Am sitting in a Red Cross Motor bound for I don’t know where. The same innards again. I consider myself hard done by, as last night’s dinner was the best I’ve ever seen in the army – ham, potatoes and cauliflower galore. Couldn’t look at it. To my astonishment this morning when I went for medicine, the Dr. coolly kicked me out on half an hour’s notice.
5.p.m. (Division Rest Station) At a village a couple of miles further on. We seem to be occupying a set of farm buildings. This is a N.Z. “joint”. So far I have been in a dazed state, listening to the unremitting din of a large gramophone churning out music-hall stuff. My diet is soup and dry toast. There are a number of ‘Dinks’* here. They seem to have been having a pretty rough time in the trenches – wet through for days on end.
* ‘The Dinks’ was a nickname for the New Zealand Rifle Brigade (Earl of Liverpool’s Own), short for “the Fair Dinkums”.