Then suddenly a whistling sound strikes a swift chill into my heart. Louder and louder grows the noise with all its sense of hostile approach, and ends at its summit with a dull explosion. Fifty feet away a column of water and steam hangs above the blue placid sea, and slowly fades, leaving a creamy-white disc on the water to show where the shell has burst. Another whistle sounds and another, and both end in the noise of an explosion, but from my present position I cannot see where the shells have fallen. Another one sounds, however, and grows so loud that I run instinctively into the nearest cabin, though it is no real shelter. I hear a loud explosion, and returning cautiously to the rail, see, some way down along the side of the boat, a white circle of foam, whose edge actually touches our hull, so close is it. Below in the engine-room I hear the clang of the telegraph, and the growing mutter of the engines as we start to draw away from the coast. The whistle sounds for balloon stations, and I hurry along the deck and down a ladder to my place. The winch is pulling the balloon down as fast as it can, and every now and then above its tumult we hear the long whine and burst of a shell, whose explosion we cannot see owing to the high canvas screens which shut us off from a view of the sea. It is a most unpleasant experience, for the boat is only a small 4000-ton tramp steamer, with the thinnest of decks, and it is loaded with cylinders of compressed gas, with petrol, and with shells, and there is a "muse" balloon full of gas in the hold beneath the forward deck as well. The effect of a shell-burst on the boat will be at least pyrotechnical, and probably very fatal. At last the balloon is down on the deck, the basket is released, the "bagging down" operation is completed, and the ship steams full speed out of range of the hostile artillery. Now for a time we lie off the long golden beaches of Suvla Bay with the dark orchards behind it, beyond which the slim white minarets rise from among the hills. It is the hot drowsy hour of noon. Four or five transports lie near us, while the inevitable trawlers in couples, with noses cocked perkily in the air, sweep the water slowly for mines. Behind us lies the grey shadow of Imbros in the distance. From the mainland comes the occasional dull sound of shell fire, while the crackle of musketry rises and falls as though on a gusty wind. We sit on the poop under an awning to obtain a little protection from the fierce heat of the sun. Around us lies the calm deep blue water. A few people talk; now and again the daylight signalling-lamp clatters on the bridge: it is an hour of absolute peace. Suddenly a great tension sweeps over the crowd of men on the deck. Every face changes its expression from utter tranquillity to absolute amazement and apprehension. "_Look!_" says some one.