Tuesday 13th June 1939

“Hemmings” as Fenning calls him – Harich actually – seems a misfit. Ling grinned and pointed him out to me as we jolted along in M1 (Hemmings being with us temporarily). Each remark he makes – they’re mostly a little pompous – is greeted with jeers.
He doesn’t mix in, or swear. I felt so sympathetic – I was once like that and used to feel miserable – that I got into conversation with “Hemmings” at the first halt and tried to persuade him to swear – just occasionally! Nothing doing though. “They shall not make me give in” he said stubbornly.

Anniversary of our engagement. A very bright morning, but a dull afternoon. The Battery makes an impressive show as, in magnificent order we roar out of Camp – guns, wireless trucks and instrument vehicles all in their places. Once on the scheme however things often go wrong. Balls up. The other day, both the Major and the signals officer – Adams – apologised to us! “I’m sorry about this!” called the Major, as he passed my section, still waiting for orders. “I’m sorry Dawson, you haven’t had a chance today” said Adams, as we packed up our instruments five minutes after arriving at the position.

We tore into Camp at about 4:30 this afternoon, all very grimy and tired and damp. In M1, a disreputable looking Lance-Bombardier, standing up, waved excitedly and a radiant and very fresh-looking Lois standing on the pavement, waved back. The blokes cheered and waved, too. “That’s my fiancée actually” I said coldly.

Signallers were supposed to be on fatigue tonight, but the Sergeant let me go. I slipped out quietly, feeling a little guilty, whilst everyone else started work. We had supper with “Rose”. She gave Angel a bunch of roses!