Military Life on the Malabar Coast of India in WWII.
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Stanwell (#18), old son - I think you're on a hiding to nothing there ! The only Rolls Razors left now will be in some museum. The electrics have taken over (although there are still some hardy souls scraping away with Gillette' s finest).
I like the Philips (rotary) myself.
Danny.
I like the Philips (rotary) myself.
Danny.
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Let me out !
Pom Pax (#20),
I am a bit puzzled about this, too, but hazard a guess as follows:
As he went out in summer '42, he may have got lucky and been repatriated before Japan surrendered in August. The normal rule was "THERE'S NO DISCHARGE IN THE WAR". But as he had nothing to fight in the UK, and as an "old soldier" would be in an early Release Group Number, maybe the authorities had decided to "jump the gun"'.
Another possibility: was he on disembarkation leave on VJ Day ?
Your Demobilisation (Release group) Number depended on how many "points" you could amass. You got so many for age, so many for being married, for number of children, for overseas service, and for everything else you could think of.
The more points you had, the lower your Release Group number, and people were called for in order of that number. Or that was the idea, anyway. Worked fairly well.
Danny.
...He went East in the summer of '42. initialy to Ceylon. Later to Chittagong and eventually down the Chinwin and Irrawaddy via Mandalay to Rangoon. Now he was on demob leave by VJ Day and probably had been for several weeks already. So he must have got a very early boat back even if they now came via Suez...
As he went out in summer '42, he may have got lucky and been repatriated before Japan surrendered in August. The normal rule was "THERE'S NO DISCHARGE IN THE WAR". But as he had nothing to fight in the UK, and as an "old soldier" would be in an early Release Group Number, maybe the authorities had decided to "jump the gun"'.
Another possibility: was he on disembarkation leave on VJ Day ?
...what factors determined priority...
The more points you had, the lower your Release Group number, and people were called for in order of that number. Or that was the idea, anyway. Worked fairly well.
Danny.
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Fareastdriver (#18),
...In my experience of Asia I would have thought that there was quite a lot of social life available; and quite cheap, too...
(Seventy years ago, in towns) Cheap - but nasty, and you might come away with more than you bargained for ! 
In the bundu villages, not in your worst nightmares !
Danny.
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Thanks Danny,
I think you got it "was he on disembarkation leave on VJ Day ?". Such matters were not explained to a 7 year old.
I was staying with my Uncle and Aunt in Cricklewood when I was woken at I think about 10.15 p.m. by train whistles, vehicle horns, shouting (and fire works?) whether I dared get up or waited until breakfast to ask what all the noise was about. Anyway the answer was "its all over", dim me needed more explaination.
I remember my Uncle took me everywhere and he was very smart in his uniform. On the buses we generally traveled free or for the minimum fare (I expect this was so there was a ticket to flash at an inspector)
I think you got it "was he on disembarkation leave on VJ Day ?". Such matters were not explained to a 7 year old.
I was staying with my Uncle and Aunt in Cricklewood when I was woken at I think about 10.15 p.m. by train whistles, vehicle horns, shouting (and fire works?) whether I dared get up or waited until breakfast to ask what all the noise was about. Anyway the answer was "its all over", dim me needed more explaination.
I remember my Uncle took me everywhere and he was very smart in his uniform. On the buses we generally traveled free or for the minimum fare (I expect this was so there was a ticket to flash at an inspector)
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As I hinted, in the "Military Life on the Malabar Coast..." Thread, I have a (true) story to tell, worthy of the the imagination of a Somerset Maughan, although told with only an iota of his skill. So now, if the Moderator will allow me, I am going to read you a Play ("wot I have wrote", as Ernie Wise used to say) based on it. And it will not be a Play, nor even the Book of a Play, but rather an extended reviewer's synopsis of a play, as it were. And it will be written almost all in the third person, with very little dialogue. It will be in the form of two Acts and and a number of scenes, and I shall call it "Interlude", for that is what it was. And I can assure the Moderator that I appear in the second Act, so it deserves a place in this Forum.
And it is the story of six months in the life of a (then) young lady of my own age in India in the final year of the war, and its immediate aftermath. I shall call her June (which was not her name, as the lady may yet live, tho' it is doubtful). And those looking forward to a bonkbuster or bodice-ripper are going to be sadly disappointed.
