8. Juli 1941
After three rest days we resume the advance. It is pouring with rain. Soon the tarpaulin hanging round my neck is soaked and the water is slowly seeping through my clothing to the skin. It starts above the knee, where the edges of the drenched tarpaulin discharge water onto my trousers, and from there it runs into my boots. Similaly, it drops from my wet hair down my neck. Even wearing the steel helmet is no use, as water runs off the edges onto my shoulders, which were already soaked. Fortunately here at least the streets are still paved, so at least we’re not wading through mud. Once, as we were marching past a long narrow lake, wistful memories were aroused by the sight of a white boat rocking gently in the reeds belt at the edge. As the rain showed no sign of stopping, we end the march early and settle in an impoverished village for the night. I try to have a conversation with a girl (of course!) and am amazed at how well it goes. My accommodation is a small lime washed cottage. We sleep on straw spread on the ground. The next morning we continue on a clear day.
(Translation: Phil Price)