That voyage back to camp that took between two and three hours rubbed in the irony of our position. Life on the Mee Kong was good! Just after dark, flights of beautiful white egrets flew up the river, just skimming the surface of the water; the Thais, powerfully built with strong calves and broad feet with spread, gripping toes, poled us tirelessly upstream. Putting the poles in together on either side of the bows, they leant on the poles as they walked to the stern on the narrow ledge that boarded the boat; then forward again – dip in – scrunch, as the pole found the bottom of the river – and trudge, trudge, trudge of their feet back again to the stern. The quiet on the river at night was seldom disturbed, but we saw one Thai up to his waist in the water, walking along the river channel in the dark, a jungle torch held before him in one hand and a short bamboo spear in the other, with which he speared the fish that came to the surface, attracted by the unexpected light.

Inside the boat, the R.S.M. was at the top of his form telling stories of very blunt character to the troops, who on this occasion were largely from his own Scottish regiment. We got back to camp just at midnight and the troops poured into the cookhouse to demand their missed evening meal. In the officers’ cookhouse, where I went to say that I had had enough, my absence had not been noticed. The two cooks, at 12.05 a.m., were sitting round a frying pan eating pork steaks and fried eggs; army cooks move in a mysterious way!