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March 21 - Decide to fly off tomorrow, 200 extra pounds notwithstanding. Transportation Officer shocked at such rush in the East, especially with so much weight, but is most helpful and competent. Photographs arrive at office and get car, drive with him to British Headquarters, get special passport, and thank General Oldfield. Drive with Transportation Officers, Lieutenant John Kane, to A.T.C. Tell Army Captain what a wonderful outfit they are and how they have flown me all the way from London to Delhi with two hundred extra - that, John's tact, gets me passage to Bangalore, which is as far as they go under British agreement. Drive to R.A.F. and with my new passport, Sir Philip's name and casual mention of the luncheon yesterday with Lord Louis, together with further tact from John, and the usual kindness of the people themselves, arrange perfect connection from A.T.C. to R.A.F. at Bangalore to Colombo. Drive back, get orders detached, report lunch to Captain Markey, collect per diem slip dash to Army pay master, by my wife an Indian necklace I have seen, pay hotel and mess bill, pack, give a little farewell dinner in grille to three officers who have been most helpful, and turn in, already for call tomorrow at 0630. It is close under the mosquito net and there is still a decidedly uncomfortable felling in the tummy, so I put myself to sleep thinking of Delhi impressions, so crowded into a few days. Old Delhi, is a city in the land of tombs, built on and surrounded by the ghosts of all the bygone Delhi's, Kingdome after Kingdome, dynasty after dynasty, tribe after tribe, have had their place in the sun and perished. Yet risen again from the scattered seed stands the "Imperial City", just as an oak gnarled an old, grows hard by the sight from whence the acorn fell from it's mighty ancestor. As Athens is to Greece, or Rome to Italy, so Delhi with more vicissitudes than any other city in this oft-time troubled land, is to India. Attached to this compact old metropolis with its teeming traffic of slowly moving people and cattle, is the wide new city close to the Southern Gate. Pale white with its miles of colonnades, its clean streets radiating from the great circles, it is much like Washington in plan. The vast mall leading from the Triumphal Arch, to the broad avenue between the huge twin buildings of the Imperial Secretariat, to the massive viceroy's House, as large as our capital, is very impressive. To the right the tremendous circular colonnaded Counsel House. The business circle, curving away with its endless rows of stone columns, that takes a whole afternoon just to window shop around its vast circumference. The view from my window in the Imperial Hotel, (a big simple modern mass) of the Jantar Mantar, over the wall of the lovely garden. Here rises a sundial 60 feet tall, of orange stone. We used to scramble over the wall at night and climb the tall steps to the top and watch the stars, feeling like ants on a garden sundial. The hypotenuse is 118 feet, the base 104. We would look down on the two circular buildings at its feet with their three tiers of arches, or descend and enter their maze of radiating stone trenches. Somehow one got latitude and azimuth out of all this, and the correct time in Tokyo or London. Anyhow the astronomer, Maharaja Jai Singh II, who built it in 1724 was the best of his time. I think of the hotel servants. The wine waiter, in turban, bound with blue and silver with gold sash, floppy white trousers - and then, bare feet. The red band proudly worn on his arm, with "Wine" in white letters. He will not touch meat or a check for it. Nor will the table waiter touch wine. Nor will the bearer serving vegetables have aught to do with either. Ridiculous little men, with all manner of mustaches and whiskers and castes. The bearers who take care of us dress in the Indian counterpart of zoot suits. The coat, usually brown, has skirts to the knees, but is not long enough to hide the end of the shirt-tail always worn outside. The neck with attached collar is carefully buttoned, but no tie. The trousers are full and loose, of thin white material taken in tight at the ankle with a thick hem. They usually wear old shoes, no socks, valet us, and never touch other than our personal belongings. The coolies haul our gear. The sweepers clean our baths and room. To see a hall sweeper, his skirts pulled up above his loin cloth, his bottom an inch from the floor, his head down between his boney knees, over the marble floor, as crab-like he makes his slow progress down the long hall, is a depressing sight. I fall asleep and dream of a white clap-board town in Connecticut, with the gray gulls and white window I see the white caps on the blue harbor, and smell the fresh salt in the so'west breeze.

