I disembarked, dear aunt, in la Mamora,
where the next morning I saw in the fog
from the safe haven of my trusty armor,
all the confusion of a moorish mob.

Plumes running to the rescue all atremble
from south, and north, and from all Castille teem,
ordering, if not some veal piccata,
at least a fresh sip from an old canteen.

One soldier flattened our opponent's soil
by stretching out to sleep; another man —
a watchful sapper ever working on — he

shoveled in a sub: and in this war
the only hero I've seen yet is that one.
From La Mamora. Wednesday morning. Johnny.