above the parapet. At a given signal all let out a ringing cheer.
The poor old Turks got into an awful stew. Machine-guns, field-guns,
and rifles opened up a terrific fire. They kept it up for over half an
hour, firing thousands of rounds.

"Another cheer, boys," ordered the colonel.

"Bang! Bang! Bang!" went the Turks again. The ruse was a splendid
one. But the wily Turk tumbled to the game at last.

"We'll need to get something new, boys; that game's played out," said
the colonel next day.

After consulting his men they hit on another scheme. About twenty men
were ordered to fix bayonets and continually pass along the line,
allowing their bayonets to show above the parapet as they marched along.

On reaching the end they pulled their rifles down and crept back to
where they had started from. Again they marched along, showing their
bayonets, as before. The old Turks simply saw this constant stream of
bayonets. They concluded that the Australians were massing for the
attack. The Turks lined their trenches and opened up another furious
fusillade, supported by machine-guns and shrapnel. Thousands of rounds
were expended before they realised that they had been fooled once more.

There was a lull next day, so Bill and his friends shaved off their
whiskers and had a bath in a cupful of water. Claud cleaned his
eyeglass, and Paddy went in search of a glass of rum from some of the
sailors. Sandy, then on light duty, opened up a business as a curio
agent. He swapped Turkish rifles, bullet clips, and other things for
pieces of bread, a tin of jam, a tasty Maconochie, and some tea. This
was a godsend to his famished pals in the trenches. Bill also wrote a
letter home to Mrs. McGinnes, his old Sydney landlady and financier:

"DEAR OLD SPORT,--Hope's your well. I'm well, but the Turks ain't
well. Reckon we've killed millions of 'em. Ain't got the V.C. yet.
There's a shipload comin' next week for The Kangaroo Boys. You can
'ave mine for a brooch. Likin' the life fine here--except the bullets.
They generally kills a feller wot ain't careful. There ain't no
undertakers out here. When we wants a new kit we generally borrows the
clothes an' boots of a dead feller. We live in little 'oles jist like
rabbits, an' the old Turks keep throwin' nasty things called bombs.
They ain't nice--one blew a feller's head off last night. Pore chap,
an' he had such a nice pair of trousers--I've got 'em on now. The
sni