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Extracts from a Diary
by Amelia Bourne-Phipps
-edited by Simon Barber-
21 May, 1937

Friday 21st May, 1937 (back-dated)

We are back, at last! And quite a trip it has been. No time to keep a diary, nor spare weight to carry one. Our waterproof field notebooks are compact but they weigh as much as a Songmark bar and food was more of a priority.

    On Tuesday we made a pre-dawn start and were at the Eastern Island docks just as the stars were fading; there was a supply ship heading to Albert Island and our Tutors thriftily put us on it rather than charter that big Lockheed Lamprey they took us to the Aleutians in. The hold was full of ancient Native artefacts (smelling suspiciously of fresh-cut wood and new glue) that the Albert Islanders will reluctantly part with to the season’s tourists “at great personal sacrifice”, as well as food and drink for them. Even the “Euro” provisions are rather slanted towards what folk expect to find on a desert island; Molly says gin and fine brandy are too much of an indoor thing, but as everyone knows pirates drink extra-strength spiced rum. She recognises the bottles from her former family business, being “El Presidente” brand spiced rum from the little republic of Tropico and about as authentically South Seas as the Spontoon limbo dancers.

    The ship was rather small to hold us and the cargo, in fact there was only room on deck for half of us with the rest taking turns to sit in the hold. No passenger cabins, and the only spare crew cabin Miss Blande collared. There were three Albert Islanders returning home, and we took the chance to quiz them in Spontoonie about what has been happening there the past year. It has been a quiet time of things although they were highly amused when the Spontoon cinema sent a portable projector over last Winter with some of the film we helped shoot in the “Liki-Tiki”. By carefully cutting the footage of us sailing in through the coral reefs with stock footage of rapids, the overall impression was a sailing ship hurtling through a white-water tidal race! Considering the Albert Islanders try hard to preserve their reputation as a remote and inaccessible island, I can imagine they were rather pleased with the resulting film.

    One quite realised why folk gave up on sailing ships. Rather than two days’ hard work tacking every ten minutes, we arrived at those dangerous reefs in mid-afternoon. Another half hour had us anchored by the decidedly rickety-looking jetty (actually very well cross-braced and perfectly sound, but built with lots of irregular bits that give the impression they are about to fall down) the far side of which was occupied by a destroyer flying the Rain Islands flag and a syndicate number. We keep being reminded that the main Spontoon group is not the only place around here that needs defending; the Rain Island Naval Syndicates look after the whole Independencies to a lesser extent. Still, Spontoon with its tourist wealth understandably gets most of the attention. Quite probably any small Casino or Hotel on Casino Island carries twice the currency as the whole of Albert Island, and here it is spread over many a remote village rather than one handy strong-room.

    It was a fine hot day and the Natives came out to greet us, though not in their war-paint and finery as they had for the film cameras. The old spotted leopard chief is still in charge, and recognised some of us from last year. Some of us were disappointed they were not awaiting us with a luau and feast on the beach, but this time it is local Songmark business and not a highly lucrative film crew to bleed for funds. Although it is wrong to wish ill on folk, I hope they squeezed the Sturdeys for every farthing.

    Far from a feast and a relaxing evening, we were lined up while thirty very professional-looking Rain Island furs in uniforms without insignia took a long look over us. I notice that Rain Island sometimes fields troops without rank badges or insignia, just wearing totally plain fatigue uniforms. They had with them half a dozen Albert Islanders, who sized us up as if measuring us for new clothes.
 
    Helen’s fur was standing on end as she whispered this was going to be harder than anyone had guessed – we were going to be chased by experienced troops with the aid of Native trackers working on their home territory! Certainly there were a lot of drooping tails and ears amongst my year when that sunk in. Being up against furs who have been trained all their lives in the local tradition and could follow a trail before they learned to read will be jolly difficult.

    Miss Blande clapped her paws and explained the rules – very simply, we were working in our dorms, and had half an hour’s grace before the pursuers came after us. Anyone not caught by sunrise could return to the village for six hours of rest, a good meal and suchlike before being chased again. Any dorm caught returns here and starts again, without the rewards. We had ten minutes’ planning time before the first hunt began.

    Molly’s first idea was to sprint up the firm wet beach round the corner of the hill, as far and as fast as possible before cutting into the jungle. Tracking is slower work than running, and every minute we spent at top speed we would widen the gap. By the time our pursuers began tracking us in the jungle it would be getting dark and we would be at an advantage. The trouble would be we would be absolutely reeking of musk after three hour’s running and a Native would easily track us in full darkness through three-yard jungle having spotted where we crossed from the beach.
 
