possibly a comfortable pair of shoes to put on when I go on duty again tomorrow night. What more can a girl want after all? I feel so much at peace with the entire world that I could almost write a sonnet. I would call it, let’s see … On first sighting a pair of white, probably comfortable shoes . It would be good if I had enough energy to woo the muse – alas, dead these many days. For if ever a poet felt strongly about her subject this one would be hers. It would come straight from the heart, and deftly handled, it would be enough to make even the strong weep …
The seas still roll in, waters from the entire world, in endless motion. Ships on the skyline, merchantmen and fishing boats with sails of pure poetry. Ali leans over the balcony near me and insists on gabbling to me in Arabic of which I understand three words, ‘ suchac , quais , mucquais ’, from which I gather – rather brilliantly, I modestly think, that the heat was bad but the heat is now ‘ mafish ’ and the night cool, which is good. Ali is right and Ali is a poet, a philosopher in his own land. The donkey carts go by, bells all a-jingle, the peasant vendor ambles serenely along, and the last rays of the sun catch the glass jar on his capable head. Now he is one with yesterday’s 7,000 years. There are some sailor boys in white shorts and jackets pedalling past on bicycles; now an air force AC with his Greek girl, now a Tommy with his girl. Now an ambulance, now a despatch rider in a hurry, now a taxi with a QA correctly attired in herbeautiful tricolene and with a suitable escort. Now three Egyptians, complete with tarbushes, in a sidecar and a family going home from the beach in an opulent limousine. Now some transport driven by b-topee’d Tommies avec tin hats. The door banging below is one of the safragi admitting one of the girls coming off duty … endless activity, and as varied and colourful as life itself.
I am enjoying my ward – I’m not busy at all, although there is always a mad scramble to get beds made o’morning. I have Hut 8 Isolation to supervise as well where there are only two, both convalescent, nice boys. One is writing a book and hopes to publish it in America – I hope he does. As one has chicken pox and the other scarlet fever, they can’t foregather so each sits on his little garden wall in the cool or heat of the evenings and converses with the other across the ten yards of sand. So, one feels, governments should sit, in the cool of the day unhurried and in philosophic mood, with ten yards of this good earth between them and a kindly word of ‘goodnight’ before turning in over their respective garden walls. But men are stupid in the mass – and never will learn. Individually, I love them all, at least at some times and in some moods.
The men in Hut 8 greet me affectionately I always feel, although I don’t see much of them. Curtis, RAMS, watches over or so I hope. Just now by night – Hut 7 is my spiritual home – the men are mostly navy these days as the RAF and army are evacuated very often to other parts, just as they are nicely settled in. They are mostly young or youngish and a nicer collection of men you couldn’t wish to have. I like the ward to myself at night and I feel they are all happy to be there, which is a good feeling. There are some things which are more satisfying to me than medals and good reports and being popular with Matron and having the equipment correct or having the ward perfect on the colonel’s round. Little things that I can’t write down here or tell anyone about, because they would seem unimportant and in a sense conceited – although of course that doesn’t come into it at all – things that the men say to me from time to time, when I do simple little things for them to make them comfortable, real gratitude often clumsily expressed – golden words that send me on winged feet on my way and give me satisfaction in this ghastly business. There was a Danish captain on
The seas still roll in, waters from the entire world, in endless motion. Ships on the skyline, merchantmen and fishing boats with sails of pure poetry. Ali leans over the balcony near me and insists on gabbling to me in Arabic of which I understand three words, ‘ suchac , quais , mucquais ’, from which I gather – rather brilliantly, I modestly think, that the heat was bad but the heat is now ‘ mafish ’ and the night cool, which is good. Ali is right and Ali is a poet, a philosopher in his own land. The donkey carts go by, bells all a-jingle, the peasant vendor ambles serenely along, and the last rays of the sun catch the glass jar on his capable head. Now he is one with yesterday’s 7,000 years. There are some sailor boys in white shorts and jackets pedalling past on bicycles; now an air force AC with his Greek girl, now a Tommy with his girl. Now an ambulance, now a despatch rider in a hurry, now a taxi with a QA correctly attired in herbeautiful tricolene and with a suitable escort. Now three Egyptians, complete with tarbushes, in a sidecar and a family going home from the beach in an opulent limousine. Now some transport driven by b-topee’d Tommies avec tin hats. The door banging below is one of the safragi admitting one of the girls coming off duty … endless activity, and as varied and colourful as life itself.
I am enjoying my ward – I’m not busy at all, although there is always a mad scramble to get beds made o’morning. I have Hut 8 Isolation to supervise as well where there are only two, both convalescent, nice boys. One is writing a book and hopes to publish it in America – I hope he does. As one has chicken pox and the other scarlet fever, they can’t foregather so each sits on his little garden wall in the cool or heat of the evenings and converses with the other across the ten yards of sand. So, one feels, governments should sit, in the cool of the day unhurried and in philosophic mood, with ten yards of this good earth between them and a kindly word of ‘goodnight’ before turning in over their respective garden walls. But men are stupid in the mass – and never will learn. Individually, I love them all, at least at some times and in some moods.
The men in Hut 8 greet me affectionately I always feel, although I don’t see much of them. Curtis, RAMS, watches over or so I hope. Just now by night – Hut 7 is my spiritual home – the men are mostly navy these days as the RAF and army are evacuated very often to other parts, just as they are nicely settled in. They are mostly young or youngish and a nicer collection of men you couldn’t wish to have. I like the ward to myself at night and I feel they are all happy to be there, which is a good feeling. There are some things which are more satisfying to me than medals and good reports and being popular with Matron and having the equipment correct or having the ward perfect on the colonel’s round. Little things that I can’t write down here or tell anyone about, because they would seem unimportant and in a sense conceited – although of course that doesn’t come into it at all – things that the men say to me from time to time, when I do simple little things for them to make them comfortable, real gratitude often clumsily expressed – golden words that send me on winged feet on my way and give me satisfaction in this ghastly business. There was a Danish captain on
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