Danny42C.
And it is the story of six months in the life of a (then) young lady of my own age in India in the final year of the war, and its immediate aftermath. I shall call her June (which was not her name, as the lady may yet live, tho' it is doubtful). And those looking forward to a bonkbuster or bodice-ripper are going to be sadly disappointed.
Danny42C.
Razors ancient.
I remember lusting after the device as described for sharpening the razor blades, it belonged to my grandfather, ( a retired QMS in the R.A.) and hoped to acquire it one day but on his death it went to his son and then down to his sons so it was lost to me for all time. However I still wet shave, it seems more real some how.
And the Latin mass was still of use in my times, detachments in Italy and around the world meant you could attend and join in the local congregations worship, a small thing but of comfort when away from home!
And the Latin mass was still of use in my times, detachments in Italy and around the world meant you could attend and join in the local congregations worship, a small thing but of comfort when away from home!
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"Interlude" by Danny: Act 1, Scene 1
I begin with a quotation from Kipling:
and a caveat:
In relating her life and loves, a young lady (like Johnson's "Man in lapidiary inscription") is not upon oath.
June was the only (I think) child of a prominent British family in Bangalore. Coming to marriageable age in the early years of the war, she had been wooed and won by a young Army officer. He must have beaten off considerable competition, for she was a very attractive girl indeed. Not conventially beautiful, with rather a Slavonic cast of countenance, with wide grey eyes and high cheekbones (think Linda Kozlowski in Crocodile Dundee). To this was added a perfect figure and a sparkling personality. It was the Wedding of the Year in Bangalore, and in due course a baby boy arrived to make the picture complete.
Then her Captain was posted away up North. It must have been somewhere civilised like Delhi or Calcutta, for it would have been possible for them to accompany him. She (knowing herself far better than he knew her) pleaded to do so. But he decided that they would be better and safer staying behind with her parents in Bangalore.
(And so precipitated the disaster which was to follow. Yet in his place I would have done the same. The enemy was at the gates, there was no certainty that they could be held against him. If he did break through, then they [a thousand miles to the south] should stand a good chance of getting out in time).
Now she could pick up her social life pretty well where she left off . Her baby would be no hindrance. He would be cared for, 24/7, by an ayah and her family. The British mother out there could spend as much (or as little) time with her offspring as she wished. Some spent little indeed. It was not unlike the nursery arrangements in well-to-do villas at home in late Victorian or Edwardian times. Children were to be seen and not heard (and not seen all that much, either). You might suppose that these expatriate children would grow up emotionally crippled by the experience. Not a bit of it. In later life amost all would recall their childhood in the East as a time of warmth, light, colour and adventure. They bonded with their ayahs:
Note #: (Every expatriate family knows the truth of this: the youngsters pick up the local lingo far faster than their parents).
Bangalore was full of young grass widows like June, and as a major garrison town, there were plenty of dashing young subalterns about. Lightweight illicit romances * sprang up all over the place. Mostly these were of short duration, the young man being posted away before any damage could be done. These temporary affairs were generally tolerated, so long as they didn't get out of hand. The young ladies deemed it almost a duty to "maintain morale": after all she * might be the last white woman he'd see in years - or ever. The more mature matrons who presided over Bangalore society turned a blind eye. It had always been so out there, and pots do not call kettles black.
Note *: (In the original 1970s "Upstairs, Downstairs", there is a similar, innocent affair between Hazel and a young RFC Lieutenant),
"Lived a woman wonderful,
May the Lord amend her !
Neither simple, kind nor true,
But her pagan beauty drew
English gentlemen a few
Hotly to attend her".
May the Lord amend her !
Neither simple, kind nor true,
But her pagan beauty drew
English gentlemen a few
Hotly to attend her".
(South Africa)
and a caveat:
In relating her life and loves, a young lady (like Johnson's "Man in lapidiary inscription") is not upon oath.
June was the only (I think) child of a prominent British family in Bangalore. Coming to marriageable age in the early years of the war, she had been wooed and won by a young Army officer. He must have beaten off considerable competition, for she was a very attractive girl indeed. Not conventially beautiful, with rather a Slavonic cast of countenance, with wide grey eyes and high cheekbones (think Linda Kozlowski in Crocodile Dundee). To this was added a perfect figure and a sparkling personality. It was the Wedding of the Year in Bangalore, and in due course a baby boy arrived to make the picture complete.
