Saturday, August 15
I was helping Hutin to clean the gun.
"Well, Hutin, war's a nice sort of show, isn't it?"
"Well, if it consists in fooling about like this till the 22nd September, when my class will be discharged, I'd rather be in the field than the barracks. We've never been so well fed in our lives! If only that lasts!..."
"Yes, provided it lasts! Only, there are Boches here."
"Who cares?"
"And then, we don't get many letters."
"No, that's true; we don't get enough," said Hutin with some bitterness, viciously shoving his sponge through the bore.
And he added:
"And as for the letters we write ourselves, we can't say where we are, nor what we are doing, nor even put a date. What is one to write?"