July 30th 1942

We have a funeral that evening and I am a pall bearer. I get the middle, a bad position, and the sweat streams down all over my body despite the hour, 7pm. Then standing to attention by the grave during the service is an ordeal. Little tricklets of sweat everywhere, and I’ll swear the flies balance on them and slide down my face.

CO writes Robin’s mother a letter, and none of us approve of it, but that’s that. Page 3 of an airgraph from Ma – the first communication since Iraq and RS 50/- from the U.S.I. Journal. I seem to spend most of my time up here by the mess swimming pool with a book. All I seem to do in the morning is a little link trainer.

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