March 22 - 0600 - My bearer with bedside tea for the last time. Breakfast, coolie's tips, and I drive off with two messmates for the field. Meet Captain Markey, who is a shipmate as far as Bombay. The big C-47 takes off at 0852, sweeps upward over the desert and levels off at 5000 feet for our first hop of 765 miles. Captain Markey, an Army Captain, three enlisted men and I occupy the rigged bucket seats. Starboard side loaded with badly gripped - down freight, right to the overhead. Captain Markey bored by flying, so we shoot the breeze, and adjust our weight on the hard bucket seats. 1130 - All the way it has been browned land, browner patches, winding rivers down below. 1300 - Brown land gives way to high rugged formations, very much like our Grand Canyon. Still more desert and then I see a river flow into a really big stream, on whose yellow surface sails reflect - and beyond dim in the distance Bombay's blurred smudge. Land on British field 1320. Step out in very hot sun and find crude wooden shack, the size of a large packing crate. Sit a long time with pilots waiting for two fried eggs and chips to be cooked in yard outside Fruit and tea, and an officer arrives for Captain Markey. We say goodbye. Lord I'll miss him. Once more I am alone, off to make new shipmates - new messes, new problems. Stand in hot sun and watch British Fighters take off. We arise from the field at 1440 and climb up to cooler air at 5000 feet. 1515 - Pass over city of Boona, compactly laid out, on a winding river. Try to dose. Later ears tell me we are dropping, look down and see Bangalore, looking clean and neat below. Land at 1830. Same old checking and re-checking our gear, and the careful watch on must keep on it, in the East. Have coolies with my gear on their heads, black legs gleaming with sweat, into a mosquito infested grove of trees, surrounded by neat low rows of white-washed army buildings. On the sand and grass of this enclosure are a number of low buildings built of poles, walls filled in between with fibre, surrounded by high pitched roof of thatch. Windows shielded with split bamboo. Very East, all this. On concrete floor are five beds made of crude timbers; the mattress of straw resting on rope lashings. Four bamboo poles hold the mosquito nets. Colies dump my gear on deck and I and the four A.T.C. crew walk over to a long white arched building with high thatched roof, which is the mess hall and washroom. Find shower with two frogs happily croaking therein, one slowly running faucet and basin, one head. We take turns at all these installations followed by swarms of mosquitoes. The pilots have to brush them off the tiny cracked mirror to see to shave. The one light has gone out. Have Army "supper" of fried chicken etc. which we tear with our fingers. Good chow. As usual I am the only Navy. Get my flashlight and find way to large jungle-hall, the long high-pitched thatch supported on poles, the sides open to the night. Some 250 of us sit on hard wooden benches, especially so - after bucket seats, and see a movie. Early G.W. Griffith, a Fatty Arbuckle, and "The Watch on the Rhine", good and very depressing. Seen through swarms of insects. The officers all fade away in the dark after the show, and lonely, I find that the kitchen has coffee for the night guards. Two enlisted men guide me there, and by the hot log fire we have coffee and a glass of water, and I listen to the half-dozen there talking to themselves, from my leading questions. Find the head for last Delhi-belly rights, find the barracks, by trial and error, and turn in grateful on hard ropes, tucking net in tightly and using arm for pillow. Deep breathing of young pilots, buzz of mosquitoes outside net.

March 23 - 0530 - Bearer calls us. Ablutions by flash light. 0600 - breakfast. Hot cakes, spam, fried eggs, coffee. Pilots back to Bombay. Coolies dump my gear {count and re-count} in Command car. Hindu driver says, "Where Master go?" "Didn't they give you orders?" "No sir" he grins. Its 0635, pitch dark and I have 19 miles to drive by 0700. There's no one about, but I think I have made him understand R.A.F. Field, and off we go. In five minutes he passes Native sentry and pulls up at two deserted buildings. Here, I swear! Back to barracks. Find two sergeants in tent. Never heard of R.A.F. field, what's the matter with theirs? Suddenly a light dawns in driver's face. He repeats R.A.F.