There has been a lot of rot written and said about the lack of discipline in the Australian and New Zealand forces. There _was_ discipline, although not quite the same brand as that of the British Army. It is true they didn't cotton on to saluting as an amusement, and you can lay a safe bet they never will. But what of it? Their own officers didn't press the point, knowing the class of men they commanded. At the same time those officers knew that the rough diamonds under their orders would play the game right to the last man; that they would fight like lions in their own devil-may-care, reckless way—and, if need be, die like men, with a careless jest or muttered oath on their lips. I say there was the highest form of discipline in the Australasian Army—the discipline that called on a man to die, if necessary, that his comrade might live. Let the order go forth that a certain position was to be held _at all costs_. Was it lost? No—except over the dead bodies of the holders. Has a single instance come to light in which even a platoon of Australian or New Zealand troops abandoned their trench and bolted? No, even when out of ammunition and unable to reply to a murderous fire. What was it that caused first one line and then another of those big Australian Light Horsemen to charge to certain death at Quinn's Post? Discipline! War discipline! The kind that counts. They didn't salute much (except when in an unusually good humour—or outside a big drink), even their own officers, but they would follow those officers to certain death—and well the officers knew it. They were just big, hard-living, hard-drinking, over-grown boys: not exactly saints or respectable church-going citizens, I fear. But they were white right through—even if they sometimes did go looking for trouble! And there wasn't anything on the Gallipoli Peninsula could show them the way when it came to scrapping. They were absolutely the grandest fighting men that God ever put breath into! You saw it in the square set of their jaws and the grim, straightforward glance of their eyes. But parade-ground soldiering wasn't much in their line, nor the cheering crowds either. I think I have already stated that Cairo is a wicked old city. Well, it is. There are places in Cairo that I wouldn't take my grandmother through—places that would curl a padre's toenails backwards, or send the blood to the cheek of a Glasgow policeman. Shebangs where they sell you whisky that takes the lining of your throat down with it, and lifts your stomach up to the roof of your skull; a soothing liquid that licks "forty-rod," "chained lightning," or "Cape smoke" to the back of creation; the kind of lush that gives you a sixty-horse dose of the jim-jams while you wait. Real good stuff it is—for taking tar off a fence.