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[Page 121]

1918
Thu. 21st Feb.
The concert last night was followed by disaster.

Had today been promoted from a cane lounge to a hammock owing to a fresh rush of scurvy patients and as I was clambering up somewhere near the roof the hammock ropes snapped and I was precipitated right on top of a scurvy-stricken son of Han sleeping right underneath.

The ebony-hued one yelled, as also did dear old Webbie as he rushed around looking more than ever like an angular old female in his long kimono and weird-looking blanket-hat.

Moans and morphia this morning – I blamed the fall last night and Webbie blamed the large feed of dried potatoes and "Mrs Crippen" I insisted on eating yesterday.

I was strapped into a coffin-like stretcher and carried forward again feeling very low and [indecipherable] – tearful almost.

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