A Story of War

I turned out to play football the other day, and find four teams, including the R.A. in possession of the field. An R.A. officer comes up to me and we sort out the tangle. Then he says, “Are you Hugh D.W?” I say, “No,” and then it turns out he is Godfrey Pearse, up here after three years in Singapore. I went down Thursday night and had a few beers on him. There are a lot of dust devils going about just now. We had a lot on the range, and one got into the butts whilst the small figure targets were up, and spun them all around. Bakhshi Joe started up again today, whilst we are on P.T. There seems to be another gang around here just now, sniping R.P. troops and being a bloody nuisance.

A platoon of our range covering troops got sniped on Goat yesterday. Shots were hitting their sangars, and they said they saw two of the Dushmen moving in the hillside. And all they did was let them have 21 shots from V.B.

I have brought a pair of soccer boots in the bazaar for Rs14, made at home, and they are a great improvement to my game. We played Pearse and his gunners today, and it was a bloody awful exhibition. They took about 5-1 off us, but their troops know less about the game than I do. They won’t kick it, they dribble round and then lose it, and above all they won’t mark their opposite numbers.

Extract from Bn Orders of yesterday. “All officers below field rank, and all PSMs will write an essay on the following subject in it’s relation to the defence of the Empire. “A marked failure to appreciate the factor of TIME on the part of the great democracies is the greatest military danger of the day.” It took me the time of two cups of tea, before I understood its meaning at all. The sappers and miners bell has just rung 8, so I must go and drink my troubles away. Orderly officer tomorrow again.