Dusk arrives, and the moon is rising. Major Badcock is going up with kit for D.H.Q. to Chocolate Hill on four little box cars, and I ask if I can go with him to see my Brigade H.Q. He gives me a lift, and off we go along the bumpy track from the promontory to the mainland, when, bending to the right, through clusters of trees and in and out of gorse-bushes and boulders, we arrive at last on the flat, growthless plain of the Salt Lake. Instead of being heavy going over soft sand, as I thought it would be, it is very good going over a hard, binding surface, and we get along at a fine pace, which in the moonlight, on such an occasion, is very exciting and enjoyable. Soon I see the shadow of trees and cultivation, and know that we are nearing Chocolate Hill, and almost at the same time I hear and almost feel the unpleasant whiz of many bullets overhead, about, and around. We stop, but the noise of the pulsating engines of the car drowns all other sounds, and we walk a little way in front and hear the regular rattle of heavy rifle fire. The spot where we are standing is receiving the benefit of the “overs,” many of which kick up the dust around us. Now and again shells scream over, but not many. We drive on to the trees in front, and dump our kit. At this point the bullets are flying fairly high, and we feel safer, though I expect all the time that blow of a sledge-hammer which comes with the hit of a bullet. We unload the kit by some trees, and some men near by are instructed to go on to the Division and tell them that the first batch of their kit had arrived, and one man is left in charge. We turn to go back, and I notice a wounded man on a stretcher being carried away, and I ask them to put him in the car. I offer him water, but he refuses, saying that he has been hit by a shrapnel bullet in the stomach, and water makes him vomit. His voice sounds familiar to me. I look at his face—I ask him if he is Howell of the Warwickshire Yeomanry—he replies “Yes.” We rode next to each other, years ago, as troopers. Many wounded are lying here, there, and everywhere, and we load up our empty cars with as many as we can, and steadily and gently go back. Firing dies down. It was only “wind up” on the part of the Turks. I leave Howell at the Welsh Casualty Clearing Station on the “B” Beach. He is quite cheerful. His experience of actual war started when he had landed this morning, and ends now as he lies wounded, waiting to be properly attended to, and he had trained and given up his spare time for years past for these few hours! He shakes me by the hand. After this war I do not think that people will be amused at the “playing at soldiers” of Yeomanry and Territorials.