We had a crook spin. The big guns of the ships and the shore batteries started the ball by shelling the enemy heavily and driving him from his front trenches with some loss. We followed the infantry to the attack at dusk, advancing up a dark and evil-looking gully or nullah, the track being only fit for amphibious monkeys to follow, and so narrow that single file had to be adopted. We didn't enjoy ourselves a little bit, as added to the natural difficulties of the passage—we were up to the thighs in mud and water one minute and scrambling over roots, branches, and rocks the next, all in pitch darkness—we were sniped at point-blank range all the way, losing several men. At last, after a very trying time, we gained the top and found that the leading companies of infantry had carried the position and were engaged in digging themselves in under one of the hottest fires I ever ran up against. Our little half-section of about eighteen men were ordered to spread themselves along the line, their duties being to advise and assist the infantry. We did so, and at once men began to fall. The Turks were only about fifty yards away, and although it was dark they could see our chaps fairly well against the background of stars. In a few minutes half our lot were down, I myself being put out of action by a bullet glancing off a pick and getting me in the right shoulder. At the same instant my water-bottle was shot through and the rifle blown from my hand. It wasn't at all a healthy climate. It was just a shambles. Men were lying killed and wounded as thick as sardines in a tin. I remember apologising to a poor chap for treading on his face. But he didn't mind—being dead. Although my wound was only slight, it settled me for doing any more work, so I was sent back with a message to the O.C. in camp. I shan't forget that trip in a hurry. Owing to having to make a detour to avoid the reinforcements that were coming up, I cut across the back trail without knowing it, and almost walked into the Turks, who were out on a flanking game. One son of a gun tickled the back of my neck with a bullet, and another put one so close to my ear that I felt the organ to make sure it was still hanging to my head. That was good enough for me; I wasn't greedy; so I just ducked and ran, never stopping till I had to —— head down in three feet of mud at the bottom of a ten-foot _donga_! However, I got my bearings at last, hit the trail, and staggered into camp, more dead than alive, at about midnight. Delivered my message, had my wound dressed, and after a pannikin of tea turned in and had a smoke and an hour or two of sleep. Shoulder hurt a bit.