The regiment that relieved us was an English regiment, the Essex. They were some of "Kitchener's Army." We stood down off the parapet, and the Englishmen took our places. Then with our entire equipment on our backs we started our hegira. We had about four miles to go, two down through the front line trenches, then two more through winding, narrow communication trenches, almost to the edge of the Salt Lake. Here in the partial shelter afforded by a small hill were our dugouts. In Gallipoli there was no attempt at the ambitious dugout one hears of on the Western front. Our dugouts resembled more nearly than anything else newly made graves. Usually one sought a large rock and made a dugout at the foot of it. The soil of the Peninsula lent itself readily to dugout construction. It is a moist, spongy clay, of the consistency of thick mortar. A pickax turns up large chunks of it; these are placed around the sides. A few hours' sun dries out the moisture, and leaves them as hard and solid as concrete. While we had been in the firing line, another regiment had made some dugouts. There were four rows of them, one for each company. B Company's were nearest the beach. We filed slowly down the line, until we came to the end. A dugout was assigned to every two men. I shared one with a chap named Stenlake. We spread our blankets, put our packs under our heads, and for the first time for a week, took off our boots. Before going to sleep, Stenlake and I chatted for a while. When war broke out, he told me, he had been a missionary in Newfoundland. He offered as chaplain, and was accepted and given a commission as captain. Later some difficulty arose. The regiment was made up of three or four different denominations, about equally divided. Each one wanted its own chaplain, which was expensive; so they decided to have no chaplain. Stenlake immediately resigned his commission, and enlisted as a private. Our whisperings were interrupted by a voice from the next dugout. "You had better get to sleep as soon as you can, boys; you have a hard day before you, to-morrow." It was Mr. Nunns, the lieutenant in command of our platoon. Casting aside all caste prejudice, he was sleeping in the midst of his men, in the first dugout he had found empty. He could have detailed some men to build him an elaborate dugout, but he preferred to be with his "boys." The English officers of the old school claim that this sort of thing hurts discipline. If they had seen the prompt and cheerful way in which No. 8 platoon obeyed Mr. Nunns' orders, they would have been enlightened. CHAPTER III TRENCHES