The men of all the Irish battalions suffered from this game of hide-and-seek with death as they lay in the trenches on Dublin Hill. Relief came to them in the early hours of the morning of Friday, August 13th. They left at 1.30, and marched seven miles to a rest camp in a gully of Karakol Dagh running down to the Gulf of Saros, which they reached at 4.30, and a footsore, sleepy, haggard, unkempt, bedraggled, hairy, unwashed, and unshaven crowd they were. They owed this bivouac to the success of the Munsters and Royal Irish Regiment in expelling the Turks from part of the ridge. When dismissed in the camp every man, officer and private alike, flung himself down in the open where he was and as he was, and had his first undisturbed sleep for a week. In the morning they had the luxurious experience of getting out of their clothes and plunging into the sea. How they revelled in it, after that awful week of forced marches, battle, flies, smoke, stench, and sweat! What laughter and splashing! The shouts and the merry jests and their accents made the scene just such a one as might be witnessed at home in a swimming pool under Howth or Bray Head. Afterwards the chief desire of all was to write home. As the men lay almost naked on the warm sands, under the scorching sun, many a letter was written to loved ones in Ireland, each telling how he got safely through his baptism of fire--the best news he could possibly send--and what a grand name his battalion had made for itself. Words of comfort and cheer are freely used in such of the letters as have been made public. "I'm happier than ever I was; it's just the sort of life I like." "You can't realise what high spirits I am in when I'm fighting. I feel as if it were all one long exciting Rugger match." "Don't you fret, I'll get through it all right; and even if I fall, sure we'll all meet again in the next world after a few brief years." To call the camp a "rest" camp is, perhaps, a misnomer. It certainly afforded no refuge from the flies. "There is a fellow near me doing nothing but killing them in millions," writes one of the Dublins. "I had ten in a mug of tea as soon as it was handed to me," says another. This place of shelter was not safe even from the Turkish guns. As many as twenty-five men were knocked out by a shell. But such as the camp was, the stay of the Irish in it was very brief indeed. On the morning of Sunday, August 15th, they were ordered to take up positions on the ridge above them, and wait for the word to go forward and attack. Though "burned like a red herring, and just as thin and thirsty," as one of the officers of the 7th Dublins said, describing himself and giving a comic picture of them all, they were again in good physical condition. And they had need to be. For they were now assigned a task that was to demand of them more fortitude and resolution and a bigger toll of life than even the taking of Dublin Hill.