Then her Captain was posted away up North. It must have been somewhere civilised like Delhi or Calcutta, for it would have been possible for them to accompany him. She (knowing herself far better than he knew her) pleaded to do so. But he decided that they would be better and safer staying behind with her parents in Bangalore.
(And so precipitated the disaster which was to follow. Yet in his place I would have done the same. The enemy was at the gates, there was no certainty that they could be held against him. If he did break through, then they [a thousand miles to the south] should stand a good chance of getting out in time).
Now she could pick up her social life pretty well where she left off . Her baby would be no hindrance. He would be cared for, 24/7, by an ayah and her family. The British mother out there could spend as much (or as little) time with her offspring as she wished. Some spent little indeed. It was not unlike the nursery arrangements in well-to-do villas at home in late Victorian or Edwardian times. Children were to be seen and not heard (and not seen all that much, either). You might suppose that these expatriate children would grow up emotionally crippled by the experience. Not a bit of it. In later life amost all would recall their childhood in the East as a time of warmth, light, colour and adventure. They bonded with their ayahs:
"To our dear dark foster mothers,
To the heathen songs they sung,
To the heathen speech we babbled, #
Ere we came to the white man's tongue"
To the heathen songs they sung,
To the heathen speech we babbled, #
Ere we came to the white man's tongue"
(Kipling: "A Christmas Toast")
Note #: (Every expatriate family knows the truth of this: the youngsters pick up the local lingo far faster than their parents).
Bangalore was full of young grass widows like June, and as a major garrison town, there were plenty of dashing young subalterns about. Lightweight illicit romances * sprang up all over the place. Mostly these were of short duration, the young man being posted away before any damage could be done. These temporary affairs were generally tolerated, so long as they didn't get out of hand. The young ladies deemed it almost a duty to "maintain morale": after all she * might be the last white woman he'd see in years - or ever. The more mature matrons who presided over Bangalore society turned a blind eye. It had always been so out there, and pots do not call kettles black.
Note *: (In the original 1970s "Upstairs, Downstairs", there is a similar, innocent affair between Hazel and a young RFC Lieutenant),
"Send me somewhere East of Suez, where the best is like the worst, An' there ain't no ten commandments, an' a man can raise a thirst"
(Kipling: Mandalay)
(and a woman, too; and there are all kinds of thirsts)
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Those who hanker after the Latin Mass can find the Tridentine Rite still in daily use by the Transalpine Redemptorists of Golgotha Monastery on Papa Stronsay
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"Interlude", by Danny: Act 1, Scene 2.
Into this shopsoiled Eden came, as usual, the Snake. This particular serpent took the form of a young American civilian, an aeronautical engineer on contract as a consultant to the Hindustan Aircraft Company. These people were setting up to build a light aircraft for (hopeful) sale to the nascent Indian Air Force.
Some enchanted evening...these two met, and June fell for this man "like a ton of bricks". Throwing caution to the wind (yes, that old cliché agian!), she dived into a torrid love affair. It did not help that he was a (relative) fixture there: she would not be "saved by the bell". Things rapidly grew serious, then turned nasty. Her husband divorced her. @ This was not the almost casual affair that it appears to be today. There it was the Scandal of the Year. June cared little, but looked forward to a new life with her new man in the New World. It seemed a reasonable expectation.
Note @: (What happened to the boy? Who got custody? June never spoke of him and no one was so crassly tactless [or cruel] as to raise the matter).
Some enchanted evening...these two met, and June fell for this man "like a ton of bricks". Throwing caution to the wind (yes, that old cliché agian!), she dived into a torrid love affair. It did not help that he was a (relative) fixture there: she would not be "saved by the bell". Things rapidly grew serious, then turned nasty. Her husband divorced her. @ This was not the almost casual affair that it appears to be today. There it was the Scandal of the Year. June cared little, but looked forward to a new life with her new man in the New World. It seemed a reasonable expectation.
Note @: (What happened to the boy? Who got custody? June never spoke of him and no one was so crassly tactless [or cruel] as to raise the matter).
"The best laid plans of mice and men
Gang oft agley"
Gang oft agley"
(Burns)
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Last edited by Danny42C; 19th Mar 2016 at 13:29. Reason: Error
I am already at work on the TV script.
