A Story of War

Whilst in the “Monk’s Retreat” last Thursday, drinking Guiness through necessity, not through choice, I see  two Waaf NCOs with two Yanks. As I leave I say to one of them “Whose country is this?” (her Yank is out powdering his nose) and we get talking and she gives me her phone number, and we arrange to meet on Monday outside “Blossoms”. I ring up over the weekend and meet her in town last night. She is one Joan Hoffman, a Sergeant in the Waaf police in Chester. We sit in “Bollands” and then the “Pied Bull” – she looks into the office to see if the D.A.P.M. is out of the way, then we repair to a dark corner of the “Rows” for a cigarette and a natter. She gets playful, so I kiss her good and hearty and return her to her patrol at about 10.45.

A wire from Ma that she is coming on Wednesday if I can get accommodation, so that will cramp my style. I go to Elsie Dobbie that was – now Mrs McCoy – for supper tonight. An A.M.O. (JDW: Air Ministry Order?) advising regular army officers to return to the army if they want to keep their commissions after the War, so it looks as though I may fall between two stools – no permanent commission in the RAF and not taken back into the Indian Army.