line Bir-el-Rabah—Katia—Bir-el-Mamluk. The 125th Brigade on the left and the 127th on the right rested for the night on Mount Meredith and Mount Royston, and the number of Turkish dead lying on these hills showed how heavy had been the casualties. The evening was cool—in fact, the night was even chilly after the extreme heat of the day. There was little to eat or drink. The news came that Katia was to be taken next day, that the enemy was holding the oasis basin strongly, and that the march to Katia would be more exacting even than those of the past two days. The prospect was not alluring, for there was no sign of water to replenish the empty bottles, many of the native transport drivers having been stampeded by enemy shell fire. The prospect of an advance across the desert without food or water was far more alarming than the Turk, however strong might be his position and his numbers. Thirsty, hungry, and exhausted the men of the two brigades scooped hollows in the sand and snatched a few hours sleep. [Sidenote: _Sufferings of the Manchesters, Aug. 6, 1916_] At 3 a.m. on August 6 the infantry with the 1st and 3rd Field Companies, R.E., were preparing to move, each man wondering if he would be able to hold out, when a beatific vision of distant fantasse-laden camels was hailed with rapture. The pestiferous _oont_ is an ungainly beast, with disgusting manners and a vile temper, but there are moments when one could almost wish that he would allow himself to be caressed, and this was one of such occasions. Though the allowance of water was disappointingly small, there being barely a pint per head, still it made all the difference to the spirit of the troops. The start was made at 4 a.m., the 42nd Division on the right, the 52nd on the left, with cavalry on both flanks. Viewed from a ridge, the advance on Katia was picturesque. The plain was covered with long lines of infantry, mounted troops on the flanks, batteries of field-guns with traction-engine wheels hauled through the sand by huge teams of horses. Far away to the rear came endless strings of grunting, bubbling camels, and miles in front, a tantalizing sight, lay the green oases that brought to mind the desert pictures of childhood. The prediction that the march would be more exhausting than any yet attempted proved only too true, and officers who had been through the worst of the Gallipoli campaign, and at a later date had eighteen months’ experience of trench and open warfare in Flanders and France, declare that they have known nothing to surpass in horror the sufferings of the 127th Brigade on the 6th of August, 1916. The 125th Brigade, moving by a more direct route, reached the shade of the Katia oases in the forenoon, and found that the Turk had not awaited their coming. But while the Fusiliers rested there, the Manchesters were still trudging wearily through the soft sand, every step seeming to sink deeper and deeper, until it needed not only physical