Walking along the line, I find the 86th Brigade, and from them learn where H.Q. 88th are. On my way there I pass Captain Parker and Major Lee, of the Hants. Major Lee asks me excitedly if they are getting on with the digging of the trench, and then asks me to get some water up to some of his battalion on his right by the French, which I promise to do this night. Walking further along, I cross a white road of some kind of paving, and then at last reach my H.Q. I see Thomson, who looks very ill and tired, but appears very cool and quiet. I shall never forget his smile when he saw me, saying “Hello, Gillam!” in a quiet voice. I see Panton busy at dressing wounded, for alongside H.Q. is an advanced dressing station. On my right I notice French troops hard at work continuing the digging of the line to the edge of the Dardanelles. I find out what is wanted in the way of food and water and where it is to be dumped, and start off back to the beach. It is twilight and rapidly getting dark, and it is difficult to find my way back to the right beach, namely “W.” I remember with a shudder those silent clumps of bushes and trees, and wonder if snipers are still alert. I steer my way back by the masts of the ships, the heads of which I can just see, and I walk as the crow flies over every obstacle I find. I had learnt at Brigade H.Q. that the white road ran between Krithia and Sed-el-Bahr, and mentally I made a note of the way I should take rations on my return journey, namely to Sed-el-Bahr from “W” Beach via “V” Beach, and thence up the white road. I see three figures ahead limping, and as I had not seen a soul for fifteen minutes and it is getting dark now, I finger my revolver, wondering if they are some of our most trying enemies, the snipers. But that thought is only born from nerves, for they are limping and must be wounded. On overtaking them I find that one is an officer, Cox of the Essex, one of those who had played “The Priest of the Parish” on the _Dongola_ the night before the landing. He is the only one limping, from a bullet wound in his calf; he is supported by his arms resting round the shoulders of two men—one his servant, unwounded, and the other a man wounded through the arm. Cox tells me he took cover in a nullah when hit, and remained there all day. Twice the French advanced over him, and twice they retreated, leaving him between the enemy’s lines. A third time British and French advanced, and he was rescued and helped back. I wish him further luck in this war, for luck had befallen him—he an infantryman and a bullet wound in his leg. I like him rather specially, and feel glad that he is to be out of it for a while. It is now quite dark and I have missed my bearings and see a few small lights ahead, and make for them and am very soon pulled up short by the challenge of a sentry.