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Where do you come from?" said my companion, a French officer. They stared uncomprehendingly. He spoke again, this time in Flemish: "Van waar komt gy? Waar gaat gy heen?" The man pointed with his hand vaguely in the direction of the Menin ridge. There followed a conversation of which I could make but little.
The voice whispered again: "Maak hast! Kom hier!" Or, "Hasten! Come here!" Nanking raised up and made a noise. "Wie komt, daar?" demanded the voice, and in a minute repeated: "Wie sprecht, daar?" They ask, "Who comes and who speaks?" said Nanking. "Blessed be the promises of heaven! It is Santa Claus!"
Here is snow back again, a nasty, comfortless, stormy sort of a day, and I will work it off at Boney. What shall I do when Bonaparte is done? He engrosses me morning, noon, and night. Never mind; Komt Zeit komt Rath, as the German says. I did not work longer than twelve, however, but went out in as rough weather as I have seen, and stood out several snow blasts. March 29, 30.