Sunday 11th June 1939

Rainy day, end of the fine spell. Kits left in the tents. Rain drumming on the tent at Reveille and we hoped there might be no Church Parade, so did not hurry to get ready. Wrong however, so we had to rush about ultimately and then were nearly late.
The rain stopped, too, but it was dull all day.

Re. last night: “We went to her place” said Tiny in confidence. “George talked and talked; even I was bored…”

Forenoon. Standing stiffly by our tent (kits neatly laid out inside) we waited a long period whilst General Kirke (The lord-high of the TA) came to inspect us. A weird whispered chanting became audible, from the neighbourhood of Ling and Jacko:-

“The old Sod. The old Sod. The bastard deserves to die.”

Evening. Jacko and I called at Hobbs Cross, to inspect the damage. “We’re listening to a rather highbrow play – one of Checkov’s” “Anton?” I said brightly. (reflex action). “Yes” “Rather morbid, don’t you think, like most of the Russian writers in that period?” “Yes, but frightfully intellectual”. Jacko put the two children to bed!
“Oh, your Corporal was too funny for words” said Mrs Dore. “He talked incessantly. We just couldn’t stop him!”

Lying around the tent in the candle light, the four loyal members of the Committee tried to persuade the rebel fifth member – Stan – to keep in the combine and not try to see Pat alone. Our persuasion and threats were all useless. Each time we made a fresh point, Ling sat up in bed, raised two fingers in a significant gesture and said “Bollicks!”