Saturday 6th March 1943
They had a second session of mass injections yesterday. Queer stuff but it has quite certainly livened up the sailor who laughed a little and talked normally yesterday afternoon. He didn't sleep too well but has got up this morning and, dressed, is strolling up and down the ward.
But the miracle cure is Jock! He's so placid and happy that he's evacuated his special kennel and moved out to a bed in the ordinary ward, with the rest of us. This was the highlight of the morning! “You are going to lose your little house, Farrell,” said the MO. “Thank Chreest forn that!” cried Jock loudly. And out he came.
The special pen already has another occupant, though, someone out of the other ward. So this tent is getting quite full now – there are 12 of us altogether.
However, I'll stay in here; the other tent seems nasty and big somehow.
Ghandi took Holy Communion this morning. He was very pleased with life afterwards. “How are you, this time?” enquired the Sister. “A'right!” said Ghandi, and then, with a wink and a grimace and a wicked leer, he added in a conspiratorial stage whisper, “OK? Kiss, sister? Kiss?” The Sister, laughing, filed away.
The barber visited the ward this afternoon, and everyone was very happy and had haircuts there and then. Hamad emerged from his bed for this and subsequently broke his fast, at ka-time. “Shufti!” cried Ed Din, waking up suddenly, “Where Scotchman?” He'd just noticed that the enclosure now contained a different man. “Jock finish now,” I told him, “Keeter mokh. OK” My announcement came at the wrong moment for Jock appeared to have had a slight relapse towards vacuity. At the end of the tent he was leaning with head and shoulders out of the window, hands in pockets, legs crossed at a ridiculous angle. As we looked he began chanting, “So I'm a waitin' of her comin' down... the richt girrl...”
“Kateer mohk?” cried Ed Din with derision and collapsed laughing. So did I.
Interview with the MO this evening. Towards the end, I heard him use these wondrous words:- “I don't think you'll go back to your regiment, Dawson. We'll find you work that suits you better.”
But the miracle cure is Jock! He's so placid and happy that he's evacuated his special kennel and moved out to a bed in the ordinary ward, with the rest of us. This was the highlight of the morning! “You are going to lose your little house, Farrell,” said the MO. “Thank Chreest forn that!” cried Jock loudly. And out he came.
The special pen already has another occupant, though, someone out of the other ward. So this tent is getting quite full now – there are 12 of us altogether.
However, I'll stay in here; the other tent seems nasty and big somehow.
Ghandi took Holy Communion this morning. He was very pleased with life afterwards. “How are you, this time?” enquired the Sister. “A'right!” said Ghandi, and then, with a wink and a grimace and a wicked leer, he added in a conspiratorial stage whisper, “OK? Kiss, sister? Kiss?” The Sister, laughing, filed away.
The barber visited the ward this afternoon, and everyone was very happy and had haircuts there and then. Hamad emerged from his bed for this and subsequently broke his fast, at ka-time. “Shufti!” cried Ed Din, waking up suddenly, “Where Scotchman?” He'd just noticed that the enclosure now contained a different man. “Jock finish now,” I told him, “Keeter mokh. OK” My announcement came at the wrong moment for Jock appeared to have had a slight relapse towards vacuity. At the end of the tent he was leaning with head and shoulders out of the window, hands in pockets, legs crossed at a ridiculous angle. As we looked he began chanting, “So I'm a waitin' of her comin' down... the richt girrl...”
“Kateer mohk?” cried Ed Din with derision and collapsed laughing. So did I.
Interview with the MO this evening. Towards the end, I heard him use these wondrous words:- “I don't think you'll go back to your regiment, Dawson. We'll find you work that suits you better.”
posted by Paul Wilson at 5:39 pm
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