    A quick “Chinese Parliament” came up with a modified version and we all agreed. As soon as Miss Blande gave the word we did indeed sprint out at top speed up the wave-washed sand which at least had the advantage of immediately erasing our tracks and scent, plus the sea spray cooling us to an extent. The pursuers would be watching for us leaving the surf line to head inland particularly where rocky spurs cut across the beach making it harder to track paw-prints. Hard for someone like us indeed, though I remember that Sasquatch lady on Vostok who tracked Maria and me over bare rocks for two days.

    After an hour’s run we stopped and rested for a few minutes, then drank a water-bottle apiece. After which we left the beach – not into the jungle, but swimming out into the lagoon. The surf was breaking over the reef showing that there was something solid to hang on to, and with our ropes hooked to the loops of our climbing shorts we “belayed” ourselves to a big coral boss.  It is easy to spot swimmers in calm open water, but our heads were harder to see two hundred yards out amongst the coral stumps and swirling white water.
   
    Forty minutes later we spotted our pursuers heading up the beach, three separate bands of them moving at an easy lope. Two hundred yards offshore we hardly needed to be quiet with the surf breaking around us, but still I found myself holding my breath as the trackers stopped and looked around every half minute. It was a great relief when they moved on, in a few minutes vanishing around the bend in the coast.

    Of course, there was no guarantee that a party of them would not double back and re-check the beach as indeed things look different viewed from the other direction. But we could not stay out on the reef all night, even in these waters; I was already shivering so after ten minutes we cautiously swam back to the beach and began a much more cautious return towards the dock. There were two teams unaccounted-for who had not passed us; although it felt as if the edge of the jungle was full of unfriendly eyes we pressed on hoping they had gone deep into the interior of the island. Every minute an evading fur is moving increases the area they might be in by a considerable amount; as the time we have been away doubles the search area becomes much greater (area of a circle being Pi times Radius squared, as I recall from the first-year maths at Saint Winifreds).
 
    By the time we were within a mile of the docks it was getting dark, and we had to decide whether to head into the jungle while there was some daylight or not to risk crossing that beach. Being dripping wet was rather a liability when trying to avoid leaving traces. I noticed by the way the driftwood was floating in the lagoon that there was about a knot of current heading our way, and suggested we hitch a ride. The surf had calmed down quite considerably and the lagoon water was calm; any vigorous swimming would be conspicuous from the shore and we had to assume anyone who saw us would give the alarm. Miss Blande had never said the rest of the Natives were considered friendly.
 
    Half an hour in the water brought us back to the dock, and I noticed with some relief that the Rain Island naval vessel had departed, presumably off on patrol. Keen lookouts with binoculars would be bad news for four Songmark girls trying to perfect their driftwood impressions. The top of the jetty was bare and offered no chance of concealment, but the irregular structure of pillars and cross-bracings underneath was another matter. A quiet clamber up an access ladder hid us under the shadows of the planked deck above, almost invisible – and if we were dripping wet, so too was everything else with the sea twenty feet below our tails.

    There remained the matter of how to pass the night; at least in the jungle one can lie down on a leaf bed although the insects prove troublesome. Here we could cling to the supports all night but that would be a very poor option and would leave us exhausted by morning. It was Maria who came up with the answer – on the top she spotted a ship’s hawser coiled with perhaps a hundred feet of half-inch Manila rope lying in the shadows, where it would probably not be missed till dawn. Stringing that back and forth between two horizontal bracing struts gave us a real “cat’s cradle” big enough for a bovine and a cervine as well as two cats! We clipped ourselves into the harness loops on our climbing shorts guarding against possible falling out of bed, and relaxed for the evening. There was little point in keeping watch as this exercise would end when we were spotted rather than captured; the only use of a sentry would have been to warn us in time to get away, and if anyone decided to check under the jetty with flashlights they would see us anyway.

    A damp evening but not especially chilly – actually I managed a few hours of sleep, though with all four of us pressed together if one wakes up and moves the rest tend to awaken. I was glad to see the sky brighten though, and by the time the sun came up we had coiled our bed up and replaced it where we found it. Tidiness with other furs’ equipment is never a bad thing, and besides we might have wanted to use that trick on a later night so leaving our “nest” around would rather give the game away.

