At 5 p.m. on the 29th the remnants that were left of the once proud battalions of East Lancashire Territorials moved off on their last march in Gallipoli—a sorry procession. The distance to “V” Beach from which most of the men embarked was about five miles, much of it through deep mud, and it was sheer grit that pulled them through, for their frames were wasted and enfeebled through sickness, exposure and unceasing strain; their feet, sodden through weeks of standing in muddy and water-logged trenches, were tender and painful; they were, it is true, quitting the scene of much misery and suffering, but they were not leaving as victors. Though they had done and endured all that was possible their object remained unachieved, and they were depressed by the sense of failure. Not unreasonably they felt that the Territorials had been neglected by the authorities at home—that had drafts been supplied in full measure from their second line they might have won through. At the date of the first landing, again on June 4, and again in August when the ambitious advance was made from Anzac and Suvla, victory had been in sight, and the lack of reserves had robbed the Dardanelles army of the triumph for which they had paid so heavy a price. On arrival at the crowded beach they awaited their turn to board the “beetles.” The French had a number of haystacks on the shore, and had posted a sentry to give warning of the coming of the shells by blowing a horn the instant that he saw the flash from an “Asiatic Annie” across the Straits. The bursting of the shell had been timed to follow the flash by twenty-three seconds, so the sounding of the horn was the signal for a rush to the haystacks or other available cover. These were seconds of extreme tension until the crash came and men realized that they at any rate had respite for a time; though in the dark it was impossible to know what damage had been done elsewhere. Piers were struck and great gaps made as parties were about to cross. Throughout the long night the embarkation proceeded, most of the men crossing the hulk of the _River Clyde_.[6] The wind was rising, and the transfer from the lighters to the larger transports was made dangerous by the roll of both vessels, and much argument ensued between the Royal Navy and the Mercantile Marine. In due course it was accomplished and, as the dawn showed pink in the east, the convoy steamed away towards Mudros. Eight months ago nearly 14,000 Lancashire Territorials had disembarked on the inhospitable shores which were now receding. The Division that left Gallipoli barely numbered 5000, though every battalion and unit had received drafts from the second and third lines in England, or from Egypt, and thousands of casualties had rejoined from hospital. Few of the 14,000 who had landed in May with such high hopes and in such good spirits, took part in the last melancholy parade to the beaches, or sailed on this December day to Mudros, but