I suppose it was the same bright individual who had the storm trench dug who thought of the idea of burying a pipe to carry away the cookhouse effluent down into the eastern hillside tunnel. I found this out by accident. Having seen Fantasia the previous night and admiring Mickey Mouse's jaunty swagger I hummed the melody of Ducas' The Sorcerer's Apprentice as I swaggered down into the dark tunnel; I stopped abruptly when the fluid was over the tops of my gaiters; my humming stopped and my language was not nice at all. From the mess hut one lunch time, gazing at nothing in particular but looking towards the north side of the camp, I became aware of a disturbance in the taller grasses on top of the low earth bank. I wondered why as the movement was not general as one would expect with wind gusts but was quite localised. While I mused over this a loud yelling came from that spot and immediately some 20 or 30 khaki clad figures emerged carrying rifles and with their faces blackened. This armed group charged across the battery, still yelling as they went out through the gate, past the stick sentry; he watched stupefied, head turning from side to side as they disappeared into Fort Austin Avenue. He had only ever expected unauthorised entry from without, never from within. By the time we had collected our thoughts and looked outside there was no sign of the intruders and we never saw them again. This was I believe an early training exercise of a commando unit. At that time we were a fairly close knit group, our common bond being that we were all Bristolians and volunteers. There was virtually no crime apart from petty offences against military law, in fact the reverse was often the case as was demonstrated when one pay day I had to dash off from pay parade, dump my pay and pay-book on my unmade bed and rush to catch the lorry going into town to see a show. When I returned late at night my bed had been made and my pay and pay-book were placed neatly on my bed, by whom I never found out.