    Just to be on the safe side, we waited until the sun was actually up and shining before presenting ourselves in the village square. Now is not the time to get caught on technicalities between “dawn” and “sunrise”, and our Tutors have set trick questions like that before. Anyway, we were the first ones back uncaught though Jasbir’s dorm came in from inland half an hour later; they had taken to the tree canopy and passed a night rather like ours. Irma Bundt makes an unlikely tree-dweller, but she is agile for her weight and skilled at doing unlikely things. I recall last year on the military manoeuvres she dug a burrow, despite it being untypical for bovines.

    Miss Blande appeared with stopwatch and clipboard in paw, and congratulated us all – the other dorms had been spotted at least once apiece, and were on their second or third chase. We had six precious hours of whatever “facilities” the village could afford till our next ordeal!
 
    It looked as if Jasbir, Sophie, Irma and Li Han had passed a sleepless night in their treetop roost as they headed straight into a proffered Native hut, pulled the woven rattan window blinds down and by the snores (a problem Irma shares with Maria, alas) were fast asleep in minutes. We had other priorities – by that time we were out of our salt-soaked uniforms sponging each other’s fur out with a big tub of hot water. The locals have much the same standards of dress as Spontoon Main Island, and hardly looked twice although Maria and Molly were rare species on this island. Sleeping in salt-soaked fur will rapidly drive anyone insane with itching, besides leaving us looking as if we have been dragged through a hedge backwards.

    After a decent breakfast of fish and mashed yams (conserving our portable food) and extremely welcome hot tea we spread most of our clothing out in the sun to dry and found a shady spot to top up on sleep ourselves. It never hurts to get in some extra, especially when one has no idea of what the next days and nights have in store. Miss Blande did not ask us how we had passed our night, but as ever she said she would look forward to reading our reports. “Complete and comprehensive” are words she did not use, but by now we know what our Tutors want.

    By the time we woke up at noon everyone else was back, mostly looking rather the worse for wear. I felt slightly guilty recalling our fairly comfortable hideaway under the pier and five hours unbroken sleep to top that off, but “to the victor the spoils” as they say, and had they had our luck and planning they would have done as well. Still, apparently they will get the chance to catch up as the remaining three days were a single big exercise, with no holds barred and the local villagers promised a bounty (paid by the Rain Islanders) to join in the search!

    If our ears and tails had dipped on hearing the rules the day before, I think they were all limp and flat as last week’s salad when we heard about the next stage. The jetty is used by the locals all the time, and though we stayed out of casual sight before, then they had no cause to go looking for us. The good thing was, we had an hour to think of plans then two hours to get ourselves thoroughly lost.

    One possibility suggested that was instantly squashed was heading for the Taboo areas where the locals would not go, and where they have no more local knowledge than we have. We saw all too much of that cursed area last time, to our great cost. Even the folk who were not on the trip last Spring have heard quite sufficient about it from those who went hunting the Sturdey boys (not with four-bore rifle, to Molly’s disappointment). I would rather get captured the first afternoon than win the exercise in those swamps. Typhus is not measles; having it once does not protect against getting it again and the Pacific Marsh Typhus is a killer. If anyone qualified as young and healthy that Spontoonie girl Hinewehi did, and they buried her the week after we left the swamps. She would have had more low-level exposure to local diseases than us, and should have been resistant to some extent. Doctors and nurses very rarely catch diseases from their patients for that very reason, after all.

    Although generally we try not to repeat ourselves, heading up the beach has the advantages of getting us a long way from the pursuers at high speed, and without leaving a trail all the way as we would if we dived straight into the jungle. One cannot pass through jungle without leaving traces, even bent leaves being enough for a top tracker to follow. So as for the previous day we started off at a jog heading up the coast, with Prudence’s dorm following us. It seems they had tried the “underwater trick” beloved of Hollywood, with short reeds to breathe in a murky pool. Alas, against a top tracker their trail was spotted going into the pool and none coming out, proving they were still in there somewhere. Carmen had tried to lay a false trail coming out then walking backwards in her own pawprints to the pool, but to no avail and they were poked out with bamboo poles.

    In two hours we had covered about sixteen miles, which is no record but about right for a fur carrying a pack with several days of expected hard work ahead. Prudence waved farewell and they headed inland along a rocky spur – we followed them to the jungle edge, then retraced our steps back along the bare rock. The rock spur finished looking over a deep pool with about twenty feet of sheer cliff. Looking at each other we realised that if there is something better for hiding a trail than rock it is water – and better than that, air. Being the lightest of us I took the dive first and as my paws just touched the sandy bottom I waved the rest in. We were careful not to leave any impression on the bottom; in calm clear water the imprints of Maria’s and Molly’s hooves might have been visible until the next high tide.

