I had hardly any sleep last night. Every quarter of an hour the train stopped, and men attacked by dysentery trod on me as they hurriedly made for the doors in order to jump down on the permanent way. This morning the same scramble continues. As soon as the train stops one has a vision of files of gunners making for the bushes, whence they hastily return when the whistle blows. Luckily the train gathers speed very slowly.
A melancholy day — spent in absently watching the country roll past, one’s mind always hypnotized by the thought of defeat. . . .
Often the train does not go faster than a man walking.