18 August, ’15.

Last night a number of destroyers in the Channel began “talking” in their peculiar sharp yapping way with their sirens, just for all the world like a bunch of fox terriers on the scent of a rabbit. Then guns began to speak. It only lasted a few minutes. I suppose it was an airship again, or maybe just a false alarm; nothing very serious, anyhow, but a little exciting — particularly to those who have no experience at gun fire.

  A man just returned from London says that when immediate orders for the return of certain units to their regiments are given out, the news is flashed on the cinema screens, and any men there beat it to the nearest station.

There are no orders respecting my transfer yet. It has gone through, of course; but it has to be on the Daily Orders before I move over. Wish it would come. This is monotonous and I may miss the next draft. If I do, the wait may be interminable. That’s one of the main hardships in the army — at least on active service — the uncertainty and the long, long waits. I have heard that some men go crazy in the trenches when the order is delayed for some reason, after being given for a charge. And in a minor way the long wait for reviews, on special parades, and the uncertainty of moves are all irritating to the last degree. I can’t even begin to imagine why a man should want to be a soldier in peace time.