casualty was:
18066 Private Thomas Stewart, wounded by shrapnel on 7 March and died of wounds on 12 March 1916 in hospital at Rouen; St Marie Cemetery, Le Havre.

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