Tuesday 18th February 1941

An easy day's march again. We're still in the fertile region – haven't reached Derna yet – and are now sitting round our camp fire in a valley between rocky hills. It's quite dark but the fire is blazing merrily! Camp fire! “As the sparks leap upward, so may our ideals; as the red logs glow, so may our hearts; as the grey ash fades, so may our errors”. The camp fire is my job, I make the fire, Basil Grant mashes the tea. “Scout Dawson” they call me and I tell them how Baden Powell is the greatest leader of youth in this age. (So he is.)

As we sing, I can see the gleam of yet another fire on the hillside.
“...When day is done and grass is wet,
With twilight dew...”
“... But come ye back when summer's in the meadow,
Or when the valley's hushed and white with snow,
For I'll be there in sunshine or in shower...”