_May 11._—Heavy rifle fire all night. Was out from 8 a.m. till noon bossing up Royal Marines at trench-digging. Quiet morning, but heavy rifle and artillery fire in the afternoon. Yesterday, I was told, shrapnel pitched all round me in camp, tearing up the ground and smashing a rifle close to my head. I took no notice of it. I was asleep. Nice safe camps we have in these parts! The 29th Division (Irish) reported to be only two miles from our right flank to-day. Report confirmed later. Good news; something ought to be doing soon. Heavy naval firing going on in the distance. Heard that 4·7" naval guns had been placed in position on "Pope's Hill", to our left. Wish they could lay out the Turkish guns—especially "Asiatic Annie"—that keep warming us up in our dug-outs; we are getting tired of the beggars. Heard that the _Lusitania_ had been submarined near the Irish coast. Poor devils!—it's a one-eyed kind of death to be drowned like rats in a trap. I'd a dashed sight rather be shot any day. "Commandeered" a can of butter, some cheese, jam, and potatoes, so have lived high to-day. "Virtue rewarded"—the stuff just smiled at me as I was passing the commissariat. I couldn't resist its blandishments. Anyway, the Quartermaster is always complaining about the "non-keeping" qualities of his provisions. And, when all's said and done, it's simply a raiding of the Philistines. How does the water get into our rum? Some rain to-day, cloudy, overcast skies, and not at all warm. _May 12._—Rum—and not watered! Rained all night; place a quagmire this morning. Got hold of some sacks and managed to sleep more or less dry. Have neither waterproof sheet nor blankets. Heard that all our blankets left behind on ship had been taken for wounded. If that is where they have gone we don't mind; sick men need them more than we do. Rather quiet night; expect both sides too wet and miserable to worry about killing each other. Didn't go out last night; thought I might as well stay in and nurse my shoulder, which is doing real good. First night in for longish spell. Went out this morning and bossed up a lot of marines at trench-digging. It rained all the time and the ground was as sticky as fish-glue. Climbing up to "Quinn's Post" in this kind of weather is like the Johnnie in _Pilgrim's Progress_ who found his swag growing bigger and heavier the farther he went. You can hardly lift your feet owing to the amount of Turkey sticking to them, and for every two yards you advance you slide back more than one. And coming down is just as bad, although a deal speedier. You start off gingerly, sit down suddenly—_squelch!_—and when your wind comes back you find yourself at the foot of the hill with a sniper biffing away at you and enjoying the joke. It's quite funny—to read about.