OFF TO THE FORWARD AREA AND A GUN-TOTIN' YANK

 Fortunately our C.O., Squadron Leader Noble,  a Battle of Britain pilot who had suffered burns in a crash, and whose present facial skin had once been his buttocks, appreciated the agony we had experienced.  In fact he told us a cute little story about kissing WAACs and then informing them they had just kissed his arse.  He was very sympathetic and our punishment was one weeks loss of pay.   

While at Madras I received a letter from mom, with a copy of a letter she had received from some big shot in the RCAF in Ottawa, saying it was now possible [I knew that], for Canadians in the R.A.F., to transfer to the RCAF, as from Mar 3rd, 1944.  I at once made yet another three applications which had three places to go before reaching RCAF Overseas Selection Board.

At this time I was due for some leave but it was cancelled due to a war situation and being shorthanded. I was due for another Hill Station trip, but with this cancellation I became fed up and PUSHED for my Forward Area posting and got it!   I made a quick trip in to the YMCA in Madras to say goodbye to Mrs. Chave.  Mrs Chave seemed to know my movements as she told me that one of the chaps I had met at her home, a Harvey Bantin was off on the same train as me.  Harvey and I met and proceeded to get the coolies cracking on our kit.  We each now had a tin trunk a kit bag, and a bed roll,  not to mention Sten gun and ammo.  A lot to try and carry and catch a train and get in the right coach.   

What's new?  The train was crowded and we had to travel 3rd. class,  wood seats and very smelly. We had a hell of a restless night, hot, sticky and smelly.  The next morning we woke covered in soot and feeling really dirty.  At the very next station we stripped off as much as we dared, and at a nearby platform tap we soaked ourselves and then soaped ourselves and rinsed off.  A little Indian girl was giggling and looking at me and pointing.  Then she showed me where I had left some soap up around and in my ears and back of my head. I splashed it off and then she laughed and  pointed again at another spot, and I splashed that off.  She was getting great entertainment from it.

The entire time I was washing, using both hands she kept operating the tap, as it was one of those kind on a spring that you had to hold open.  Of course she wanted some buckshee, a tip, so I gave her a couple of Annas, big deal.  She was keen on having some of my soap.  I had a few bars, so gave her one.  She immediately got herself all wet, little dress and all and then soaped herself all over, washing her dress at the same time.

Later that morning a Yank army type, a courier got on our train and in our compartment.  He had a brief case which was chained to his wrist.  He carried a pistol on his hip A La State Troopers in the U.S.A.    At one point on our journey he was very talkative about his job and made comments on the wogs  in the countryside as we sped along.  It was as though he had just been given the job, and was basking in his authority and the weapon on his hip.  He pulled it from its holster and took great pleasure in showing it to us.  Then he insisted on showing us how it fired and took pot shots out of the train window, at squatting "wogs" in the distance.  It was doubtful he could have actually hit any of them, but then there was also the remote possibility that he could.  He didn't seem to care.  He then put the revolver back in its holster.   We were stopped at a place called Dasawada Junction.  I was watching a scrawny dog run down the tracks toward me sniffing the tracks looking for food. A fast moving freight came up behind him and he went underneath. The poor dog tumbled and turned under the train, getting mangled.  After the train had passed the dog lay there still alive and in agony, a crippled bloody lump, whining, moaning - one ear missing - one leg missing, a back leg dangling.  The dog cried out in agony.  Then our "wog shooting" American Army courier jumped from the train, pulled out his gun again and shot the dog in the head to put it out of its misery..  The agonizing whining stopped.  What a lesson.  From shooting at wogs to feeling sorry for dogs.  Our American friend was a strange mixture.

TO BE CONTINUED