During the war years, Herriot exchanged his wellingtons and breeches for goggles and a baggy flying suit but his Yorkshire ties remained intact. In training, the ""cosseted young husband"" with double chin and spare tire was transformed into ""a lithe, tireless greyhound,"" but he never saw action: just as he was to cross the Channel, he required surgery, which disqualified him for combat and left him in a Heaton Park laundry room for the duration. But Herriot in any surroundings is far superior to his many imitators, and these episodic rememberings show the same gracious fidelity and flawless timing as his earlier books. RAF fellows and his own flight plans do figure briefly here and there; more often a chance encounter--a loud voice, a glass of beer--triggers memories of Darrowby and his veterinary practice: pedunculated tumors and antiphlogistine poultices, a crepitating boxer and a highly sociable cat, unflappable Yorkshire farmers and addled pet owners. Wife Helen delivers their first child whom Herriot, always dazzled by newborn calves, finds ""a funny-looking little thing""; the puckish Tristan engages in automotive exploits--accelerating from a crouch so their car appears to arrive with no driver; and partner Siegfried continues to disagree amicably, confer frequently, and offer his sober advice: ""There is more to be learned up a cow's arse than in many an encyclopedia."" As before, an excellent prognosis.