THERE had been an exceptionally heavy downpour during the night, and this was liable to mean that one of the road bridges would be several feet under water from a stream that it normally crossed. The alternative route lay across a very high, long railway bridge – along one of those damnable, slippery single baulk tracks. Heavily laden with kit and all of us sick, we didn’t fancy that a bit and prayed that the stream wouldn’t have risen too high.

We marched through the vast Nip Transit Camp, down the steep slope beyond it and approached the bridge; we could see at once that it was well under water and only a brown mass of bamboo and refuse caught up in the stream indicated where the bridge lay. The bolder spirits – the majority – crossed the high bridge without mishap, but I led the way by road, for I had helped make this damned road bridge and, provided the flow of water wasn’t too strong or more than three feet deep, I was confident that it could be forded. Others, who didn’t know it from before, watched suspiciously from the road edge.

The current was strong and the water over my thighs; all my kit was high up on my back, and I probed carefully before me with my old ash stick from ‘Swayne and Adeney’s’. Under my feet I could feel the bare bamboo cross-pieces of the bridge where the water had washed all the earth away and it was very slimy to grip, but the chief danger was lest the wedge of caught-up bamboo and muck should suddenly break loose and sweep me along with it. But all went well, the water never reaching above my waist, and at length I was able to shout back that it was O.K. The others, who had watched my route very exactly, now followed across in large numbers.

We then passed through another Tamil Camp and, as always, the acrid stink of excrement pervaded the whole area. These unfortunate people were rather primitive in their ideas on sanitation and the stench from one of their stricken camps would strike you hundreds of yards away. Near them was a small Australian Camp, and then we marched along the top of the embankment on the last mile to 206. On our right we heard the mighty sound of rushing water; a Nip dam to catch the floodwater had broken during the night and was pouring over the embankment, threatening to wash it right away – a nice job for someone that morning!