6 | p.m
I go up to Brigade with Carver in the afternoon, leaving our horses at Pink Farm. My old mare knows Pink Farm well now. When I dismounted to-day and let go the reins, she walked over to the tree that I always tie her to, under cover of the farm, quite on her own.
At H.Q. bullets are zipping over more frequently than I have ever known them to do before. Waiting to see General Doran, who should I see strolling calmly across the country but my friend Dent, of the Inniskillings. The last time we had met was at a gramophone dance at some common friends’ home in Edgbaston. We have a chat about those days, and ask each other for news of the partners we used to dance with. All the time, “ping-ping,” bullets fly about, but as he does not seem to mind, I take my cue from him and try not to mind either. Besides, it would be rather nice to get a cushy one in the arm.