_May 14._—Quiet morning for this locality. A little shelling plus some bombing. Enemy now taking to writing messages on pieces of paper, wrapping a stone in the paper and chucking the things into our trenches. They seem to imagine we have lost touch altogether with the world at large, and have taken it on themselves to furnish us with news. We are surprised to learn that fourteen British battleships have been sunk by the forts at the Narrows, that Egypt is in a state of revolt, and that the Germans are preparing to invade England. They asked us to treat our prisoners well, and they would do likewise with theirs. In a further message (an ultimatum) they called on us to surrender with our whole bag of tricks inside sixteen hours, and on receiving our reply—more forcible than elegant—some merry dog chucked back the following: "Well, if you won't surrender _we_ will. Suppose we both surrender!" Were served out with a new kind of biscuit to-day. It looks and tastes like stale bread, but when soaked in water and fried in fat it goes down well. I now save all the fat I can from my morning rasher of bacon, storing it in a jam-tin. I find it useful for cooking "chips" (when there happens to be any "spuds" about); also for greasing the bolt of my rifle. Speaking of bacon reminds me of a little picnic that happened a few nights ago. Two of us were passing the A.S.C. stores down in the "Gully." There was much store of jam, bacon, cheese, etc., piled in boxes on one side of the track. Now the back of this lordly stack of cases rested against a high but slender bank. In front was the camp of the attendant satellites. The thought seemed to strike us both at the same time. We acted on it right away. Putting in a short drive through the bank we struck oil—spelled, in this case, J-A-M. Since then I have done another little bit of prospecting round about that claim. I feel like having ham for breakfast; therefore I shall pay another visit to our drive, remove the bush that secures its entrance, and——! Our stores are mostly brought up from the beach by mules, Indian drivers having charge of the stubborn animals. I am bound to say, however, these Indians seem able to do anything with their charges. They are very fond of them, too, and they (the mules) look fat and well cared for. I believe the drivers would almost as soon die as see such a fate overtake their beasts. Here is a case in point which I witnessed myself: a shell exploded bang above the track on which a transport team was making its way beachward. A mule staggered and came down on one knee, then righted itself. The driver examined the limb carefully, and finding the damage only amounted to the loss of a bit of skin, he threw his arms round the animal's neck and kissed it on the nose. I couldn't help wondering if he'd have kissed his wife in a like case.