Tuesday 10th March 1942

Jimmie has moved out of the sariba into an annexe nearby. Search has come in. Our home is a club room for the seven of us each evening and we have a meal of scrounged food, usually hot, and of course a brew, before turning in. I have constructed an excellent hammock and sleep very comfortably among the rafters (tubular drainpipes), thus making floor space for a table below. The hammock causes great merriment and as much excitement as the great age (30) of Bob Andrews, alias “the doddering old fool” and “toothless wonder”. I have found a wooden box with a clasp and hinged lid which is very handy for my personal possessions. The lid is inscribed, “DAWSON HIS DITTY BOX” so naturally I am now called “the Able Seaman”.

I tried to do some French on the last shift (3-6a.m.) this morning, but it was no good; I was too tired to concentrate.