shall see no more,
Another mist, which with life shall last,
Till all that I watched and my comrades bore
Will be autumn mist, in an old man's dream.

Here an Empire's might had agonized; and many of us had buried more
hopes than we shall cherish again.

It rained, and kept on raining. Knowing what wretchedness this meant on
shore, we were glad of the crowded shelter of our P-boat, maugre its
noises and discomforts. Marshall, the semi-mythical person at Corps,
who had visited the Turks at Tekrit, scattering ruin from a 'lamb,' was
everywhere said to be taking bets, ten to one, that the war would be
ended by Christmas. If rumour spoke truth, Marshall must have lost a
pile of money.

On the 22nd we entrained at Amara, reaching Busra late on the 23rd. We
spent Christmas encamped on a marsh. My mare developed unsuspected
gifts as a humorist. Every time she saw a tree, even a date-palm, she
shied, cavorted, and leapt, showing the utmost amazement and terror.
This was witty at first, but she kept it up too long. Busra backwaters
were lovelier than ever, with the willows in their winter dress,
gold-streaked, and the brooding blue kingfishers above the waveless
channels. _Bablas_[32] were in yellow button, scenting the ditches
where huge tortoises crawled and clustered. On the 30th I got a glimpse
of Shaiba, of the tall feathery tamarisks above the Norfolks' graves
and trenches. On January 2 we embarked on the _Bandra_. With the
cheering as we moved away, the words of a Mesopotamian 'gaff'[33]
recurred to memory:

And when we came to Ashar,[34] we only cheered once;
And I don't suppose we shall cheer again, for months, and months,
and months.

We drifted down the beautiful waterway, past its forest of palms and
its abundant willows and waving reeds. We reached Koweit Bay on the 4th
and waited for rations and our new boats. On the 7th we were on our way
to a new campaign. In nine months the Leicestershires were swinging
through Beirut in the old, immemorial fashion, though foot-weary, and
singing, whilst the people madly cheered and shouted. But it was not
the old crowd. Fowke, Warren, Burrows--these three were gathered, two
months after the battalion left Mesopotamia, at Kantara, when the
German last offensive burst. They were sent at once to France. Fowke
and Warren were badly wounded; a letter from Fowke informed me that he
was hit 'while running away,' a jesting statement which one
underst