I am once or twice called up on the telephone—a telephone worked by a signaller lying on the ground, the instrument being in a portable case. It is strange saying “Are you there?” under these conditions and with these surroundings. The signal arrangements are excellent. Calls come in constant succession from “W,” “X,” and “S” Beaches. A wireless instrument is hard at work, run by a Douglas engine in a tent, controlled by a detachment of Australians. One of the Australians, a corporal, offers me a shakedown in his tent for the night, and lends my men some blankets for their bivouac, which they have constructed out of my little Supply depot. Owen, O.C. Signals, says that I shall not get much sleep in the wireless tent, and that I had better share his tent, which is in a little orchard behind a ruined house close handy. I have my evening meal of bully, biscuit, and jam, and lighting my pipe, go for a stroll in the village, but am stopped by sentries, for snipers are still at large there, and several casualties have occurred to-day there through their industry. I cannot help admiring the pluck of these snipers, for their end is certain and not far off. Two mutilated bodies of our men are lying in a garden of a ruined house, but this case so far is isolated. We have seen the Turks dressing the wounds of some of our men captured by them. The Turks appear to be a strange mixture. _April 28th._ I awake feeling very fit and refreshed, and find a beautiful morning awaiting me. Opposite our tent is a little “bivvy,” made of oil-sheets and supported by rope to one of the walls of the house and a lilac-tree. A head pokes out from under this “bivvy” with a not very tidy beard growing on its chin, and the owner loudly calls for his servant. While making his toilet he joins in a merry banter with Owen, who is indulging in a cold douche obtained from a bucket of water. Some of the French having invaded the sanctuary of our walled-in camp, picking several of the iris growing in the wild grass, the officer with the beard asks me to tell them to get off his lawn, which I do. I find later that he is Josiah Wedgwood, M.P., and being interested, get into conversation with him. He is a most entertaining man, and tells me that he is O.C. Armoured Cars, but that as it is not possible for his cars to come on shore, he had been instructed to use his intelligence and make himself useful, which he was trying to do with a painful effort.