A lovely day after a horrid evening and night. My hut is getting quite cosy, lined with sacking, and a window and door. Writing now with afternoon sun streaming in. It’s very pleasant. The men are trying to play football in a rough field in front, full of shell holes; probable result: sprained ankles. Sergt. Barbour slipped on the greasy mud this a.m., and he’s gone to hospital with a sprain. Last night was decidedly chilly; very cosy in bed, but horrid outside. We go in again tomorrow night. They all seem in great feather over the French and doings generally in the S [south]. I must confess that right up to the end I was skeptical about the end of the Boer War and I was wrong. Maybe I’m wrong now, but I see no signs of German weakening. Marvellous to say they do not at present seem to be deficient of men.

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