My Dad had a Rolls Razor (we were never going to have the other kind of Rolls) and I was fascinated by its solid construction and mysterious operation, but it never occurred to me what its practical advantages might be.
And all the Kipling - Dad was a fan, as am I - and Danny's reference to Gentlemen-Rankers... That is one of Kipling's most powerful verses, although American readers will recognize it from the Whiffenpoof Song, which was adapted from K's original.
Left unsaid is what the G-R's had done to earn their exile and why it could not be hinted at. But not too hard to guess.
Poems - Gentlemen-rankers
My Dad had a Rolls Razor (we were never going to have the other kind of Rolls) and I was fascinated by its solid construction and mysterious operation, but it never occurred to me what its practical advantages might be.
And all the Kipling - Dad was a fan, as am I - and Danny's reference to Gentlemen-Rankers... That is one of Kipling's most powerful verses, although American readers will recognize it from the Whiffenpoof Song, which was adapted from K's original.
Left unsaid is what the G-R's had done to earn their exile and why it could not be hinted at. But not too hard to guess.
Poems - Gentlemen-rankers
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"Interlude" by Danny. Act 1, Scene 3.
On a sultry August night, Bangalore slept fitfully. Four thousand miles East it was bright morning as Colonel Paul Tibbets settled his B-29 into a bombing run on the hitherto unremarkable Japanese town of Hiroshima.
Three long years of Churchill's "blood, toil, tears and sweat" had passed since Air Marshal Harris had declared: "People say that aerial bombing alone will never win a war......I would say that it has not been tried yet, and we shall see".
The war was over. All bets were off. The Hindustan Aircraft project folded. Our Lothario hightailed it back to the States. June waited eagerly for the call to join him.
As the French so charmingly put it: in every pair of lovers, one loves, one is loved. June, it seemed, was on the wrong side of this equation. The call would never come. She was left high and dry in Bangalore. She would not be alone in her misery, for now was heartbreak time. In the weeks and months to come, and in every former theatre of war, versions of "Madame Butterfly" were being played out. "One Fine Day" would be sung in many tongues. Many a Cho-Cho-San would weep for a faithless Lieutenant.
Worse was to come, for now she had really blotted her copybook. She had betrayed her gallant soldier for a civilian, and a foreigner at that, had got herself divorced and had now been dumped. She was the Scarlet Woman du jour. I will not say "of the Year", as there were too many contenders for the title. All round the world (not least in Britain), "Discretion Statements" were being hastily penned against the return of a vengeful warrior (himself virtuous from lack of opporunity). Tearful confession would be the order of the day, for his mother would surely "shop" you even if no one else did.
In Bangalore the knives were out. Tongues wagged viciously. The First Stone Brigade were out in force: they had their Woman Taken in Adultery. Life grew increasingly unpleasant: she was defenceless. "Why not get out of town until this blows over ?", suggested her few remaining friends.
It was good advice and June took it. As a companion, she chose another grass widow of her own age, whose husband was (I suppose) stuck half way round the globe, waiting for a ship. Now the pair had to decide: "where to ?" Ootacamund, the popular Hill Station, would be no good. "Ooty" was Bangalore-on-the-Hill; good news travels fast; she would be every bit as ostracised there. But way over on the coast there was a little place with a few decent hotels and a British Club with its own bathing cove.
Three long years of Churchill's "blood, toil, tears and sweat" had passed since Air Marshal Harris had declared: "People say that aerial bombing alone will never win a war......I would say that it has not been tried yet, and we shall see".
Now we saw
.The war was over. All bets were off. The Hindustan Aircraft project folded. Our Lothario hightailed it back to the States. June waited eagerly for the call to join him.
"Il y a toujours l'un qui baise,
Et l'autre qui ne soulève que la joue"
Et l'autre qui ne soulève que la joue"
(Proverb)
As the French so charmingly put it: in every pair of lovers, one loves, one is loved. June, it seemed, was on the wrong side of this equation. The call would never come. She was left high and dry in Bangalore. She would not be alone in her misery, for now was heartbreak time. In the weeks and months to come, and in every former theatre of war, versions of "Madame Butterfly" were being played out. "One Fine Day" would be sung in many tongues. Many a Cho-Cho-San would weep for a faithless Lieutenant.
