…his wife stands beside him and says nothing didn't worry, silly buggers like him might get us all killed. I tell him he will do an extra sentry duty for two nights, and Dicky gives that charming smile of his. ‘Baik-lah, e hoa’—a mixture of Maori and Malay. ‘O.K. Boss’. It's hard to get too wild with Dicky for long. It will be dark soon. Bob and I strip off our stinking sweat-soaked clothing and naked, but always with our rifles under our arms, we stroll down to the stream for one of the few luxuries which the jungle offers—the nightly bath. A sentry is stationed overlooking the washpoint. It wouldn't do for the bandits to catch you here, literally with your trousers down! There is a sensual pleasure in feeling the surprisingly icy coldness of the water. Then we come out and soap ourselves on the bank and wash the suds off with water scooped up in mess tins. If we wash it off in the water the soap will float downstream and its sweetish scent is detectable for a long way to nostrils attuned to the smell of the jungle. I get dressed in my set of clean clothing from my pack and then it is time to order stand-to. The men move out to the perimeter vine which rings the camp and stand as silent as statues, straining their eyes into the rapidly deepening gloom. The jungle, which seemed so quiet before, suddenly seems to spring to life with the onset of twilight. There is the small insect which we never see but which makes a noise like a high-pitched electric motor—continuous and penetrating. Then there is the tick-tock bird or burong batok as the Malays call him. His monotonous voice goes on and on. I walk around the perimeter vine handling out the paludrine tablets for malaria protection, watching the boys swallow them and inspecting their weapons at the same time. I pause here and there for a whispered word. ‘Kumaiti ra, e hoa’—Pat Onslow from Invercargill has chummed up with Dicky Pomana and is proud of his newly acquired Maori, even though it isn't strictly according to William's Dictionary. The tropical twilight is shortlived. The final curtain falls with startling abruptness and it is pitch dark. Thunk! Thunk! The distinctive but quiet noise, as I rap my jungle knife on a tree, signals stand-down and the boys pick their way cautiously to their hammocks. The sentry sits close to my basha. Each of us will do an hour's stint. I would prefer a double sentry but there are few of us and anyway the beggars can't seem to stop yapping, so each man goes on alone and only for one hour. The pattern is repeated in the morning. Just before first light, while the air is deliciously cool and sweet, everyone moves out to the perimeter vine and stands to, yawning and scratching and knuckling the sleep out of their eyes. To the accompaniment of the weird whooping of a distant family of howler monkeys, we have a hurried meal, break camp and are on our way again. During the course of the day we walk through jungle aisles, along stony stream beds where the water cools our feet, across rivers where the water wets your armpits, and balance precariously above some foaming torrent on a swaying log which has been an abo bridge for generations. We force our way, cursing and swearing quietly, through a dense tangle of bamboo, trying not to make too much noise. In such a thicket a hundred yards may take an hour and for much of the time you are crawling on hands and knees keeping a close lookout for snakes and scorpions and fuming with impatience when your pack snags on a vine or some obstacle. A break in the monotony is the arrival at an abo village. The jungle thins out and there is a smell of woodsmoke. All the dogs in Ulu Perak seem to combine to express