Voyaging through strange fields of thought alone. The reader will be weary of _Henry V._ Nevertheless Shakespeare came to the aid of us, his countrymen, again as gallant old Fowke quoted from the heart and brain of England: He which hath no stomach to this fight, Let him depart.... We would not die in that man's company, That fears his fellowship to die with us. So laughter ended a terrible day. Next day our tiny band was the spearhead of a handful of fifteen hundred bayonets, who caught the Turk in his fastnesses, wrested guns and prisoners from him, and slew and broke his forces so that they recoiled for thirty miles. There was no rest. Through the darkness J.Y. flitted to and fro, and here and there a spectral blaze flickered furtively. We had neither blankets nor greatcoats, for fear of shell-fire made it impossible to bring the carts up. The night was infernal with cold; sand-flies rose in myriads from the ground; we shivered and itched in our shorts. Old aches and pains found me out, rheumatism and troubles of a tropical climate. I lay between two men, both of whom had seen their last sunset; one was Sergeant-Major Whatsize. Infinitely far off seemed peace and the time, as Grant-Anderson expressed it, When the Gurkhas cease from gurkhing, and the Sikhs are sick no more. At midnight came a roar, then a crashing. It was Johnny blowing up Istabulat Station. At three o'clock we were aroused. FOOTNOTES: [7] _Anabasis_, Book ii. [8] The Divisional Heads of Ordnance and Supply and Transport. [9] 'The Battle that Won Samarrah,' by Brigadier-General A.G. Wauchope, C.M.G., D.S.O.; _Blackwood's_, April, 1918. [10] The Leicestershires' badge is a tiger, commemorating service in India a century ago. [11] Gun-shot. IV THE BATTLE FOR SAMARRA Salute the sacred dead, Who went and who return not. J.R. LOWELL. Day was welcome, for it brought movement, though movement harassed by cold and then by heat and ever-increasing clouds of flies. We snatched our mugs of tea, our bread and bacon. At 3.30 we moved off. We marched behind the wall, then crossed the Dujail, and pushed towards the left flank of the enemy's position. Vast clouds of white dust shut us close from any knowledge as we climbed up a narrow pass. Fortunately the light was hardly even dim yet. We dropped into a plain, and saw the Hero's Way by which the others had gone. Dead Gurkhas and Highlanders lay everywhere. I have always felt that the sight of a dead Highlander touches even deeper springs of pathos than the sight of any other corpse. Analysed, the feeling comes to this, I think: in his kilt he seems so obviously a peasant, lying murdered on the breast of the Universal Mother.