A Story of War

Allan goes off to Naini Tal for the weekend to see his fiancee Violet, and I stay here. Go and see Peter Fisher, RA,ex Abbottabad, and fix myself up with a horse. It comes round when I want it and I tip the orderly at the end of the month. Buy myself some bush shirts of my own design and a R12/- pair of jodpurs to go with the horse, but the seat is so thin I have to send them back after two rides.

We are told to fit into the course and make up the leeway, best we can. Yesterday night we went flying with flares only. I have half an hour dual, during which I have no earthly idea where the ground is, and the instructor lands it each time. He sends me solo and I manage to get down twice though damn bad ones. I also do an Oblique Pin Pointing flight, but so damn bumpy, expect it will be useless. These Indian P/O’s are like a lot of small boys in their behaviour. There are British P/O’s from Burma and Mongolian looking fellows with them. India’s white contingent are all Sergeants for some reason.

108 degrees yesterday and it’s too hot to sleep outside under a net. The “Who’re you!” bird is about everywhere. There’s a swimming pool in the Mess, in which I wallow like a buffalo as it is too small for much serious swimming. The bazaar is very cheap, luckily, as I have to buy my kit again.