His dug-out was made in a slope overlooking the bay, and was really a deep square pit in the sand-bank, roofed with corrugated iron and sandbagged all round. Here we talked. I found he knew G. K. C. and Hilaire Belloc. Always he wanted to look at any new drawings in my sketch-books. It is a relief to speak with some intelligent person sometimes. Such was Father S---, a very 'cute little man, knowing most of the troubles of the men about him, noticing their ways and keeping in touch with them all. CHAPTER XXIV. THE SHARP-SHOOTERS Just after the episode of the lost squads we were working our stretcher-bearers as far as Brigade Headquarters which were situated on a steep backbone-like spur of the Kapanja Sirt. One of my “lance-jacks” (lance-corporals) had been missing for a good long time, and we began to fear he was either shot or taken prisoner with the others who had gone too far up the Sirt. One afternoon we were resting among the rocks, waiting for wounded to be sent back to us; for since the loss of the others we were not allowed to pass the Brigade Headquarters. There was a lull in the fighting, with only a few bursting shrapnel now and then. This particular lance-jack was quite a young lad of the middle-class, with a fairly good education. But he was a weedy specimen physically, and I doubted whether he could pull through if escape should mean a fight with Nature for food and water and life itself. Fairly late in the day as we all lay sprawling on the rocks or under the thorn-bushes, I saw a little party staggering along the defile which led up to the Sirt at this point. There were two men with cow-boy hats, and between them they helped another very thin and very exhausted-looking fellow, who tottered along holding one arm which had been wounded. As they came closer I recognised my lost lance-jack, very pale and shaky, a little thinner than usual, and with a hint of that gleam of sniper-madness which I have noticed before in the jumpy, unsteady eyes of hunted men. The other two, one each side, were sturdy enough. Well-built men, one short and the other tall, with great rough hands, sunburnt faces, and bare arms. They wore brown leggings and riding-breeches and khaki shirts. They carried their rifles at the trail and strode up to us with the graceful gait of those accustomed to the outdoor life. “Awstralians!” said some one. “An' the corporal!” Immediately our men roused up and gathered round. “Where's yer boss?” asked the tall Colonial. “The adjutant is over here,” I answered. “We'd like a word with him,” continued the man. I took them up to the officer, and they both saluted in an easy-going sort of way. “We found 'im up there,” the Australian jerked his head, “being sniped and couldn't git away--says 'e belongs t' th' 32nd Ambulance--so here he is.” The two Australians were just about to slouch off again when the adjutant called them back. “Where did you find him?” he asked.