_Later._—Reported that the submarine was bagged after a long chase. Heavy rain this afternoon, and the whole place a bog. Hot sun afterwards which turned the bog into a glue deposit. Things fairly quiet, as they have been for the last two or three days. Enemy doesn't seem to like our bombs thrown from trench mortars. They are a Japanese invention, and when they pitch into the Turkish trenches they fairly raise hell—and human remains! Heard that over 400 were lost in the _Triumph_: hope it isn't true. Finding enemy was mining towards our trenches we put in a counter mine. Enemy exploded his—and ours at the same time. _W-o-o-o-o-uf!_ she went. So did the writer—bringing up waist deep in a heap of soft sticky clay, hard jam tins, and discarded accoutrements at the foot of the ridge. Felt a bit "rocky" after being dug out. Left ear gone. Head queer. Hope it will come all right again. Had another issue of fresh beef this evening, the second, I fancy, since we landed. Cooked it on my own home-made grill and found it _kapai_. More rain. _Still Later._—Heard that losses on _Triumph_ were very slight: about twenty or thirty. Rain cleared off and ground now drying fast. Fairly quiet night, except for some bombing. You get queer things in bombs sometimes, especially Turkish bombs. For instance: I was working in one of the advanced saps. There was a good deal of bombing going on a bit to my right. In the traverse next to where I was sapping a captured Turkish gramophone was being made to work overtime in _The Turkish Patrol_, for the edification of an Australian audience. Presently—_Bang!_ It was a bomb, thrown slap into the concert party. The music ceased. Followed the customary volley of blasphemy in back-blocks Australian. Then, to my surprise, a roar of laughter echoed round the traverse. Naturally I waltzed along to see what had happened—and found a very profane Australian seated in the bottom of the trench nursing his wounds. He looked for all the world as if he had been scrapping with a whole colony of porcupines, and was bleeding from a score or two of wounds. "It's needles from the bomb," laughed one of his mates, in answer to my astonished look. "The poor devil's that full up of gramophone needles, if we only had a _something_ record we could play a _something_ tune on him!"