to the right or to the left of the track, he is
almost certainly shot. Half of the pathway may be as safe as Piccadilly,
whilst he who treads the other had far better be up yonder at hand grips
with the Turks. Presumably some feature of the ground defilades one
part, for the enemy cannot see into the valley, although, were they only
20 yards nearer the edge of the cliff, they would command its whole
extent. The spirit of the men is invincible. Only lately have we been
able to give them blankets: as to square meals and soft sleeps, these
are dreams of the past, they belonged to another state of being. Yet I
never struck a more jovial crew. Men staggering under huge sides of
frozen beef; men struggling up cliffs with kerosine tins full of water;
men digging; men cooking; men card-playing in small dens scooped out
from the banks of yellow clay--everyone wore a Bank Holiday
air;--evidently the ranklings and worry of mankind--miseries and
concerns of the spirit--had fled the precincts of this valley. The
Boss--the bill--the girl--envy, malice, hunger, hatred--had scooted far
away to the Antipodes. All the time, overhead, the shell and rifle
bullets groaned and whined, touching just the same note of violent
energy as was in evidence everywhere else. To understand that awful din,
raise the eyes 25 degrees to the top of the cliff which closes in the
tail end of the valley and you can see the Turkish hand grenades
bursting along the crest, just where an occasional bayonet flashes and
figures hardly distinguishable from Mother earth crouch in an irregular
line. Or else they rise to fire and are silhouetted a moment against the
sky and then you recognize the naked athletes from the Antipodes and
your heart goes into your mouth as a whole bunch of them dart forward
suddenly, and as suddenly disappear. And the bomb shower stops dead--for
the moment; but, all the time, from that fiery crest line which is
Quinn's, there comes a slow constant trickle of wounded--some dragging
themselves painfully along; others being carried along on stretchers.
Bomb wounds all; a ceaseless, silent stream of bandages and blood. Yet
three out of four of "the boys" have grit left for a gay smile or a
cheery little nod to their comrades waiting for their turn as they pass,
pass, pass, down on their way to the sea.

There are poets and writers who see naught in war but carrion, filth,
savagery and horror. The heroism of the rank and file makes no appeal.
Th