Just as I walked out of my dug-out this morning two men were shot by a machine-gun not ten yards off--one in the shoulder and the other in the eye. Two seconds ago a big shrapnel shell burst right in front of our dug-out. The bullets flew everywhere, and we bolted to shelter. No one was injured. It is marvellous. Up to the present it has been the most wonderful week in my life--full of excitement and hair-breadth escapes. Sunday came--May 30. The day dawned peacefully, minus the artillery duel which ordinarily heralds the coming day. The blue Mediterranean lay like a sea of glass at our feet. Imbros Island, opposite Anzac Cove, lay wreathed in the morning mists. Torpedo boats glided to and fro across the waters, lest some adventurous submarine should attack. All was peaceful. Ashore, the wild flowers blossomed on the hillsides. Birds chirruped contentedly in the scrub. Soldiers released from a night's vigil in the trenches sauntered along the winding road to the beach, dived in and sported freely in the sea. The transport mules munched contentedly, and the Indians lay back smoking hubble-bubbles. Light Horsemen (minus their horses) and infantrymen emerged from their dug-outs and stretched themselves lazily in the sun. It was too good to last--too good altogether. Some activity behind the Turkish trenches attracted the attention of our artillery observation officers, and our guns boomed out a warning. It was evidently disregarded by the enemy, for more of our guns opened fire. Then the Turks replied. The hills around spat fire, and the valleys echoed and re-echoed with peals of thunder. Shrapnel shells and "Jack Johnsons" went screaming overhead, to burst with a deafening report over our trenches and bivouacs. Our guns were so cunningly concealed that the German artillery officers could not locate them, and for the most part their shells ploughed up the unoffending earth, or made harmless rents in the atmosphere. Our artillery had better success. Our guns tore down the Turkish trenches, and the Turks flying to shelter were met with a devastating fire from our machine-guns. Still, we did not have it all our own way. Now and then a shell landed in our trenches, and the story of it was told in the casualty lists. About one o'clock the artillery duel began, and it continued without cessation for over an hour. The roar was awful. Bullets spattered everywhere. The marvel was that our losses were so few. Gradually the big guns grew silent. Our warships aimed a few salvos on to the enemy's position, then drew off. Soon there was comparative calm. There remained but the interminable fusillade of musketry which never wholly ceased on the trenches round Anzac.