I practically threw myself up the last few yards, but Noel hung on to his advantage and hauled himself up the last ledge with a gasp of relief, a second or two before me. We lay on our backs, and felt the black wet rock cold against us, felt the deep mist damp against our faces, felt the sweat as it trickled into our eyes, felt the air in deep gulps within our lungs. The war was far away and life was very good.

We could see nothing below us, but started off down, jumping and slithering on the avalanche of rocks that cascaded beside us, making a great thunder of noise in that deep stillness. We soon felt again the sun, warm on our faces, and saw below us the bed of a mountain stream leading away into the distance, and scarcely visible, a mere speck at the far end, the inn. We did not hesitate to follow the stream, as it was running low, and we made quite good time until we came to a drop of some twelve feet where the water fell in a small torrent. This we managed to negotiate without getting too wet, only to be met a few yards further on with a sheer drop of some twenty feet. The stream had become a river and dropped down into a shallow pool some two feet deep. It was impossible to go back and there was only one way of going on. ‘You first,’ I said to Noel. ‘Give me your clothes and I’ll throw them down to you with mine.’

Now early March is no time for bathing anywhere, but there can be few colder places that we could have chosen than the mountain streams of Skye. Noel stripped, handed me his clothes, and let himself down as far as possible. Then he let go. He landed on all fours and scrambled out unhurt, a grotesque white figure amidst those sombre rocks.

‘For Christ’s sake hurry up: I’m freezing.’

‘I’m right with you,’ I shouted, and then with Noel’s clothes firmly clutched under my arm, and still wearing my own, I slipped. I had a short glimpse of Noel’s agonized face watching the delicate curve of one of his shoes through the air and then I was under the water with two grazed knees. It was freezingly cold, but I managed to grab everything and wallowed painfully out.

‘You bastard,’ said Noel.

‘I’m sorry, but look at me: I’m just as wet.’

‘Yes, but you’re wearing your clothes: I’ve got to put these bloody things on again.’

With much muttering he finally got dressed, and we squelched our way onwards. By the time we reached the inn two hours later we were dry but mighty hungry.

Over dinner we told the landlord of our novel descent. His sole comment was ‘Humph,’ but the old man at the window turned and smiled at us. I think he approved.

Of crashes. It was after an armament lecture in one of the huts when we heard, very high, the thin wailing scream of a plane coming down fast. The corporal sat down and rolled himself a cigarette. He took out the paper and made of it a neat trough with his forefinger, opened the tin of tobacco and sprinkled a little on to the paper, ran his tongue along the paper edge and then rolled it. As he put it in his mouth we heard the crash, maybe a mile away. The corporal lit a match and spoke: ‘I remember the last time we had one of those. I was on the salvage party. It wasn’t a pretty sight.’

We learned later that the man had been on a war-load height test and had presumably fainted. They did not find much of him, but we filled up the coffin with sand and gave him a grand funeral.

And again night flying. It was a dark night, but cloudless. Noel and I walked down together from the Mess. A light carpet of snow covered the ground and gave an almost fairylike appearance to the wooden living-huts. Through a chink in the blackout a thin ray of light shone out from one of the windows.