A very windy day, almost a Gallipoli gale blowing down land, and in consequence dust-storms start as usual. Two guns on Achi start firing towards our tents. Why? Lord knows, for there is nothing here to fire at but our tents, and those can’t be seen by them. They do no harm, but are a beastly nuisance, as we keep on having to duck. The wind is so strong that we do not hear them coming till they are right on to us. After lunch I ride along the top road with Carver, and dipping down on to Gully Beach, ride up the gully a little way, and turn off to the left into a ravine, where we leave our horses. Climbing up the cliffs, we call at the mess of Major Gibbon’s battery, where tea is awaiting in a delightful summer-house surrounded with rocks and shrubbery. Duff is there, and Monro too. The battery is in position a few yards away in an artfully hidden spot, never as yet having been discovered by the enemy. Out to sea a small cruiser is in action, firing on a target on the left of Achi Baba. A Turkish battery on the extreme right is in action against her, recording a few hits, without causing much damage, but making it necessary for the cruiser to manœuvre constantly for a fresh position. Heavy firing occurs in the night, and the enemy strongly attack the Anzacs, with no success. _August 16th._ Having been invited to breakfast with the Hampshires, who are up the line, I ride up to the nullah in front of Pink Farm and leave my horse there, where he is given his breakfast. On arrival at the Brigade H.Q. at the end of the long trench—or the mule-track, as we now call it—I am given a guide of the Royal Scots, who, however, has difficulty in finding the battalion H.Q. We wander about awhile before we reach our destination, reminding me of an endeavour to thread a way through Hampton Court maze. Up one long winding trench my guide puzzles me somewhat by the remark, “‘B’ trench, sir, but not a bee-line.” At first I am puzzled as to what he is driving at, but gradually it dawns on me that he is cracking with difficulty an obtuse Scottish joke, occasioned by the long winding walk up the trench, which I notice is called “B” Communication Trench.