Monday 16th February 1942

This morning, whilst travelling along the main road towards the RSD, we overtook a long convoy of infantry men, sitting packed in lorries. By their wooden, expressionless faces, I felt pretty sure they were going to the soul-destroying “bluey.” All looked emotionless, cynical, resigned, unperturbed.

Just then an accident further along caused all traffic to halt; so I strolled across to the other convoy and spoke to a corporal. “Are you going to the “bluey”, old boy?” “Yes,” he said, “How far is Mersa from here?” “Oh, Matruh is about two, maybe three days ahead of you.” He chatted on, showing an amazing lack of discretion and a poor knowledge of the importance of Security. Although he knew nothing whatever about me, neither my name or unit, the corporal, during the course of a few minutes conversation had told me not only the name of his regiment, but also that of the division to which they were attached; he told me where they were going and the front from which they had been withdrawn. No good!