Sickness diminished with the coming of the cooler weather, and as health improved moods of depression abated, and the irresponsible cheeriness of the British soldier, in spite of all he had gone through and all that lay before him, shone forth under conditions the reverse of exhilarating. Perhaps the rum-punch had some slight share of responsibility on one occasion. A party of transport men, howling a chorus on their way down the ravine in a drizzling and depressing rain, on being challenged by a sentry at the Eski Line, proceeded to serenade him. The sentry, whose job gave little scope for hilarity, inquired in disgusted tones: “What the ⸺ are you so happy about? Is the war over?” The unhappy experience of a quartermaster’s storeman provides a moral—or even more than one. He had noticed two delectable rum-jars in the orchard by Pink Farm, with a Scottish sentry posted over them. After profound meditation he decided upon a frontal attack, and, accompanied by a fellow-conspirator, walked up to the sentry and said: “I’ve been sent for the rum for the puir laddies in the trenches. They’ll be awfu’ glaad to get it, and it’ll do them guid.” He then told his colleague—incidentally addressing him as “Jock”—to take one jar while he took the other, and off they went towards the nullah, the sentry appearing quite satisfied, and curiously lacking in that nasty suspicious spirit so prevalent among persons in charge of valuables, and so discouraging to enterprises of this sort. Half-way to the nullah they entered a deep ditch, with the intention of working their way round to the dump, where water was already boiling in anticipation. But the jars were heavy and temptation could no longer be resisted. A cork was pulled out with great care and some difficulty—and they found themselves in possession of two bottles of creosol. Their remarks are unprintable. [Illustration: GULLY BEACH. DIVISIONAL HEADQUARTERS.] [Illustration: GULLY BEACH. INDIAN A.T. CARTS.] [Illustration: GULLY BEACH. QUARTERS OF THE 2ND AND 3RD FIELD AMBULANCES.] [Illustration: GULLY RAVINE. THE “ROAD” OR RIVER BED.] [Illustration: GULLY RAVINE. A “DUMP.”] [Illustration: GULLY RAVINE. HEADQUARTERS 1ST FIELD CO. AND WAY UP TO THE ESKI LINES.] A new subaltern arrived about this period, and was handed over at the Battalion Dump to the post-corporal, who was on his way to H.Q. in the line. Presently a shell passed overhead, and the corporal explained that “it’s not addressed to us; it’s addressed to t’ beach,” some miles away. The sub., being a bit on his dignity, thought fit to tell the corporal—an ancient member of his battalion, and more in the nature of a family friend than anything else at Battalion H.Q.—that he need not be funny. A little later, probably within range of a deceased mule, the sub. unbent, and said: “Rather queer smell here, corporal?” “Yes, sir,” was the reply, “this is where we bury uz officers.” [Sidenote: _Mining Operations_]