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Monday night: Imagination is more than needed to picture me here tonight, dearest. The temperature has fallen to 60 [degrees] and a cold, bleak gale is raging. Shirts & sweater do little to stop my shivering. The mountains beyond the valley, looks ever so picturesque ; the crest-line is now cloaked in rolling clouds.

I promised myself to see "Wings of the Morning" but duty prevents it. Revised orders have trebled our nightly prowls.

Before deciding to write, I read a classical tragedy written in the 16th century. The story centred about "a monk & the hangmans daughter" in the vicinity of Buchtesgaden. Firstly
his interests was only of compassionan & later a cruelly silent love. His soul was tortured between the Earthly & the Spiritual. The tragic conclusion was his hanging for the murder of the beautiful but outcast Benedicta. (Hence Benedictine liquer) He took her innocent life to save her soul from the lure of a consuming & insincere swain.

A little more thoughtful than usual I went hunting all alone on Sunday. In all my wanderings I saw not even a native. Instead of creeping after game I felt quite content to sprawl ontop of the ridges & take in the view & its loveliness. For nearly two hours I either dreamed or slept - what relaxation compared with camp & its crazy rumours. I gave myself a wish - a wish that you were close to me -