Sirens at 4am in bright moonlight. Can this really be the end of the war? All the papers tell us that it is. If so,
Busy all day, endless memos. The whole office ought to go out into the
harvest fields. Told Capt. Folkard, but he
only laughed.
Post again at 9pm. Not many ‘planes. Page was on with me, earnestly expecting a
‘diver’ all night, but nothing came.
Cloudy, and the moon rising behind.
At 1am felt restless, and cycled to Wormingford and back, then bed at
3. The clouded moon made a strange
half-light, like a dream. But then the
whole existence we lead now is indeed like a dream.
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