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7 December

Posted on February 13, 2011 by Captain P. Fawcett

Exhausted we eventually happen on a fast flowing river, a treacherous torrent swollen with the late monsoon rains.

We set up camp for the night, this God-awful day is done we can proceed no further. A fire is lit allowing us to dry some of our clothes; it also serves to keep at bay the hounds of hell that aurally surround us.

The weak flame shedding enough light to facilitate the painful removal of the blood-seeking leeches that now cover our arms and legs, this slow exacting process eats further into my private stock of Sullivan’s finest Turkish cigarettes.

Needs must what?

A hearty singsong precedes a fitful, nightmare of a sleep! C.F.

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