Before breakfast this morning I am ordered to take two hundred rations up to some Lancashire Fusiliers (Territorials) who have found themselves in our part of the line. Arriving at Pink Farm, shrapnel begins to come over, and I get the mules under cover of the farm as best I can and go on to H.Q. I continue to walk along the road, and then cut across the open country to the trench where the Brigade are. They are sitting in the trench having breakfast, and tell me that the Lancashire Fusiliers have now gone to the beach. Festin, of the Border Regiment, is now our Brigade Major, and he asks me to take a message to the Field Company of Engineers attached to the Brigade, just behind Pink Farm, off the road. As we talk, shrapnel bursts over Pink Farm and to its left, probably trying to get at a battery which is in position there. I take my leave, and on getting back to Pink Farm I find that one of the Syrian mule-drivers has been hit in the stomach by a shrapnel bullet. He is lying on the ground behind the walls of the farm groaning, and on seeing me cries piteously to me in Russian. I send over to an Indian Field Ambulance close by, and in a few minutes two native orderlies come running over noiselessly with a stretcher. They stoop down, and with the tenderness of women lift the wounded boy on to the stretcher and carry him away. We trek back, and on the way I deliver the message to the Field Company. For transport we now have little A.T. two-wheeled carts, known in the Indian Army as ammunition transport, drawn by two little Indian mules. These are in camp near the lighthouse, between “W” Beach and “V” Beach. Delightful place this, and most interesting. The orderliness of everything is astonishing; the quaint little tents—oblong, with sloping sides—are arranged in neat rows. The inhabitants are surely the most cleanly people on earth. Here I see groups of them, stripped except for a loin-cloth, busy washing their shining, dusky bodies. After this, little brass jars are produced, from which oil is poured over them and rubbed in. Others, having finished this, are industriously combing their long black locks and bushy beards. Others, again, are making chupatty, a species of pancake, in broad, shallow metal bowls—I taste one and find it excellent. Other groups of these dark warriors are sitting outside their little tents smoking hookahs; all the men we meet salute punctiliously. Near by are the white officers’ tents, quite luxurious affairs. The whole place is delightful and looks almost like a riverside picnic, only everything is very orderly. As to the carts before mentioned, these are most ingenious. They are little two-wheeled affairs with a pole, like the old-fashioned curricle; each is drawn by two small mules, not larger than ponies. Wonderful little fellows they are, bred in Northern India—Kashmere and Thibet, I believe. Lord! how they work—they can pull almost anything, and they are so surefooted and