    Then – along the wave-washed beach to the next spur, and into the jungle at last. Fortunately we found a game trail, as without machetes the three-yard jungle would have been totally impossible. There were great tangled stands of “wait-awhile” thorn bushes with thorns like barbed fish-hooks, and the glossy bright green leaves of Hawaiian nettle were everywhere. When we found a stream we followed it up, unavoidably slipping and sliding but at least not leaving much of a trail.
 
    By nightfall we were climbing up the central mountain of the island, and I remembered the vegetation rather thinned out towards the top. So while we had some light we cut ourselves leaves to weave into an overnight shelter. Such low shelters are remarkably inconspicuous if put against the right background especially in poor light, and we had practiced.

    What with Albert Island being the size it is, there was little point in just keeping going or we would have just come out into the villages and farms on the far shore by dawn. As before, there was no point in keeping a watch as by the time a lookout spotted a tracking party they would be too close for us to get away from unseen. Our plan was to lay the longest trail in daylight and hope it had grown cold enough by the time it was found to make it hard to follow at night. Every hour makes it easier for us, as even furs who can read a bent blade of grass need light to see it.

    So – a fairly restful night’s sleep, waking at dawn with the bird-jewelled canopy of the forest above us and no grinning Albert Islanders pointing snapshot cameras at us for evidence to win the bounty.  A breakfast of one Songmark bar apiece (I could have eaten half a dozen) then we dismantled our shelter and threw the torn leaves into the stream. There are logjams of fallen trees and choking vegetation every fifty yards or so, and they would not get far.

    Had our pursuers been following our trail they would have already caught up with us, as Helen pointed out. We know enough about such things to know that the next step after losing a trail is a standard area search sweeping the ground, and that was the next thing to prepare for. More speed would not help us on this, as we needed concealment. There were no handy lava tubes around, and anyway such things are obvious places to look if one knows the territory as the islanders surely do. On a map if there are caves or mines marked we know to steer clear when selecting hideouts as the opposition presumably have the same maps. Unmarked caves are best.

    We decided the idea of getting underground was not a bad one and though we had no shovels or entrenching tools we had our pocket knives and with fallen branches whittled digging-sticks that can do fairly well. The biggest patch of “wait-awhile” thorns in the area looked like a place no sane Native would poke around in, so we managed to dig into the hollow centre of the clump. It was rather inspired by some of the sketches in Father’s field fortification manuals of an observation post in “no-fur’s land” in 1918, with a simple but serviceable pole floor keeping us off the mud.

    Then, basically, we hid for two days. Molly was rather restless by the second day and was in favour of more of a running pursuit across the island, but we voted her down. If you outrun searchers from one direction one is liable to run full-tilt into the paws of the next party coming the other way. Her idea of salting the local trails with traps was also voted down as that would be a dead giveaway we had been in the area when we wanted furs to think we were miles away. As it was, three parties came within hearing range of us; we were quiet and not moving much so our sound and scent was minimal and the thorn bushes had a rather pungent perfume of their own which masked us further. Not having a fire even at night was rather a pain, as it meant nothing but cold and scanty food washed down with a bare minimum of water fetched at first light from a stream two hundred yards down the trail. Still, it was warm enough, shaded enough with the high thorn bushes around us and the rain held off which was just as well considering we had not so much as a ragged tarpaulin between us.
 
    This morning we were very pleased to give our legs a stretch after three days “lying-up” and to trot down a clear trail to the coast munching the last of our fruit and nuts and grateful to drink as much water as we wanted from the jungle streams. Another two hours along the beach and we were back at the main village, being the last party back and one of only two who stayed uncaptured! Missy K’s dorm was the other; that of course includes Beryl who has a flair for this sort of thing. I recall last year when we were all meant to be guarding Main Island from invaders, she dug a concealed burrow and “guarded” that dutifully.
 
    Back onto the boat, sadly missing out yet again on any Native luau and general partying. Still, the supply boat has its schedule and unlike our voyage on the Liki -Tiki  we are not the crew or owners, so it is not up to us when we had to get back to Songmark. Everyone spent the trip back writing up their reports on books which like my diary we had left safely onboard in Miss Blande’s cabin.  Six hours can get a lot of writing done, and we had drafts of our reports ready detailing exactly what we did and why. This is one trip where our dorm surely scores top marks, never having been captured!
 
