Monday. I think that I shall never see a horse as lovely as a tree. And I despise trees. Lately at riding we have been gathering together in a large unwieldy mass of men and horses and scurrying around and around the ring together. Then at an order, shouted in a well-modulated, commanding voice, we young centaurs spin gracefully about our traverse axis and all Hell breaks loose. The agonized screams of dying men and horses rend the air and a fine mist of blood arises. I never believed in the Headless Horseman until I saw him this afternoon. Wearing Drill C too, oddly enough.
Tuesday. Today I was dragged, biting and scratching, over to the hospital and there I was severely inoculated by the Hospital Staff. There was some initial difficulty in injecting me, as the needle was larger than my poor, thin arm; but those doctors are very determined and eventually succeeded in pumping about a Flit Gun full of typhoid serum into me. My poor corpuscles who have not seen blood for so long that they have forgotten how to swim very nearly drowned. The main result of this inoculation so far has been that I have swelled to three times my normal size and it is possible to fry eggs upon my temples. My sane wife has also been affected rather adversely and is now turning black. I am very sorry for him but I do wish that he would stop his annoying appeals for water.
"Flit Gun full of typhoid serum. . ."
Wednesday. We went out to the Field Artillery range again today. My other wife will never make an artillerist, or at least not until he learns that "Pull pin, prepare to throw, throw" is not the correct command sequence for a firing battery.
Thursday. Spring and its concomitants: garish flowers, noisy birds, glaring sun, sinus trouble, and the Cosmic Urge, seems to really be here at last. I have noted a quickening interest in things on the part of both my wives. My sane wife has given away a miniature complete with Blitz cloth and detailed instructions for use of same. And my other wife has learned how to throw the bolos. This promises to be an eventful year. For me, too.
Friday. We rode again today. From this day henceforth I am going to be one of the best of boys and concentrate upon the eventual attainment of Heaven. Because if I go to the other place I am afraid I know exactly what I shall find there. Probably the same instructor too. We did a good bit of slow trotting without stirrups today, a pastime akin to riding an inverted pile driver.
Saturday. Today we attended a ripping review and inspection. The uniform was Full Dress Grey. My other wife having failed to shine his F. D. hat and having decided that "improper uniform" cost less than "wormy brass on Full Dress hat", wore a dashing, grey, snap-brim felt, a relic of earlier, happier days, to the review and following inspection. He is now cutting it up bite-size for obvious reasons.
Sunday. My sane wife, dreamer that he is, has been designing our class monument. It is on the order of the Washington Monument. Only bigger. And barbed.
Images with borders lead to more information.
The thicker the border, the more information. (Details here.)
The Collected Works of Ducrot Pepys
History of West Point
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Page updated: 16 Aug 12