now. What a night! Funny, I ought to be tired after all that. Can’t sleep, though. Better try and get some shut-eye: Reilly’ll be in with the tea in three hours. Bloody dark getting back across the airfield—had to guess where I was going, then walked straight into the side of one of the hangars. Still, got back in one piece. Matheson’s feet hanging off the end of the bed, as usual. At least he’s quiet tonight. Shouts sometimes. No words, just a noise. A cigarette might help—I’ve run out. See if Mathy’s got some in his jacket. Five left, and his lighter. Better sit down on the bed quietly, so the springs don’t creak. Not much chance of disturbing him, though—he’s out for the count. Damn good scrap this afternoon, or rather, yesterday afternoon. Pity about Prideaux. Stupid bastard flew smack into the middle of a bunch of 109s. Didn’t stand a chance. Noticed this morning he had the jitters. We were standing by the window in the dispersal hut, drinking tea, and he kept slopping it, couldn’t seem to get it in his mouth.
