ning in a perfect sky. I shut my eyes and gave rein to my
thoughts, gradually elaborating the wild dream of a thinker who was
unaware that he had at last dropped off to sleep. It seemed to me
that the whole army at Suvla was that night storming the hills that
intervened between us and the silver Narrows. I was rushing with the
attackers, while the shells roared and pitched harmlessly among us,
and at length I was standing on the summit of Sari Bair, which
showed the Narrows under the moon and stars. The Narrows seen at
last! There, look, was the waterway to Constantinople. I waited
patiently to see the Navy pour up it in triumphant procession.
Beside me was the stranger who had spoken to us in the afternoon,
and I said to him: "The coast seems clear. Let's go down and swim
the Hellespont, where Leander and Byron swam." But at that moment
there was a loud explosion near us, and a sound as of particles of
earth falling upon an oil-sheet roof.

Conscious that this tremendous report was not the creation of a
troubled dreamer, but something real, which had worked itself into
the texture of my dreams, I lifted heavy eyelids, and learned that a
stray night-shell from the Turkish lines had burst very close to my
dug-out, and the debris was tumbling on the roof.... And we were
still low down on the slope to victory.

After that, sleep passed from me, and I watched the dawn break.

Sec.2

At six o'clock the next morning we were all on the little trawler,
due to leave for Cape Helles. Helles! The stirring, pregnant name
was a thing to toy with. Suvla was a great word, but Helles was a
greater. So farewell to Suvla now. We must also see Helles.

"To Helles," said the hardened skipper, with the same dull unconcern
that a cabman might show in saying "To Hyde Park."

The workmanlike boat got under way. As I gazed from its side towards
the Suvla that we were leaving, the whole line of the Peninsula came
into panorama before me. The sun, just awake, bathed a long, waving
skyline that rose at two points to dominant levels. One was Sari
Bair, the stately hill which stood inviolate, although an army had
dashed itself against its fastnesses. The other, lower down the
skyline, was Achi Baba, as impregnable as her sister, Sari Bair. The
story of the campaign was the story of these two hills.

For perfect charm, I recall no trip to equal this cruise betimes in
the sparking AEgean. Our trawler was travelling with the smoothness
of a