9 p.m.—Got under way at 6 a.m., and are now about half-way between Paris and Rouen. We outskirted Paris. Passed a train full of Indian troops. Put off the four wounded women at Paris; they have been a great addition to the work, but very sweet and brave; the orderlies couldn’t do enough for them; they adored them, and were so indignant at their being wounded. Another man died to-day—shot through the pelvis. One of the enterics, a Skye man, thinks I’m his mother; told me to-night there was a German spy in his carriage, and that he had “50 dead Jocks to bury—and it wasn’t the buryin’ he didn’t like but the feeling of it.” He babbles continually of Germans, ammunition, guns, Jocks, and rations.
Sunday is not Sunday, of course, on a train: no Padre, no services, no nothing—not even any Time. The only thing to mark it to-day is one of the Civil Surgeons wearing his new boots.
We shan’t get any letters yet till we get to the new railhead. I’m hoping we shall get time at Rouen to see the Cathedral, do some shopping, have a bath and a shampoo, but probably shan’t.
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