The plain does not improve on acquaintance. The ground is treacherous. Men and animals stumble in sudden pot-holes. Often the animals break their legs. There are also bogs, black and deep and stinking, to which the sun’s broiling makes no whittle of difference. A picket fell in the other night; his cries awakened the tents. I have never before heard such terror laid stark in a human voice. Purple-flaring torches were rushed out to light his rescuers, but he had wandered too far before realizing what he was in, and then in a panic had gone the wrong way, and no one could find ground near enough to grip on in order to tug him out. Finally the rescue was effected with ropes thrown to lasso him. All the time, out in the dark, the man was sinking and sinking with nothing beneath him but miles of cold stinking suckingness, nothing above him to grip on. His cries were terrible. When he was finally safe, and everyone stood round holding their noses, it was seen by the fleer of the torches that he was covered with a thick layer of tiny wriggling white worms. They feed on the corruption in the bog. How many lonely terror-impregnated bones have they eaten the marrow from?

The men march fearfully and swiftly, frantic to leave the plains which they say are cursed by the ancient alien spirits which fell with the Moon when the Moon fell thousands of years ago and left the sky alone with the white stars.

The heat is terrible. My back is slowly healing. I long for cool water to soak my bandages in, but it is impossible.

Every day men fall aside from the line of march, gasping for breath, so dry they can hardly sweat.

Many get sun-stroke, but that is because they will remove their stiff helmet-caps. The old soldiers keep theirs on even when the hair seems to be roasting on their scalps.

I could stand the heat if it were not for the flies. They are incessant. Some of them are poisonous, they are all maddening.

Nothing affects Urns, his powerful legs carry him onwards steadily, swiftly and easily. He is beginning to surprise me by signs of affection. He is not what one could call an affectionate brute, but he is intelligent and seems to anticipate almost everything I do. He snarls and kicks at just about everyone who tries to touch him; only with me is he gentle.