Before dawn, outpost and patrol return, weary and with sleep-laden eyes. They off-saddle and picket their horses, and dash into the bivvies for their mail. Matches are struck surreptitiously, candles are lighted and hidden by blankets, for lights are forbidden when in touch with the enemy; and thus are the letters eagerly read. Often Billjim falls asleep from sheer exhaustion, the last letter still clutched in his hand, and dreams of his Australian home; the fragrance of gum and wattle blossom are wafted to him from overseas on the cool night breeze. Mail day, the most joyous and most tragic in a soldier’s life, brings messages of love and trust from dear ones, messages of faith and praise from friends; and at times news that is sorrow-laden. “WIL COX.” [Illustration] A Day Over the Lines In the language of the Corps, “there was something doing,” for from dawn till dark machines had been coming and going on the aerodrome almost without a break; in fact, it was “some day.” Just as the first grey streaks of dawn crept over the horizon the roar of a couple of hostile aircraft patrol machines taking off woke an otherwise peaceful camp. An hour later the orderly officer was bustling round two more machines, which were to leave on the early morning reconnaissance of the country behind the actual scene of operations and along the Turkish lines of communication, to search for any signs of fresh concentrations or reinforcements being hurried up. At two hour intervals machines left in couples to patrol above our lines and prevent any possibility of Boche machines sneaking over, either to watch the movements of our troops or to bomb them; for, during a stunt, it was just as important for us to keep the Hun blind as to keep our own eyes well skinned. [Illustration]