The machine gun can be put to many uses. As a seat, it is admirable, also as a clothes horse for small gear; and as a horse rack, providing the animal doesn’t pull it over, it stands alone. It has also been known to remove Turkish folks from their ration strength—but accidents will happen. The gunner is at his best when using his gun as anti-aircraft. He reverses the position of the gun on the tripod in order to get a sharper angle, and lies down on his back beneath it, pillowing his shoulders on some soft substance, such as the spare parts box. The No. 2 crouches alongside to tuck in—at this angle—the reluctant belt; the Taube approaches at a reasonable altitude, and then ratta-tatta-tatta stutters the gun. A heartrending episode occurred in the Jordan Valley one morning. The guns, at the top of the precipitous cliffs lining the Jordan, were being snugly tucked away in their little dust-proof positions for the day, when sinister humming in the sky was heard. Out of the woolly, cumulus clouds a flock of Taubes dived and began their fell work. In a twinkling, the guns were violently slammed on the tripods, fresh, full belts rattled into the feed-blocks, and the gunners flopped into their positions, grimly inviting the visitors to come a bit closer and “have a fly.” They did, and answered the prompt leaden stream with their own guns. One gun had been firing merrily at the wheeling Taubes for some time when the prostrate, grim-jawed No. 1 uttered a wild, squealing yell, and writhed fearfully. “Good God, Percy is hit!” cried young Bobbie, the No. 2, and he turned in alarm to his friend, who was out-writhing any live wire. The No. 1 gasped and stuttered in his agony, but managed to ejaculate: “Hit, be dinged! It’s the bloomin’ hot shells that trickled inside me shirt. Hop into ’em!” I give this illustration merely to show the risks attached to machine gunnery. The Machine Gun Squadron is regarded as a desirable unit. It has numerous advantages over the Regiments; notably, there are no duties or fatigues to speak of, except, perhaps, stables, watering, rations, cook’s, Q.M.’s, road-making, laying interminable miles of stones in line, whitewashing same, erecting this, that and the other, cleaning saddlery, polishing reluctant steel work, an odd guard or two (mostly odd), and a few other trifles, which the conscientious soldier performs with assiduity and alacrity. There is little else about machine guns to learn, they are so perfect that a machine gunner is now made in six weeks instead of six years. They have performed some remarkable work during the war, moral effect being one of their greatest assets—observe the sprightly vigour with which the officer inspecting outposts bounds away from the front of a machine gun position, where he has wandered by misadventure, when the man on guard sings out, “Machine gun here, Sir!”