- he mumbles 19 miles. Now if you miss plane out here you may wait many days! I drive him into the car. "Gully, Gully". Fast! Fast! We roar away. 0645 - through the tepid mists of the morning. He's a slow and careful driver. My yells and curses for speed effect him not the slightest. He never takes his two greasy eyes off the road. He's a sterling character, and great lesson in remaining calm, but he has no dash. The road is now filling up with ox-carts, lorries, natives with great loads on their heads, walking always directly in our left hand path. Dawn's hot golden light dispelling the mist. "How far?" - "Seven miles more, Sir". Gully! Gully! Gully! Hurry! Hurry! Not a change in expression. More traffic. "3 miles" At last a gate - a sentry - a sign - "Royal Air force Field". Down a furrowed road. Planes, warming up. Sleepy Tommies unload gear and carry to scales. Driver pokes paper at me to sign. Under my name I write, "Damn good driver", and give him a rupee. It wasn't his fault and he did his duty well. Same complaint, I dash for the crude head. Back, I see British officers silhouetted against the lovely sunrise, climbing into the little plane. The R.A.F. officer, an Indian R.A.F. lieutenant comes up, swaggering. Gear must go by another plane. I am prepared for that and produce a letter I wisely foresaw would be needed; without a word, " This officer has been booked on this service under the instruction of Air Marshall Joubert of Supreme Allied Command and the excess baggage carried is authorized. 'A' priority has been allotted." He hands it back, shouts at the Tommies, why haven't they put that luggage on the plane, get moving, can't they understand orders. One cockney gives me a sly wink. The gear is loaded, as I check it, climb over it, and worm my way to a box for a seat. The door bangs shut, the warming motors shake the plane with din and vibration. Seven British officers. A lot of freight and I are packed closely in the small fuselage of the little 2-engine Douglas. She is certainly overloaded aft. Roar down the field, as we all jam forward as much as possible, and make a beautiful take-off at 0810. Bangalore and India are lovely down there through the morning clouds, vanish, and we are in a world of sunshine and cotton wool, as unreal and peaceful as this morning on earth was actual and tempestuous. 0920 - Rain and fog, much bouncing about, and a bad yawing. Glimpses of wooded hills, palm forests, water everywhere, rice ponds diked off, river with ships. Look! There's a bark, lots of steamers. We circle over the port of Cochin, land at 0940 and step out into a Turkish bath. Ground soaked with water, mud and bog, beside the big British airfield, filled with fighters. The Scotch Colonel, two Captains, R.N. Lieutenant and two Canadian R.A.F. and I try to find some tea, but cannot. Watch the natives squat in the shadow of the planes wing. Wait for them to gas as we mop out brows, climb into the sizzling plane and take off at 1015. British are always gay shipmates under any circumstances. Ascend over swamps, ponds, palms and bogs, out over thick country trees and greens, most pleasant after desert. Up over high green hills, now a sudden cliff ending in a flat plain of rich farming lands and many villages, all seen through the fleecy clouds. 1120 - The southernmost coast of India moves slowly north and astern and we fly out over the tepid waters of the Indian Ocean, bound for the tropical Island of Ceylon, Port of Colombo. 1140 - A long thin line of land, far distant to port. The coast sweeps gradually towards us. 1212 - We pass over Colombo. Ted tile roofs, thick palms. Like looking down on hundreds of tiny green umbrellas. White beach and sparkling surf divides the rich land and the deep blue sea. Two dozen big ships at anchor, the breakwater and small harbor right below. Steamers in rows, stowed close, bow to stern. Cruisers, a big carrier. More ponds and water-covered rice patches, the town straggles on red roofed ends, and we land beyond at 1220. Step out into a moist hothouse like air, under a scorching sun. Word was sent, but no Navy to meet me. Wait almost an hour for another plane to come in. Then the R.A.F. loads a few of us in a big station wagon. Drive to town and drop the Colonel, and take me down a long tropical lane, turn into a big gate, with neat sign, "U.S. Navy, Officers Mess". A large ornamental house, surrounded by trees, palms and gardens, fine lawns and brilliant flowers. Big portal with red marble steps, cool white hall with red marble floor, rows of Navy caps on table. Young Lieutenant comes out in white shorts, shirt open at neck, short-sleeved with shoulder markings. Sorry, thought I was on the next plane. Boys pile gear in hall and we go out on long covered terrace, overlooking rich formal garden, with coconut and banana trees. There are four Navy and two Coast Guard officers, having cold beer before lunch. Topside after lunch in big dining room to find many large rooms, surrounded by long sleeping porches, and four big tiled baths. Fans suspended from ceilings everywhere. The Skipper, Lieutenant Commander W.G. MacDonald, is away in Bombay. Unpack, bathe, shave and clean clothes. 1630 - Car and driver for me. Log in at office - drive to Captain Clark L. Green, U.S.N. Senior Officer Present, and pay respects, have good talk, and he asks me to come tomorrow, 1030, and to go with him to British. Shows me signal they received and sent him. "For Curson from Oldfield, Lt.Comdr. Coale United States Navy visiting you shortly. Please give all assistance required." Back to Liaison Office and picked out fine view of harbor from window to paint. 1800 - Lieutenant Hoskinson drives me for miles and we have tea on a grassy terrace, under the palms, overlooking the surf, at the Hotel Mount Lavinia. After dinner in the big mess hall, watch young officers play pool, in well-equipped billiard room.