Worse was to come, for now she had really blotted her copybook. She had betrayed her gallant soldier for a civilian, and a foreigner at that, had got herself divorced and had now been dumped. She was the Scarlet Woman du jour. I will not say "of the Year", as there were too many contenders for the title. All round the world (not least in Britain), "Discretion Statements" were being hastily penned against the return of a vengeful warrior (himself virtuous from lack of opporunity). Tearful confession would be the order of the day, for his mother would surely "shop" you even if no one else did.
In Bangalore the knives were out. Tongues wagged viciously. The First Stone Brigade were out in force: they had their Woman Taken in Adultery. Life grew increasingly unpleasant: she was defenceless. "Why not get out of town until this blows over ?", suggested her few remaining friends.
It was good advice and June took it. As a companion, she chose another grass widow of her own age, whose husband was (I suppose) stuck half way round the globe, waiting for a ship. Now the pair had to decide: "where to ?" Ootacamund, the popular Hill Station, would be no good. "Ooty" was Bangalore-on-the-Hill; good news travels fast; she would be every bit as ostracised there. But way over on the coast there was a little place with a few decent hotels and a British Club with its own bathing cove.
Just what the doctor ordered.
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"Interlude" by Danny, Act 1, Scene 4.
The two girls hopped off the train in Cannanore, booked-in at the "Beach" Hotel, had dinner, and trotted round (as one does) to the Club next door. One lone woman would have raised eyebrows: two were perfectly acceptable. There they added greatly to the Gaiety of the Nations - in particular to my little group of RAF officers, which formed most of the junior membership of the Club, and into which they were promptly assimilated. (Finders, Keepers).
I do not remember the Friend much. I've forgotten her name, or what she looked like. She seemed a pleasant young woman, and behaved impeccably, earning much silent approval as she always addressed our Colonel as "Sir". What I do remember about her was the small Pomeranian she'd brought with her. About the size of a Jack Russell, it was of a similar (choleric) temperament. Fiercely protective of its mistress, this sagacious beast could easily divine the intentions of the young gentlemen who clustered around her. To echo Bertie Wooster (?) in his misuse of Holy Writ: "It Biteth like the Serpent !"
But it did not stay long, returning to Bangalore with its mistress after a week or two. For it was becoming obvious that June no longer needed moral support. She had settled in comfortably at the hotel, found congenial non-judgmental friends (us!) and was Doing Quite Nicely, thank you - with me !
I do not remember the Friend much. I've forgotten her name, or what she looked like. She seemed a pleasant young woman, and behaved impeccably, earning much silent approval as she always addressed our Colonel as "Sir". What I do remember about her was the small Pomeranian she'd brought with her. About the size of a Jack Russell, it was of a similar (choleric) temperament. Fiercely protective of its mistress, this sagacious beast could easily divine the intentions of the young gentlemen who clustered around her. To echo Bertie Wooster (?) in his misuse of Holy Writ: "It Biteth like the Serpent !"
But it did not stay long, returning to Bangalore with its mistress after a week or two. For it was becoming obvious that June no longer needed moral support. She had settled in comfortably at the hotel, found congenial non-judgmental friends (us!) and was Doing Quite Nicely, thank you - with me !
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Having just returned from holiday, and catching up on my web-reading, I'm delighted to find Danny's quill in top form [as usual]. A delightful collection of tales, Danny42C ... thank you, as always.
And, on the subject of shaving, I used one of these for many, many years. Extremely reliable and easy to use once the handle-pumping technique had been mastered. I wonder whether my father used it in WW2?
And, on the subject of shaving, I used one of these for many, many years. Extremely reliable and easy to use once the handle-pumping technique had been mastered. I wonder whether my father used it in WW2?
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"Interlude" by Danny: Act 2, Scene 1.
"There was a Fool, and he made his prayer,
(Even as you or I)
To a rag, a bone and a hank of hair,
But the Fool, he called it his 'Lady Fair',
(Even as you or I")
(Even as you or I)
To a rag, a bone and a hank of hair,
But the Fool, he called it his 'Lady Fair',
(Even as you or I")
(Kipling: The Vampire)
[extract from - but it wasn't as bad as that]
[extract from - but it wasn't as bad as that]
Why me ? I wasn't much of an Adonis, even then, and certainly no Fred Astaire (as Mrs D would feelingly testify). Perhaps it was that I was in command of our little group, and power is supposed to be an attraction. And I have often noticed how it is, that when a girl's Good Fairy has made her unusually attractive, the Bad Fairy will endow her with a hopeless taste in men. For whatever reason: "Danny's the boy I'm crazy about" murmered June to the Friend, sotto voce, one night in the Club. Danny (just within earshot) lapped it up (Even as you or I).
