A Story of War

No malaria again so far, and damn all to shoot either. The jungle chandikar takes me for four miles down the bottom of the tea (plantation) and along the railway and he and his friends beat the jungle for me. We see signs of deer but nothing comes out of the beat, and we tramp wearily home. Joyce, the aunt, comes back from Darjeeling and cheers the place up a little, but still nowt to shoot. Papers full of the Arakan and I’m sure we must have had some casualties down there, and expect I shall have to go back again shortly.

Pleasant rest up here, with home grown and cooked food more or less, and I feel no desire to fly an aircraft again just now. Greta Howard, Teddy’s kept woman, wept on my shoulder in the Ranchi Club when I told her about Maungdaw. The selfish bitch! – expecting someone else to do the dirty whilst she kept Teddy warm in bed.

I have thought up another, in fact two or even three, immediate objectives but somehow I doubt if any of them will come off. If not then I’m sunk. Nothing yet published of what I told the Public Relations officer one day at Maungdaw, about army-co-operation, and especially about ‘a pilot from the Indian Army’ flying over his own battalion (Mike) – he thought that was terrific. But kutchke nahum done.  (JDW: ‘bugger all’ in Urdu?)

The 4th Battle of Donbaik appears to have failed, as I forecast!