They shelled us at intervals until dusk, just two or three at a time, and at intervals of half an hour or so, keeping us on tenterhooks. Phew! give me the nice deep trenches when this goes on, where one walks about in comparative safety. There is no cover on “W” Beach. You hear the distant boom, and then fall and grip the bosom of Mother Earth as a frightened child does its mother. Then—get up and go on with your job. But not so the A.S.C. driver. His order is to stand by his mule on “W” Beach, that bull’s-eye of a target, and I hope that many of these drivers are not forgotten when names are called to be sent in for honourable mention. Riding and driving their mules at the same time, they are prevented from hearing the horrid shriek of the on-rushing shell by the loud sound that the wheels of their G.S. wagons make, and only when they see and hear a nerve-racking explosion, or hear metal whizzing past their heads, making a sound like a propeller of an aeroplane, do they realize that they are under fire and in instant danger of being blown to bits. Yet they must not leave their mules. They must get the animals, wagons, and themselves under cover as soon as possible. As soon as possible! and that may mean ten minutes, and ten minutes of Hell. I have not yet seen a driver leave his mules, but I have seen several wounded and one or two lads killed. But _c’est la guerre_—it is only the A.S.C. quietly doing its job. No glory and honour. But ask an infantry man in the line here if he would change places with an A.S.C. driver on the beach, and he will say that he prefers to stay in his trench and take his chance when the moment for the leap over the parapet comes. But the A.S.C. never talk much; they just do their job, and when cursed for this, that, and the other trivial matter, say, “Sorry; we will see if the matter can be improved.” “Improved!” We are the finest fed army in the world. Where is the room for improvement? At dusk I go up to Brigade H.Q. with my staff-sergeant, and overtake a draft for the Hampshires on the way to join their battalions. I meet Usher, and he conducts them to their new trenches, and asks me to take Major Beckwith, who is just back, having now recovered from a wound in his leg, received on April 28th, after he had earned the D.S.O., up to Brigade; which I do, and I wait and have a drink with General Cayley. There are not many bullets about. Star lights go up continually from our and the enemy’s front line. It is a weary walk back, and I wish that I had ridden. Milward, Naval Landing Officer, came to dinner last night. He was the Landing Officer on the _Dongola_, and had the job of sending us off to our doom on April 25th. Also Warburton, off a submarine. He was with Holbrook when he got the V.C. _June 16th._