Journal+Entry+1+HWK

**16 June 1937** ===//Before I begin my first ever journal entry of mine, I'd like to start off by saying that things haven't been as swell as I'd thought it be. I originally wanted to be a pilot of the British Air Force, like very other kid who dreamt of it since his voice changed, but I couldn't pass the darn test. “Didn’t have the quick analytical skills of a glorious British pilot,” they said. Talk about a load of horseshit. School was never big on me. I hated it, and it hated me. But after not getting accepted into what I had thought would be possible, I’m having second thoughts. Anyways, when I–albeit very reluctantly–joined the army, I was already sulky and in a stinking mood about how God did not bother to even flap open his earholes to just listen to one his most devout followers and had to consequently mess up his life. I got into the Army, with really no hopes and all, and in no way did I think that I would be leaving this forsaken island called Britain. Things turned from worse to bearable when I was given the slip that I was to be shipped off to some God-knows-where place called "Singapore." I was initially as happy as an alcoholic who had just found the fountain of youth was beer without the hangover, but that quickly changed when my other buds told me about it, describing it as “one helluva jungle.” They were right. As soon as I stepped out of the birdie, a giant wave of sickly humid weather wrenched off the faucets of my pores. Before I knew it, my back, trousers, socks–whatever I was wearing–were drenched with stinking sweat. The humidity was insane; I swear, you could see the air twisting and swarming around you like a snake. Rather than swearing out loud, no one, myself included, uttered a word. I looked around the airbase, and besides the perimeter of the paved tar and steel fences, all I could see were trees, trees, trees and trees. In all directions, this whole place called Singapore was a freaking Amazon, just like I had read in those kid books back when I was in elementary school. The directions for my battalion were a bit jumbled, so I went to ask my commanding officer. This officer of mine darn well represented the idealistic officer of the honorably royal British Army battalion: He was tall as a stick and, as my mother would say, cute as a button, though that would be from a the female’s point of view. I was surprised to find out that he was two years younger than me, but held the rank of a commanding officer. His name was Aston Galloway, or at least that’s how I remembered it. Hell, had it not been for the cool gin we all got later in the night after I settled into my new battalion, I would’ve just taken him as a smart-ass kid who happened to be from a rich family, but when he approached me amiably, I reciprocated the friendliness, and we soon got along fine. Darn, seems like I wrote a lot for a single entry, tomorrow’s gonna be another hot stuffy day with all the moving around to “equalize the number of forces,” which, if you ask me, is just a lame excuse to get our asses hauled for some unnecessary labor.// ===