A Story of War

I spend all morning looking for bloody rifles. I dig up the nullah bed, but no go. Mac has taken over the Company, so I must watch my step, I believe. I give the khassadars this morning a few “daltah rashas” and “sahib sara larshaks” which seem to sink home, but they will answer in Urdu. Just as well actually as I would not be able to understand it if they answered in Pashtu. Dicky Lonsdale tells the RSM “you know nothing about mountain warfare anyway” as a parting shot after an argument. I reckon he has to apologise as RSM is insulted to the utmost degree.

Must write to Bill tomorrow, but I suppose I shall be out turning stones for rifles. A boil on my chin, blast it. But its not going too badly. Last night, whilst beckoning sleep on my bed, I look down and see a glow-worm on the blanket, so I knocked him to the floor and put his glow out, just to be on the safe side of course.

Doulea of R.U.R. got the MC the other day down in Razani. The day their draft got shot up, he was MG officer down by Khaisora crossing. His guns had to be unloaded and got into action under fire, and apparently one lad got hit and rolled down into the nullah. Doulea hopped down, under fire, and whipped him up again. He was then hit once more and rolled down the khud, so that Doulea had to bring him up a second time.