You must not imagine steamy nights under the mossie net. It was Not Done in those days - certainly not on such short acquaintance. The Permissive Society was still twenty years in the future. It was all very innocent and decorous. For a start, we were always in the crowd at the Club, the hotel or in the Mess, but never alone. (And there were weightier bulwarks against any hanky-panky).
On her part, June knew all too well that she was deep in the social mire of British India. The very last thing she needed was yet another tin can tied to her tail. And I had been brought up a devout Catholic. "You can take a boy out of a seminary: you cannot take the Seminary out of the Boy" (you can, actually, one such, Josef Djugasvili by name, is rather better known as Stalin).
So in my case:
"His honour rooted in dishonour stood,
And faith unfaithful kept him falsely true"
And faith unfaithful kept him falsely true"
(Tennyson: Lancelot and Elaine).
In my ample free time (for now I'd farmed out all my routine tasks to one or another of my supernumeraries), and together with the rest of my people without duties that day, we played tennis at the Club, or swam and surfed off the Club beach (she swam like a fish). After tiffin at the hotel (the Club being too small to cater), we'd laze the afternoons away until the sun was low in the western sky, swim again, then lounge in "planter's chairs" on the Club verandah with our sundowners, watching the silent coasting dhows sliding across a golden sea until sunset.
Then she'd return to her hotel, we back to the Mess, for the invariable evening ritual - shower, change into clean KD (in her case, long-sleeved shirt or blouse and slacks). Later we'd rejoin her at the Club for a quiet noggin before dinner in the hotel, or took her back to the Mess with us.
Full dark now, we'd return to the Club, dance to a wind-up gramophone, played skittles or, (most popular of all), endless games of "liar dice" * round the horseshoe bar far into the night. There were moonlight parties on the beach, where she'd dance, "flashing sea-fires in her wake" # (dripping with fluorescencse) out of the warm Arabian sea.
# (Kipling: Song of the Wise Children)
* The Prince of Bar Counter games, (it also has the effect of greatly slowing down the rate of drinking).
Christmas had come early that year.
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"Interlude" by Danny: Act 2, Scene 2.
Of course, it couldn't last. How it might have ended I don't know, but I was already beginning to think that it could be in tears. Then Fate, as always, was ready with the next spanner for the works. You may recall that, some time before, I'd applied for a place on the RAF Ski School in Kashmir. Now my number came up.
There was no point in my attempting to "con" her that this was a Service Duty, and I couldn't get out of it. As a Daughter of the Raj, she was quite well up in military matters. All DOTRs had been chased around by young subalterns from the time they were out of pigtails, and were well able to recognise a "jolly" when they saw it. My choice was stark.
I could call off the Course and stay with her. There'd be no trouble in putting in a substitute from half-a-dozen eager volunteers ! The war was over, Group wouldn't object, I was sure. Or I could leave her and go off to Kashmir (about ten days before Christmas). This would be a renunciation, and we both knew it. My little group waited in delighted anticipation. It could go two ways. Either I would ditch the ski Course, in which case one of them was in line for a month's free skiing, all found. Or I would ditch the girl and go off to the snows: she would then need consolation, and that was available in spades ! Which way would the cat jump ?
I hesitated for a day or two, then Kipling (as so often in India) pointed the way:
And a month's free skiing is a momth's free skiing ! You do not pass up a chance like that ! "I wish I were coming with you", said June wistfully. So did I, but that was clearly quite impossible. One of our band, whom I shall call Alan (which is not his name as... etc) was with us. Of course he knew her well. "Look after her till I get back", I told him. They smiled.
(The Tonga was a one [or in this case, two] pony trap. The traces jingle on the draw bar, the lovelorn passenger of the poem makes up self-mocking couplets to the rhythm of the ponies' trot).
