A cool summer day again, and no shelling from the Turks this morning. Flies not quite so bad, but still a plague. They have become persistent, fat, sleepy ones now. No shelling from the Turks at all, and our artillery hardly fire a shot. _November 2nd._ A few shells only this morning. A beautiful summer day, but flies badly worrying. A battery has been put on the road just by the rise before 80th Brigade H.Q. Destroyer which ran on the rocks yesterday still in the same position. _November 3rd._ After breakfast, having arranged for a visit round the trenches with Panton, the D.A.D.M.S., I go up to D.H.Q. at the top of our gully. We start off, accompanied by Lord Howard de Walden, pass through the 88th Field Ambulance camp, dip down on to the beach road, and after a short way along bear to the right on to Gibraltar road. Instead of walking up along the Gibraltar road, as has been the practice of most of us up to now, we bear to the right through the low wooded country between Gibraltar road and Hill 10. We cross the newly made line of trenches, with barbed wire thickly laid in front, passing a bombing school on our left. Turkish bullets fired at a high elevation just reach this point, dropping with spent velocity. As we walk through the almond-trees just beyond, the guns of the two battleships bang out suddenly. We hear the great shells shrieking over our heads, and see them burst with violence over Burnt Hill on our right front. Passing the almond-trees, we make a detour to the left, arriving in the open space which leads to 86th Brigade H.Q. Panton stops here at an advanced dressing station, and while we wait for him a few bullets sing overhead. But there is never very much rifle fire in the daytime. We then dip down into “C.C.” communication trench, and follow its windings to the line. We pass over one or two bridges crossing large drains that have been dug to drain the trenches when the wet weather comes. We are warned by the formation of the irregular hills, nullahs, and ravines, and the great boulders of stone standing out of the ground, that at some time during the year rain falls in great quantities. What will our trenches be like on the low ground when that time does come? Salt Lake on our left gradually sinking under water answers that question. We see shrapnel bursting low over that part of the line we are making for, and I have a desire to turn my coat-collar up. I always do when I am near shells. Why, I don’t know. We arrive at the support trench, in which are the Munsters and Dublin Fusiliers. I see a few men clustered together in the trench at a small entrance leading to a dugout. One comes out from the dugout, and says, “By Jasus! the poor lad’s gone.” A man had been hit by shrapnel, and had just died, after about twenty minutes. We continue on, and on arrival at the Essex Regiment I inquire where Algy Wood had been hit. I am taken up a short trench which turns sharply to the left, coming to