Tuesday 5th March 1940

"Look out!” said someone in the tent, “Here’s the Sergt. Major, getting men for fatigues!” Bob Andrews plunged across Stan’s bed (he’s just come back from hospital by the way) and huddled behind me, a groundsheet over his head. It was a false alarm and so the shirker emerged, relieved. “Bob, aren’t you ashamed of yourself?” I asked caustically. “No, I fucking ‘aint!” he said happily.

This from the once quiet, sedate, respectable Mr R Andrews, clerk and father. How the Army brings ‘em out!