his mind. He didn't come. But we survived the disappointment. However Scobee's collapse was not permanent. He was well and strong enough by Saturday to go thirty miles on the hike. . . . Kessler walks around continually talking about a cofïee-cake. I think he'd willingly be bombed if he could get that cherished cake. As I understand it, the cake is about seven inches high and rich—about as rich as a Major-General. But the thing that makes the coffee-cake so precious is that it's to be made by his mother. . . . I bought a small suit-case last night to keep some of my junk in but somebody sent Kessler a pie and he's hidden it in my suit-case. Then he stood the suit-case on end. 'Look out, Kes,' I said, 'or you'll ruin the pie.' But what I really thought was, he'd ruin the suit-case. . . . From all of which you would think Kes was a baker in balmier days but he wasn't. He was a tailor. But he's a swell guy and has a laugh so infectious that when he chuckles the whole army laughs. Perhaps when he gets across, he may
make such a hit with the enemy, they'll refuse