    I must say, I was surprised to leave the island safe and sound, having been expecting hideous danger and endless trouble. Saimmi’s predictions have never been wrong before. It was hard work all right but we came through it with flying colours, without even a Hawaiian Nettle sting. There were the usual cuts and scratches; one hardly digs a den under a wait-awhile thicket without discovering all about its barbed, hooked thorns. Unless we discover they carry something highly contagious or slowly toxic, we have got away from whatever Saimmi saw in her fires for me. Still, she is the first to admit she is not infallible - unlike the Pope, as Maria has dryly pointed out on several occasions.

    By evening we were arriving at Pier Two on Casino Island, just too late to get to Songmark for supper. Various girls were giving mock sighs as they lamented all the lovely three-fingered poi and pastefish they were missing out on. This is generally a bad idea; our Tutors have a wicked sense of humour on occasion and Miss Blande could have telephoned ahead from the dock to have the cooks get some ready for us specially (at which point we would learn the junior years had dined on roast chicken, though in that case we would have heard the cheers as the ship rounded South Island.)

    Actually our luck was in; although Miss Blande did indeed telephone some cooks from the dock it was not to Songmark. We had reservations ordered at the Sunset Grill at that time of evening, giving us half an hour to dash to Songmark, change into our best uniform and walk back to the restaurant at a dignified speed. Anyone not dressed and scenting respectably, Miss Blande told us, had a cold can of that surplus Rain Island cheese and mashed potato emergency ration to look forward to for supper instead.

    Despite some of us having spent four days being chased through the jungle, as soon as the water taxis hit the beach we hit the ground running and probably shaved a few seconds off our record getting to the front gate. Saffina was on guard there with that Australian mouse from Florence’s dorm – they probably gained a point by slamming the gate in front of our muzzles and demanding our Passes back before they let us in one at a time, albeit not wasting any time about it. Certainly it must have been one of the fastest showers, grooming and “quick change” acts on record, as two minutes before the deadline the entire Songmark third year walked into the foyer of the Sunset Grill as quietly and respectably as any Church procession and smelling as sweetly.
 
    Mixed grill! Chops and bacon and minute steak! I had forgotten such food existed, and indeed on Spontoon it only exists for the tourists along with the well-paid pilots and such who bring them. Helen whispered that Lady Allworthy can have it three meals a day whenever she desires, back in Barrow-in-Furriness. That gave me pause to think, though barely for a second. I well remember Lord Leon’s figure, and that Lord Allworthy did not spend his time sprinting along beach sand with a pack on. It is a sobering thought that even loaded with equipment till I could hardly stand, I have never weighed as much as he did in his bare fur. And he was not that much taller than me.

    Still, I pushed that thought to one side for awhile and refused to let anything spoil my appreciation of the best Songmark-bought meal since last time we were all in Bow Thai. There were baskets of bread and bowls of fried potatoes plus various deliciously cooked vegetables – I started off hungrily but after half an hour or so gradually slowed to a halt. We have read of this before, but never experienced it as badly as this. After days and days of eating nothing but concentrated, scanty food (nuts, dried fruit, Songmark bars) one’s stomach actually shrinks! I got through the meat and some of the potatoes but was left staring helplessly at the rest of the food we would so dearly have loved to have had in the previous days, even the plain bread.
 
    I was far from the only one to have the problem; they say “enough is as good as a feast” but being faced with a feast it is galling not to be able to make the most of it. Still, if that is all the trouble Saimmi saw for us this week we will have got off very lightly!

    Back to Songmark in an excellent mood. We have the testing exercise behind us now, the whole relaxing weekend ahead of us, the weather forecast is for fine sunshine and there is much to be enjoyed. It seems I had visitors while we were away; Miss Devinski left a note saying they turned up just as we were about to start the three-day exercise and though she radioed straight away to Miss Blande, we had already vanished and were doing our best not to be found by the best trackers Rain Island and Albert Island could field. I wonder who it might be? Ah well, it seems they will be returning tomorrow morning and we shall find out then.
 
    Until then, Dear Diary, good night – just for a change everything seems to be going our way!

(Amelia’s Diary continues, with interruptions for certain reasons, in the next chapter. It is suitably titled “Crash Landings.”)

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