p38  January 16, 1942 . . . .

Monday. I have now almost completely recovered from Christmas leave and except for a slight tendency to pitch forward on my face am my normal, partially-decayed self.

Tuesday. Today we rode horses. During the summer we spent two weeks riding on horses and it was a pastime I did not enjoy. I do not enjoy it now. For some reason I seem to bring out the baser nature in every horse I meet. The instructor told me that my trouble is probably due to the fact that I am subconsciously afraid of horses and they sense it. He is wrong, I believe, because I am quite consciously afraid of horses and do everything I can to hide it from them and if I cannot fool a horse I am indeed a failure in life. Usually I swagger up to my beast, pat him on the part of his head farthest away from his teeth, and busy myself professionally with the large pieces of leather that are strewn over any horse. Then he bites me. From this point on it is open war between me and the horse, with me fighting a game but losing battle. If ever I attain the high place destiny has in store for me, there are several horses I know that are going to be torn in pieces between wild automobiles.

Wednesday. My sane wife is making quite a nuisance of himself over at the Cadet Supply Room. He keeps going over and asking after his old Springfield and then telling them that Blitz is best for its butt plate, but that a soft chamois soaked in oil to which three drops of Noxon has been added is the only thing to use on the other metal. After he is thrown out he comes home and has a short cry over his poor dear gat being in the hands of strangers who do not understand it and then he starts shining his M1 which is beginning to occupy an important place in his heart.

Thursday. The weather is most inclement or at least I hope so. If it is not frost bite that is causing my toes to drop off it must be either leprosy or the accelerated rot, either of which would be decided social handicaps. We rode again today. A horse knocked my other wife down and stood on him for awhile, thus bending him badly.

Friday. Dreamt last night that demerits were alive and sprang at one out of dusty corners and unshone shoes and the like. Nasty looking little things they were too.

Saturday. My other wife had to be dragged from the motion picture show tonight gibbering with fear. There were so many horses in the feature. I heartily enjoyed myself hissing and in a couple of scenes where a horse was killed cheering like crazy.

Sunday. As the years go by a terrible conviction grows firmer and firmer on me that this is not all a bad, bad dream.

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