We go back, climbing up the cliff, and walk along the cliff’s edge to where we had left our horses. A detachment of New Zealanders, I should say about a thousand, are moving slowly in several single files across the gorse to take their place on the left of our line to relieve some Gurkhas, and I have a good opportunity of studying them at close quarters. I am struck by the wonderful physique of the men, all of them in splendid condition. I am rather surprised to see them, for I thought that they were up country with the Australians. I leave Carver at this point, and Sergeant Evans and I cut across country, and trotting up the track which is now called the West Krithia road, reach Pink Farm. We go beyond there, find H.Q. in a trench, and learn that rations are to be dumped at Pink Farm. We are warned that we should not be riding about there, as we might draw shell fire. Krithia is getting it terribly hot from our shells, and is well on fire now. We learn that the French have had a check, and that we in consequence have been unable to advance. We come back and have a delightful canter all the way back to “W” Beach. I have a meal, and then, with Williams, at dusk escort rations, this time in limber-wagons as well as on pack-mules, up the West Krithia road to Pink Farm, where I find Leslie waiting, and we come back on a limber, I squatting on the rear half and Williams in front; quite an enjoyable ride. Star shells are now in use, and they go up at odd intervals, poising in the air for a second and then sailing gracefully to earth, illuminating the immediate vicinity. It was fairly quiet all night; just an odd shell or two fired by our Fleet at intervals. _May 8th._