as as
venturesome as any combatant, could never quite share the dangers of
the men who lived in the trenches. His dug-out, back in the Eski
Line, was safe from everything but a howitzer shell. And I--ye gods!
I was comparatively secure, loafing about in the softest job in the
Army. Everything pointed to Doe as Number Three.

I thought of our unbroken partnership, and decided--as much in rash
defiance as in loyalty to my friend--that I would ask to be relieved
of my position as Ammunition Officer and allowed to return to my
battalion. The permission was granted. And oh! I cannot explain it,
but it was good to be back with my company after the enervating
experience of staff-life. And, better still, now that Doe was no
longer a platoon commander but Brigade Bombing Officer, he could
live where he liked, and had arranged to share my dug-out--that
delectable villa on Fusilier Bluff known as "Seaview." Really, under
these conditions, the Peninsula, we felt, would be quite "swish."

CHAPTER XII

SACRED TO WHITE

Sec.1

On a certain morning Doe and I in our dug-out on Fusilier Bluff felt
the pull and the fascination, coming over five miles of scrub, of
the magical Cape Helles. It was but a score of weeks since the first
invaders had stormed its beaches: and we wanted to drink again of
the romance that charged the air. So, being free for a time, we
walked to the brow overlooking V Beach, and stood there, letting the
breeze blow on our faces, and thinking of the British Army that blew
in one day like a gale from the sea.

The damage wrought by that tornado was everywhere visible. Near us
were the ruins of a lighthouse. In old days it had glimmered for
distant mariners, who pointed to it as the Dardanelles light. But,
at the outbreak of war, the Turk had closed his Dardanelles and put
out the lamp. He would never kindle it again, for the _Queen
Elizabeth_, or a warship of her kidney, had lain off shore and
reduced the lighthouse to these white stones. Across the
amphitheatre of the bay were the village and broken forts of Seddel
Bahr; and, aground at this point, the famous old hulk, the _River
Clyde_. You remember--who could forget?--how they turned this vessel
into a modern Horse of Troy, cramming its belly with armed men,
running it ashore, and then opening square doors in its hull-sides
and letting loose the invaders--while the plains of Old Troy looked
down from over the Hellespont. What a litter old Mother Cl