Tuesday 19th November 1940
Another interesting day. (So far there has been little “bullshit” - no kit stacking – and the food has been good. The “spirit of the troops” is excellent) We got through a good deal of maintenance, did some buzzer reading and flag signalling. For a change, I took the flag signallers on semaphore. They had not done any before and enjoyed it, making good progress.
I thought this stores job too good to last! Doug Stiles is now store man. I haven't been “found wanting,” there wasn't time for that to occur, but Mr Gardner, the sigs. officer, decided it was wrong to have a bombardier in the stores. Which it is! A pity though; I'd learnt a surprising number of things I didn't know, even in three days.
Tonight I think, with great coat and scarf, I shall go to the open air camp cinema.
10p.m. in the silent store-shed, by flickering candlelight. It was lovely to see a flick again – though it was only a New York gangster story. But oh! The sadness of the sudden return to drab khakidom at the end of the film!
A letter dated October 10th from Mother. All well. It enclosed a telegram form dated October 9th 1940: “Dawson, button, bratton fleming bale. Appointed in command of Goatfell. Address accordingly love N”.
This “zift” climate! I go for dressings tomorrow as usual – desert sores on the toes and a festering finger. When I see some of the bloody sights which are revealed as the bandages and lint are removed in the MI room, my bits of sores seem trivial. The Cook's wrist is like a piece of raw meat; and I've seen sores on men's legs, as large as saucers... a right bad climate!
I thought this stores job too good to last! Doug Stiles is now store man. I haven't been “found wanting,” there wasn't time for that to occur, but Mr Gardner, the sigs. officer, decided it was wrong to have a bombardier in the stores. Which it is! A pity though; I'd learnt a surprising number of things I didn't know, even in three days.
Tonight I think, with great coat and scarf, I shall go to the open air camp cinema.
10p.m. in the silent store-shed, by flickering candlelight. It was lovely to see a flick again – though it was only a New York gangster story. But oh! The sadness of the sudden return to drab khakidom at the end of the film!
A letter dated October 10th from Mother. All well. It enclosed a telegram form dated October 9th 1940: “Dawson, button, bratton fleming bale. Appointed in command of Goatfell. Address accordingly love N”.
This “zift” climate! I go for dressings tomorrow as usual – desert sores on the toes and a festering finger. When I see some of the bloody sights which are revealed as the bandages and lint are removed in the MI room, my bits of sores seem trivial. The Cook's wrist is like a piece of raw meat; and I've seen sores on men's legs, as large as saucers... a right bad climate!
posted by Paul Wilson at 3:20 pm
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