In a few minutes, two or three more shells came along. They were well over the ridge behind us, but were landing almost in the midst of another line of dugouts. I stood gazing at them for a little while. A man passed me running madly. "Come on," he gasped, "and yell for the stretcher." I followed him without further question. "It's all right," he said, slowing up just before we came to the line of dugouts that had just been shelled. "They've got him all right." We continued toward a group that crowded about a stretcher. A man was lying on it, with his head raised on a haversack. He rolled his eyes slowly and surveyed the group. "What the hell is the matter?" he said dazedly; then felt himself over gingerly for wounds. Apparently he could find none. "What hit me?" he asked, appealing to a grinning Red Cross man. "Nothing," said the other, "except about a ton of earth. It's a lucky thing some one saw you. That last shell buried you alive." The whistle of a coming shell dispersed the grinning spectators. I went back to my dugout, and found Art busily toasting some bread over the sieve that I had commandeered the day before. "What was the excitement?" he asked. "Charlie Renouf," I said, "was buried alive." "Heavens," said Art, "he's the postman; we can't afford to lose him. That reminds me that I've got to write some letters." [Illustration: Cleaning up after coming down from the trenches at Suvla] After we had finished breakfast, Art produced some writing paper and an indelible pencil. I did not have any writing paper, but I contributed a supply of service postcards, that bear such meager information as "I am quite well," "I am sick," "I am wounded," "I am in hospital and doing well," "I am in hospital and expect to be discharged soon," "I have not heard from you for a long time," "I have had no letter from you since ----," "I have your letter of ----," "I have received your parcel of ----," and a space for the date and the signature. When a man writes home from the front, he crosses out all but the sentences he wants read, puts in the date, and adds his signature. This is the ordinary means of communication. About once a week a man is allowed to write some letters; but these are censored by his platoon officer, who seals them, and signs his name as a record of their having been passed by him. Sometimes the censor at the base opens a few of them. Perhaps once a fortnight a few privileged characters are given large blue envelopes, that have printed in the corner: NOTE.-- Correspondence in this envelope need not be censored Regimentally. The contents are liable to examination at the Base. The following Certificate must be signed by the writer: _I certify on my honour that the contents of this envelope refer to nothing but private and family matters._ _Signature_ (_Name only_)