But comparatively speaking we were lucky. At 206 they had worse tents and only for a quarter of the men, and further up they had none at all. And we were particularly lucky in the Nip who commanded us, a Lieutenant named Ino. It is never easy to read a Nip’s character when you seldom see him, but wherever Ino went in Thailand he had a better camp than anywhere else around. Whether this was due merely to a more tolerant attitude arising out of his natural laziness – for he just liked to lie and read and not be bothered – or whether it was due to positive kindliness, it was difficult to decide, but thanks to Ino, 203 Camp was easily the best in the area. We were also adjoining the Nip supply camp and, as our rations had merely to be carried or trundled a few hundred yards, we compared favourably with other camps who had to transport them three or six kms, or more. Later on, when the road was impassable, we were the only ones who drew rations at all regularly.

Ino gave us one day’s yasme to settle in. The troops fell to, and in that 24 hours went up some of the most primitive dwellings that human beings had lived in for many thousands of years. Bamboo post and supports; split bamboo slats, still green, for the floor and roofs of stolen atap, banana leaves and grass; they were neither dust nor rain proof but better than the open air. As for the officers, the tents, originally designed for two, were already full up with twelve people in each; but eventually each tent, in addition to the inside inhabitants, had four more who lay in the dust outside under the flap extensions that were about eighteen inches above the ground. So far, sixteen to a leaky old tent; the maximum later on was eighteen. Actually, on the third or fourth day, I moved out from under the flaps into one of the other tents because two of the members of it had gone to live with the doctor, who was trying to build his own medical hut. This tent was my home for the next two months; it leaked badly and had no flap at either end.

Sleeping in one corner was Major Woolley, the heretic who had been court-martialled at Chungkai; next to me was Monty Stone, a loud propagandist for the Catholic church and passionately addicted to the topic of dysenteric complaints; and under one of the flaps outside was Gus Watt, a talented light musician; lastly of interest was a dear old boy named Jock Bennett, a planter, and one of the best hearted men you could meet.

In the river was a deep pool with a sandy beach, ideal for bathing and washing clothes. On the first afternoon it was full of lounging bodies trying to recharge their batteries for the anticipated work on the morrow.