March 7th.—Another dirty, wet day.
March 8th.—It still rains and we have a violent gale, and as we zig-zag this at times catches us full on the port side and the ship rolls badly. She creaks from stem to stern.
We are nearing Malta and are warned to look out for submarines which are more active here than anywhere. Each of our fifty-five boats is to have its crew of fifteen posted on deck to-night, and many of the officers say they are to sleep in their clothes.
March 9th.—The sea has been very rough ever since we entered the Mediterranean, and to-day has been the worst. We were opposite Gozo at noon, then skirted the north of Malta but made no halt. Now we zig-zag so much that we have no idea whether we are bound for Salonika or Egypt.
March 10th.—On the whole we now go south so that Alexandria is likely to be our destination.
March 12th.—When I woke this morning I found we were lying outside Alexandria. We soon afterwards entered the harbour.
Hinde (one of our M.O.'s) and I were ordered to report our arrival to the A.D.M.S., Arsenal Buildings, and getting into a "garry," with our baggage mountains high, and a dirty native on the top of all, we left the docks. Cabby did not know the Arsenal and we took this native because, after infinite jabbering, he declared he knew it. But instead of taking us about a mile along the quay he landed us in Place Mahomet Ali, miles off. He was a beast this guide, ready to swear he knew everything, a filthy, thick-lipped pimp who offered his good services again when night came. "Sir will have a fine evening to-day," he began, then detailed all the beauties he was to show us, in spite of our violently swearing at him and his ancestors for centuries back. After inquiring at half a dozen places we found the office of the A.D.M.S., and a man, springing forward to assist us out of the garry, hoped I felt quite fit again. This was Dorian, one of our Ambulance, who had been sent here sick, and was acting as orderly to the A.D.M.S. Here we were ordered to report at the Officers' Rest Camp at Mustapha, five miles off.
We wandered about for a time, asked for the Post Office which was closed by this time, being Sunday, then we asked for the telegraph office and were directed everywhere but to the right place. Question an Egyptian he will direct you anywhere, ask him for some place that has no existence on the face of the earth and he will show you the way with absolute confidence.
We got out to Mustapha about 6 and reported ourselves at the office of the adjutant of the camp. All details as they arrive go to Mustapha or Sidi-Bishr. About 200 of us dined together and had a good dinner, most of us washing it down with the beautifully clear water of the Nile.
Mustapha is a typical African camp, planted on sea-sand, but not so barren as my camp of twelve months ago at Mex. Here we have a good many date palms and other trees, and wherever a little irrigation is done there is a profusion of flowers.