To the tune of a mouth organ attempting everything from "Melody in F" to "O, du lieber Augustine," and the noise issuing from a stud poker game going on at the other end of the room, I sat down to write this evening. It is pretty bad here, but worse in my own car. Five new men came yesterday to take the places of some of our fellows who are sick. Powell and Haven have pneumonia and Harry Iselin is still ill with scarlet fever. And since there are always a couple of chaps laid up with grippe or tonsilitis, we can make good use of them.
Today we had for breakfast what André, the cook, calls "Quawcour Ats"—(oatmeal). This was followed by the usual stale bread and jam. About once a week we get a little butter, and last Sunday morning we were given one fried egg apiece upon a square inch of ham. I believe I enjoyed it more than any meal I have ever eaten. For dinner we had some rather tough Irish stew, which André says he used to make for Baron Rothschild, with pinard and cheese for dessert. Supper was a three course meal with army bread soup, boiled lentils
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