_March 28th._ These new barracks over in the main camp are too large;
not nearly so nice as our cosey little bays. I'm really homesick for
Probation and the sound of our old company commander's dulcet voice. I
met Eli on the street to-day and I almost broke down on his neck and
cried. He was the first familiar thing I had seen since I came over to
the main camp.
_March 29th._ This place is just like the Probation Camp, only more
so. Life is one continual lecture trimmed with drills and hikes--oh,
when will I ever be an Ensign, with a cute little Submarine Chaser all
my own?
_April 6th._ The events of the past few days have so unnerved me that
I have fallen behind in my diary. I must try to catch up, for what
would posterity do should the record of my inspiring career in the
service not be faithfully recorded for them to read with reverence and
amazement in days to come?
One of the unfortunate events arose from scraping a too intimate
acquaintance with that horrid old push ball. How did it ever get into
camp anyway, and who ever heard of a ball being so large? It doesn't
seem somehow right to me--out of taste, if you get what I mean. There
is a certain lack of restraint and conservatism about it which all
games played among gentlemen most positively should possess.
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