Isolation Camp Log, Day 622

Late February (I think)

Our second winter here, and all hope of rescue is dwindling. I can see it in the men now, a growing sense of feral desperation. I cling to any semblance of authority, and fear there may be talk of mutiny belowdecks. A week ago, my lieutenant caught O’Neill pulling rat poison from the larder. Since we no longer choose to poison our main source of protein, I could only surmise that he’d intended it for the officers. Therefore, I have taken the precaution of having the stewards taste everything before serving us in the officers’ mess. No ill effects yet, and the stewards seems to relish the responsibility, while also growing slightly rotund. We stay vigilant.

In an attempt to boost our sense of decorum and civility, I’ve reinstated grooming regulations—hair length to be maintained above the collar and weekly shaving to keep facial hair at an acceptable length. But a growing contingent of the crew have adopted what they call “man buns” to skirt the length requirement, and have refused to shave below the chin, resulting in unsightly neck beards. It is a small battle I may lose but, given the general black mood in camp, I may need to have the straight razors and scissors locked in the armory anyway.