Medical Blokes have a restless job. Sickness and accidents call upon them at any time. Men drop into the Medical Tent at all hours of the day and night for “a couple of pills for a headache,” or something else. “Got any liniment?” is the next inquiry, followed by a request for eye-lotion. In this country a scratch or a graze does not heal in the course of things—it is just as likely to turn septic. Neglected, it spreads and develops initiative; it breaks out in fresh places without waiting for the skin to be knocked off. Hot foments and ointment dressings are the cure. Bandaged hands are the badge of the Palestine campaigner. Half the men, half the time, have either boils or septic sores. They meander into the Medical Tent in pairs, and out of hours, to get them bandaged. They are met there with scant courtesy—probably they are the umpteenth interruption to the letter which the Medical Bloke is trying to write; but I do not think it is often that they turn away unattended to. The Medical Blokes are just ... your friends, servants and comrades, the Medical Blokes. “LARRIE.” [Illustration] [Illustration: CONVALESCENT ] [Illustration: MOUNTING FIRST GUARD IN JERICHO ] [Illustration: HALT AND REST ] [Illustration: 1. CHURCH AND TOMB OF THE VIRGIN 2. JAFFA GATE, JERUSALEM 3. CHURCH OF THE HOLY SEPULCHRE, JERUSALEM 4. CHURCH OF THE NATIVITY, BETHLEHEM ] The Signal Service Scattered throughout Egypt and Palestine and Syria, in the community of war-worn Australians, is a certain section known to the initiated as the Engineer Signal Service of the Australian Imperial Force in Egypt. To the casual Light Horseman they are “Sigs”—a vague and most inadequate designation. Little is known of the Engineer Signaller and his work by his brother of the Light Horse, whose one idea of signalling begins and ends with the Regimental signaller, a being who shares with him the pleasures and hardships of all stunts, but who is on a plane above, because no piquets and fatigues are his. At home, the popular conception of signalling is of a soldier standing on the last, lone, bullet-swept ridge, coolly flag-wagging a message which turns a forlorn hope into a brilliant victory, and earns for him Oblivion. Signalling, as the Signal Service know it, is far from being a flag-wagging occupation; they find themselves part of a well-planned business, which is based on efficiency, and conducted with that thoroughness for detail only to be found in an army. * * * * * “Sapper Smith, get your horse saddled up right away and report at the Signal office. You need not worry about your tea—I’ll see it is kept for you. You are only going to Romani.” The Squadron horses, after their first stunt on the desert of Sinai in April, ’16, had been off-saddled and fed at Hill 40, so the order came as a surprise.