7.30 p.m
I am writing this in our “bivvy” once more, and aeroplanes are up spotting for the 60-pounders. They have just pooped off. One almost shakes the cliff when she fires. Asia has answered, but the shell has pitched on the east side of “W” Beach. The suspense of waiting for these shells is getting on the nerves of us all. What gets on my nerves more than shells is the losing of the “pukka” regular officers of this splendid Division, who are so cheery and manly, so reassuring to one and to each other. When they are killed, the stuffing and grit are almost knocked out of you. We four Supply Officers have now been under fire almost every day since April 25th, night and day, and a rest away from it all would be awfully welcome. Yet we pull ourselves together when we realize what the infantry have gone through and are still going through; I hate talking like this, it makes me think I am getting “wind up.” Fish is plentiful to-day, killed by Asia’s shells, brought in by enterprising Greeks and sold to Tommies. Excellent eating.