Wednesday 3rd March 1943

This morning I encountered a New Zealander in Hunt's tent who told me all about his nervous experiences and hospital history. We also discussed some good old desert divisions such as the 9th Aussie. And Tobruch, and Mechili, and Mersa Matruh. (It's funny I can remember the old days, up to last year well enough. But the last 12 months or so seem hazy.) New Zealanders and Aussies are the right sort. They're Britishers, not like South Africans.

When I got back to my own ward, there were signs of recent excitement and much groaning was going on. There had been mass injections of some strange dope. Taffy, a spectator of what had happened, seemed quite shaken. Hamad had not been injected; he brightly asked me what had been the purpose of the operations? (“What for this?”)
“Mokh, Hamad,” I said. “Mafeesh Mokh, so they puttem in with needle.” Subsequently, Hamad asked the Sister if he could have an injection! “I lose brains, Sister. Give more brains, in arm.”

Today is just as nice as yesterday was foul. Now I'll do some French.