From St. Kloi, Philip Oihb and I surveyed the battle fields of the Vimy Ridge, it was a landscape, any other landscape. The silence of the cold winter evening after sunset was threatened rather than broken by the booming of the suns that never cease now in this devoted countryside. A solitary shell burst in Venice, a man of a very inconsiderate melancholy, seemed in a meditative manner on the "Ruins of Knipires" but was probably reflecting on the chances of our being frozen during the journey back to our quarters. We were. The poles have no terrors for me now. But my spirits always rise as the thermometer falls below freezing. Snow is beautiful to me; I hate mud, of which I did not encounter a single sob, and I am none the worse for my freezings. The Somme front in the snow and brilliant sunshine was magnificent. The irony of the signposts was immense. "To Maurepas"; and there was no Maurepas. "To Contalmaison"; and there was no Contalmaison. "To Boileres"; and there was no rozieres. I went to the windmill of Pozieres, and saw a little mound on which the windmill must have stood. Trones wood was a coconut shy with no coconuts on the sticks; our suns had scooped all that the other fellow's guns had left. 