Off I went to the snows of Kashmir, and spent a pleasant month scrabbling up and slithering down a Himalayan mountainside, then "pony express" down to Srinagar. I didn't hurry back. June might still be in Cannanore, or she might not. On balance I thought not. Even before I left, her mother had been bombarding her with letters: "Come home and show yourself !" (for of course her absence from town had been noted, and the [wrong] conclusion drawn).
I stayed in Srinagar for a couple of weeks, having a good look at the place, had a silversmith make me little silver identity plates for my watch strap (they fell off after a few weeks !), and found a bookbinder who bound my logbook with some very fine-grained dark green leather. It was/is a lovely job, my name incised in gold leaf (good as new still), and a nice little set of pilot's wings embossed in the centre. All the gold leaf has worn off these over the years, but you can see a very faint trace of the outline if you hold it to the light in a certain way.
You might wonder why I would have my logbook with me on a skiing trip: I have wondered about this myself, but I suppose you'd have your log always with you, as it was your most treasured possession, and you couldn't afford to lose it.
Then a terrifying ride in a country bus down the mountains to 'Pindi, and after that I plodded down the stepping stones of the Indian railway system down to Yelahanka, booked in at the RAF station there, and got a signal away to my Unit. Next morning a VV flew in to pick me up.
"I don't know whether I ought to tell you this", said the pilot uneasily, "but June and Alan are engaged".
There was no point in my attempting to "con" her that this was a Service Duty, and I couldn't get out of it. As a Daughter of the Raj, she was quite well up in military matters. All DOTRs had been chased around by young subalterns from the time they were out of pigtails, and were well able to recognise a "jolly" when they saw it. My choice was stark.
I could call off the Course and stay with her. There'd be no trouble in putting in a substitute from half-a-dozen eager volunteers ! The war was over, Group wouldn't object, I was sure. Or I could leave her and go off to Kashmir (about ten days before Christmas). This would be a renunciation, and we both knew it. My little group waited in delighted anticipation. It could go two ways. Either I would ditch the ski Course, in which case one of them was in line for a month's free skiing, all found. Or I would ditch the girl and go off to the snows: she would then need consolation, and that was available in spades ! Which way would the cat jump ?
I hesitated for a day or two, then Kipling (as so often in India) pointed the way:
"A Woman is only a woman, but a good cigar is a Smoke"
(The Betrothed)
And a month's free skiing is a momth's free skiing ! You do not pass up a chance like that ! "I wish I were coming with you", said June wistfully. So did I, but that was clearly quite impossible. One of our band, whom I shall call Alan (which is not his name as... etc) was with us. Of course he knew her well. "Look after her till I get back", I told him. They smiled.
"What a chance - and what an idiot !" clicked the vicious tonga bar"
(Kipling: As the Bell clinks)
(The Tonga was a one [or in this case, two] pony trap. The traces jingle on the draw bar, the lovelorn passenger of the poem makes up self-mocking couplets to the rhythm of the ponies' trot).
Off I went to the snows of Kashmir, and spent a pleasant month scrabbling up and slithering down a Himalayan mountainside, then "pony express" down to Srinagar. I didn't hurry back. June might still be in Cannanore, or she might not. On balance I thought not. Even before I left, her mother had been bombarding her with letters: "Come home and show yourself !" (for of course her absence from town had been noted, and the [wrong] conclusion drawn).
I stayed in Srinagar for a couple of weeks, having a good look at the place, had a silversmith make me little silver identity plates for my watch strap (they fell off after a few weeks !), and found a bookbinder who bound my logbook with some very fine-grained dark green leather. It was/is a lovely job, my name incised in gold leaf (good as new still), and a nice little set of pilot's wings embossed in the centre. All the gold leaf has worn off these over the years, but you can see a very faint trace of the outline if you hold it to the light in a certain way.
You might wonder why I would have my logbook with me on a skiing trip: I have wondered about this myself, but I suppose you'd have your log always with you, as it was your most treasured possession, and you couldn't afford to lose it.
Then a terrifying ride in a country bus down the mountains to 'Pindi, and after that I plodded down the stepping stones of the Indian railway system down to Yelahanka, booked in at the RAF station there, and got a signal away to my Unit. Next morning a VV flew in to pick me up.
"I don't know whether I ought to tell you this", said the pilot uneasily, "but June and Alan are engaged".
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Last edited by Danny42C; 22nd Mar 2016 at 21:07. Reason: Spacing