The contours of the country are curious. Great natural scars run down to a flat plateau washed by the waves. In these gullies hundreds of men and animals are getting what protection they can. The Engineers are building a road, on one side of which is a row of dugouts, artfully hidden by a row of great boulders. This is our advanced Horse Transport depot, and a pretty hot shop, as the Turks have the exact range. In front of the dugouts are the horse-lines, where rows and rows of mules and horses are packed into the throat of the gorge for shelter. A dry watercourse winds down the gorge, so the place will be impossible in winter; as it is, Death takes his daily toll of men and animals, while down the path comes a never-ending procession of sick and wounded from the front line, and very occasionally a prisoner or two. Up the same path, at night, the reinforcements march to rest in dugouts just behind the line until their turn to take over arrives. To the left of the gorge a huge rocky point runs out to the sea—this point also is a thick mass of men and animals, practically in the open, so limited is space. Truly an unfriendly and uninviting country. The hot dust is over everything—the flies torment, and shells take their toll of us, while we are powerless to hit back. The mouth of the gorge widens to the beach, where there are three tiny bays, which with the plateau form “A” Beach: Kangaroo Beach, with its lighter and pontoon quays, its sand-bagged dugouts, and the like; West Beach—the main landing-place, with rather better piers and offices; and Little West Beach, a sort of overflow to West Beach proper, embellished with a tram line for horse-drawn trucks, the Ordnance depot, etc.—all these places are swarming with men, and over all hangs the eternal dust! Further along on the plateau from West Beach, and looking towards Lala Baba, is the Supply depot and the watering-places for the animals, all in the open, with no protection at all: a wonderful spectacle, if you like to think of it, and only possible because John Turk is short of ammunition. Here in the bare open the troops live from day to day, a few sand-bags only between them and death, and very few of the dugouts boast a real roof; blankets and waterproof sheets answer that purpose, and so it is not difficult to imagine the havoc wrought when shrapnel is about. To the north lies the bold, forbidding point, before mentioned, with the waves flinging their white manes in anger against its sides. Such, roughly, is Suvla Bay as I see it now, and I cannot say that it impresses me as a practical proposition. Dug in on the side of a slope the others have built a house, or, as far as dugouts in Gallipoli go, a summer residence. The door faces the rise leading up to the rugged point, from the craggy back of which one sees the cliff-side dropping sheer to the sea.