Moving inshore to the foot of the Anzac plateau, one gets a delusive impression of Anzac smoothness. Anzac in detail is rough: small gulches, ravines--Arabian _wadys_--which at once hindered and assisted the aggressors at landing. Leaving behind the beach, with its feverish busyness, the climb up to the trenches begins forthwith. You follow a well-engineered road levelled in the bed of the ravine. In the sides the dug-outs are as thick as dwellings in a Cairene alley--which is saying much. Beaten side-tracks branch off like rivulets which join a mountain torrent. The only haven for mules and horses is the shelter of the banks, which have been half dug out at intervals into an extensive sort of stable. It is the height of the afternoon. There is no wind stirring under the hill. The men off duty are sleeping heavily--have flung themselves down, worn-out, and lie in the thick dust of their shelters, where the flies swarm and the heat reeks. But all are not sleeping. Periodically a regimental office is dug in; the typewriters are noisy: they make a strange dissonance with the hum of bullets above, which does not cease. The post-office lies in a bend of the path. This is dug deep, with sandbag bulwarks. There's no sleeping here. A khaki staff sorts and stamps, in this curious subterranean chamber, amidst a disorder of mail-bags and the fumes of sealing-wax. One hopes, in passing, the shrapnel will spare this sanctuary.... Half a mile up, the road peters out into a rough and dusty track under the hill-crest. It is heavy climbing. One realises fully for the first time what a scaling was here at the first charge. It has been hard work up a beaten road: what for those hampered infantrymen, with their steel-laden rifles and their equipment, and the Turks raining death from their entrenchments aloft? It was seventeen minutes' work for them; we have been panting and scrambling for forty, and are not up yet. Five minutes more brings us to the sentry guarding the entrance to the communication-trench. He sets us on our stooping way. You dare not walk erect. Here the bullets are not "spent," though "spent" bullets can do damage enough. The labour of trench-making must have been enormous. Here is a picked trench five feet deep, and half as wide again as your body, cut out of a soft rock--hundreds of yards of it, half-miles of it. Fifteen minutes looping along brings us to an exit opening on a battery, where two guns are speaking from their pits. In a dug-out beside the pit lies the presiding genius with his ear to a telephone. His lingo is almost unintelligible, except to the initiated. From the observers on our flanks he is transmitting the corrections and directions to his gunners. One man is juggling shell from the rear of the pit; one is laying the gun; the rest are understrappers. The roar of discharge, heard from behind, is not excessive. What comes uppermost is the prolonged whizz and scream of the shell. Artillery work must be far the most interesting.