On the way across to my dugout I hear the shriek coming, and there is no place to take cover, and the suspense is a bit nerve-trying. With a terrific bang it falls in the hospital, but the hospital is now clear of men. _6 p.m._ Safe in our dugout now, and one passes over us into the sea. Now they are falling on the beach. Nearly everybody is under cover. _7 p.m._ Shelling stopped, and we are allowed to have some rest. As Williams has to go to Brigade H.Q., I offer to show him the way, the H.Q. having moved forwards. We start off at 8.30 p.m. and ride at a good smart trot, as we are a bit nervy of Asia sending one of those horrible big shells over. But all is quiet, and we arrive at our Brigade dumping-ground, about three-quarters of a mile in front of Pink Farm. (Pink Farm is practically razed to the ground now by shell fire.) We leave our horses with an orderly, who ties them up under cover and takes cover himself. Stray bullets are flying over now and again, and we get down into the nullah and go along it up the communication trench. After about half a mile of it, we pass an R.A.M.C. orderly, who says, “Keep your heads low, sir, as you pass that point,” pointing a little farther along, “as there is a sniper watching there.” Of course he is wrong, suffering from “wind up,” and what he thinks are snipers’ bullets are “overs” passing through a gap in the side of the trench. We hurry along, heads well down, as bullets are pretty free overhead. After another half-mile we come to Headquarters. The Staff are just finishing dinner in their dugout—beautifully made by the Engineers. The Brigade Major is at the telephone, and later the General gets up and talks over it. D.H.Q. are speaking at the other end, discussing some G.S. point, just as if two business men were discussing the price of some contract. After the General resumes his place at the head of the table, the Brigade Major on his left-hand side, next the Signal Officer, on his right hand, the Staff Captain, the Brigade Machine Gun Officer and a Major of the R.N.D., who had recently arrived. Williams and I are seated at the other end. The dugout is lit by an acetylene lamp, and Miller, the Staff waiter and chef combined, is standing, acting butler. Outside the “ping-ping” of bullets goes on incessantly. Sitting there round the table, smoking and chatting, I could not but compare the scene with that of the after-dinner coffee and cigars at a dinner-party, when the ladies have gone to the drawing-room. The conversation is also witty and bright, with no mention of war.