out of aiming distance from a rifle, and can only be hit by an “over,” but that at the other side of the building I come under range, and that it is not wise to loiter in that neighbourhood. I therefore get across the three hundred yards of open space as quickly as possible, and vaulting into the safety of the trench, I inquire where Battalion H.Q. is, and following the direction given, pass along nice deep trenches with sand-bagged parapets. Trench warfare in dead earnest has now begun, and for the first time I realize what it is like: an underground world, yet not an underground, for one can see grass, flowers, and trees growing, but only close to. Walking from Church Farm to the trenches, I see nothing but lovely country leading up to frowning Achi Baba, and near by, in front, rows and rows of thrown-up earth. No sign of animal life of any kind. Yet once in the trenches I found myself in a world alive with energy—men cleaning rifles, writing letters, washing clothes, making dugouts, laying cables. I pass dugouts, little rooms of earth dug out of the side of the trench; some are cookhouses, some officers’ bedrooms, some messes, and some orderly-rooms, with tables and chairs. All this world has been created underground, and unseen by the enemy, only a few hundred yards away, in the space of a few weeks; and this is trench warfare, materialized by spade and shovel, by hundreds of strong arms, night and day. I come at last to H.Q. Worcester Battalion, and am directed to the mess—a nice dugout roofed in by timber. Major Lang is sitting at a table reading letters from home. I ask for letters for Captain Bush; am told they have been sent down to the beach by an orderly; am offered a drink, talk about the heat, which is getting tiresome now, and hear that soon we are to be served out with pith helmets. I say good-bye and start back. I am in a maze, and have to be directed back to the trench that I jumped into. I vault out and, zigzagging, jog-trot, for I am told to go quickly back to Church Farm, and hear two bullets singing their faint song far away over my head. I come to a nullah, where I find horses and mules in dug-in stables in charge of Roberts, Brigade Transport Officer, just in front of the little ruined house in front of our Brigade H.Q., and arriving there, hear that Thomson has gone back to Hill 138 with the Brigadier. I go back to Pink Farm, mount my mare, and cantering along the West Krithia road, catch them up. On either side of the road are now dug rest trenches, organized as camps—the trenches not as deep as the front trenches, but sufficiently so to keep the men under cover. I trot along the road through one of these camps, and am soon pulled up by an M.P. with the sharp order, “No trotting, please.” [Illustration: 29TH DIVISIONAL HEADQUARTERS, GULLY BEACH, AT THE FOOT OF THE GULLY, HELLES.] [Illustration: VIEW OF “V” BEACH, CAPE HELLES, TAKEN FROM THE _RIVER CLYDE_.