It comes from the brook that I had passed, and from there I go towards what I think is Pink Farm, but find that it is a collection of the pack-mules under Phillips, and I unload my feelings in horribly bad language. Then Phillips gives me a packet of cigarettes, which I am entirely without. I am wet through now to the skin, and dog-tired; my pocket is full of iron-ration biscuits, and between puffs of my cigarettes I munch them. Not a sound of a shot, not a flash of a gun. Old John Turk has had a nasty knock and is over a thousand yards away. Nothing but the sound of the hiss of the gently falling rain. I follow the farmer’s track up to Pink Farm and tell my troubles to Colonel Beadon. Colonel Williams, who had distinguished himself at Sed-el-Bahr, is there without a coat, and soaked to the skin as I am. I am instructed to take the remaining mules back to “W” Beach, link any which I pass, that are on the way up, on to my convoy, and also pick up any which are starting off from “W” Beach, make one convoy, take stock and make a note of it, and take the whole through Sed-el-Bahr up to the spot Thomson had pointed out to me in the afternoon. I think of the tale of the odd-job man who had been given every imaginable job in the world by his old lady mistress, and who asked her if her house was built on clay, as he would very much like to make bricks in his spare time. I go back to Phillips; the convoy is turned round and off we trek, I at the head, Phillips in the rear. I meet Davy on the way up with a convoy of his, and accordingly instruct him to join on to my convoy. He says, “Look here, Gillam, old boy; you’re fagged out and are making a mess of things; go back to bed, old boy. I know all about it, and we have to take these mules to Pink Farm.” I wish Pink Farm elsewhere, express my feelings to him in forcible language, and finally convince him under protest. However, we are soon friends again, and his convoy links up in rear of mine. We hear three reports of a rifle ring out on our right. A sniper, still undiscovered, at work. We arrive at “W” Beach, arresting the start of another convoy, which in turn also becomes part of ours, and I go to find O’Hara. Having found him, I told him my tale of woe; he says he will come with me to the 88th Brigade; and after taking stock and tacking a watercart on to the rear of the column, we trek off to Hill 138. Stopping there, O’Hara has a chat with the A.P.M., who has been to the 88th H.Q. and assures us that we are on the right track. On through the ruined village of Sed-el-Bahr we go, down through a poplar grove enclosing a Turkish cemetery, when we overtake the C.R.A., riding alone with an orderly. We are on the white road that I noticed in the afternoon, and the C.R.A. takes the lead, as he states that a part of the road further up is rumoured to be mined. Krithia lies ahead on our left in flames, a wonderful sight.