At "A" Beach I examined the pipes and tanks of the water-supply system and had a chat with the Australians who were in charge. I drew a small plan, showing how the water was pumped from the tanks afloat to the standing tank ashore, and suggested the probable cause of the sand and dirt of which the C.O. complained. This done I found our own ambulance water-cart just ready to return to our camp with its nightly supply. Evening was giving place to darkness, and soon the misty hills and the bay were enveloped in starless gloom. The traffic about "A" Beach was always congested. It reminded you of the Bank and the Mansion House crush far away in London town. Here were clanking water-carts, dozens of them waiting in their turn, stamping mules and snorting horses; here were motor-transport wagons with "W.D." in white on their gray sides; ambulance wagons jolting slowly back to their respective units, sometimes full of wounded, sometimes empty. Here all was bustle and noise. Sergeants shouting and corporals cursing; transport-officers giving directions; a party of New Zealand sharpshooters in scout hats and leggings laughing and yarning; a patrol of the R.E.'s Telegraph Section coming in after repairing the wires along the beach; or a new batch of men, just arrived, falling in with new-looking kit-bags. It was through this throng of seething khaki and transport traffic that our water-cart jostled and pushed. Often we had to pull up to let the Indian Pack-mule Corps pass, and it was at one of these halts that I happened to come close to one of these dusky soldiers waiting calmly by the side of his mules. I wished I had some knowledge of Hindustani, and began to think over any words he might recognize. "You ever hear of Rabindranarth Tagore, Johnnie?" I asked him. The name of the great writer came to mind. He shook his head. "No, sergeant," he answered. "Buddha, Johnnie?" His face gleamed and he showed his great white teeth. "No, Buddie." "Mahomet, Johnnie?" "Yes--me, Mahommedie," he said proudly. "Gunga, Johnnie?" I asked, remembering the name of the sacred river Ganges from Kipling's _Kim_. "No Gunga, sa'b--Mahommedie, me." "You go Benares, Johnnie?" "No Benares." "Mecca?" "Mokka, yes; afterwards me go Mokka." "After the war you going to Mokka, Johnnie?" "Yes; Indee, France--here--Indee back again--then Mokka." "You been to France, Johnnie?" "Yes, sa'b." "You know Kashmir, Johnnie?" "Kashmir my house," he replied. "You live in Kashmir?" "Yes;--you go Indee, sergeant?" "No, I've never been." "No go Indee?" "Not yet." "Indee very good--English very good--Turk, finish!" With a sudden jerk and a rattle of chains our water-cart mules pulled out on the trail again and the ghostly figure with its well-folded turban and gleaming white teeth was left behind. II--HEROISM OF THE SILENT HINDUS