My clothing is getting sadly in need of repair. Nothing to repair it with, however. Enemy's shells passing barely twenty feet above my dug-out—a bit too close for comfort. Thinking of shifting my camp. To-day the cap from one of our own shells passed clean through a man in a dug-out just above my own, and injured another. Our gunners do things like that of a time: perhaps they imagine we need a little more excitement—or have a perverted sense of humour. Heavy distant firing: the fleet at it again, I suppose. _May 13._—Came in at midnight after a spell of sapping—or, rather, watching others sap. Went on camp fatigue carrying water, fetching firewood for the cooks, etc. Can do this all right with one good arm. Otherwise had a light day. Australian Light Horse Brigade arrived from Egypt (minus horses), and now manning trenches as infantrymen. Employed my spare time in deepening my dug-out and fixing things up generally in my camp. Tremendous firing by ships last night; something doing. Fairly quiet day, with occasional bursts of rifle fire by both sides; also a little shelling. Noticed the following painted on some of our shells: "Turkish Delight: distributed free!" Went out at 8 p.m. to dig communication trench from "Shrapnel Gully" up to firing line on "Pope's Hill." The position was a very exposed one, as we had to carry the trench up over a ridge open to enemy fire at fairly close range. It couldn't possibly have been done in daylight, so we were sent out to get a hustle on and complete the job before morning. Even as it was the Turks must have taken a tumble to our game, for they kept up a hot fire on the crest of the ridge all night long. As I couldn't use my arm I was put on sentry-go, and spent hour after hour lying in the scrub with the bullets hissing and spitting in the air round my head or knocking sparks out of the flinty soil. It wasn't a bit jolly. We ran into a dead man while we were working—a Ceylon chap—who must have lain there since the landing. One of our chaps went down to camp and fetched up a padre—a fine old sort—who stood up and read the Burial Service under fire, and remained on the ridge until we had buried the corpse. I forget the parson's name, but I fancy he was the same man who worked at stretcher-bearing all through the first night in company with a Roman Catholic priest. There was a yarn going the rounds about this priest having taken part in a bayonet charge near "Quinn's": he denied it, but—well, from what I saw of him, I feel more than half inclined to believe it. We also found a dead Turkish officer. He had evidently been sketching round about these parts, his sketching wallet containing many drawings lying beside him. I wasn't lucky enough to get away with a specimen.