Another most perfect day. All day yesterday wounded were being evacuated as fast as possible. I now have to feed a Brigade of Australians as well as my own Brigade. I go up in the morning to their positions, and for the first time get amongst them at close quarters. They have honeycombed the land near the white pillars with dugouts and have their H.Q. at the White House on the hill. I see Captain Milne, their Supply Officer, and arrange matters with him. Our Vet. (Hyslop) and Sergeant Evans ride to-day with me and we call at our Brigade H.Q., now moved some few hundred yards behind their former position of a week ago, dug in a dry nook surrounded by trees, in a spot similar to a park of some large house in England. Their mess is simply a table of earth dug out by digging a square trench in which they sit, the centre of the square being the table. There I find Colonel Williams, Thomson and our new Brigade Major. I find that Festin was wounded yesterday whilst standing up in the trench in which I was talking to him the day before. Troops have found little springs and an ancient well, and so there is now a plentiful supply of water—and beautiful water too. In addition to Australians and the Punjabis in camp by the white pillars, there are now Lancashire Fusiliers and Manchesters, the whole making one large camp of dugouts and trenches in orderly rows. It is fortunate that there is very little rain, otherwise the place would be a quagmire in five minutes. The Punjabis have built walls of mud and stone shell-proof shelters, and are much handier at making themselves comfortable than our white troops. In the battle of the 8th the Australians showed marvellous dash and individual pluck—not a straggler among them. Many deeds of great heroism were performed, and if a man gets an honour in their ranks it will be one worth having. It is difficult to pick up exactly our front-line trench, and the Q.M. of the Worcesters the other day, finding a trench containing Munsters, inquired as to the whereabouts of his regiment, and was told that they were on in front; he walked on, and finding nothing, came back. He was told that if he walked much further “he wouldn’t ’arf get Worcesters.” He was walking bang into the enemy’s lines. Two aeroplanes are up to-day, circling energetically around the slopes of Achi Baba. Our batteries are busy, steadily plugging shells into the enemy’s lines. An aeroplane is up and the Turks are trying to pot it. Aeroplane sails up and down Turkish lines unconcerned. The curious thing about being under shell fire is that when a shell comes near you, you duck down and take cover, and immediately after resume your conversation. This morning at the white pillars I said to the Australian officer, “What is your strength?” He said, “Look out!” Down we bobbed. A sound like tearing linen, ending in a shriek and a bang. Up we jump, and he calmly continues the conversation.