At that time the battalion was reduced in numbers and stamina by the ravages of dysentery and the strain of sixty days' continuous life in the trenches. The men were ill-prepared to withstand conditions such as few troops either before or since have been called upon to endure. We were engaged on preliminary preparations for the evacuation, when on the evening of November 26 I went on duty after the order, "Stand down and carry on nightly routine." As I began my tour of the line the sky was dark and threatening, and on the first sign of rain, being lightly clad, I sent for my trench coat. Presently torrential rain was falling, and almost before I had time to realize the fact the water in the trench rose over my boot tops. Becoming reconciled to being drenched I went on with my duties with as little concern as possible, and even with water to my knees felt no special anxiety-certainly no anticipation of what was to follow. The men standing on the fire-step, though very wet, were still clear of the water. At this stage the time arrived for my evening meal, and the sight of another officer fighting his way through three feet of water and blinding, merciless rain on his way to relieve me was very welcome. I gave him a cheery greeting and passed on to the dug-out. This, too, was flooded, and I found two ludicrously unhappy officers trying to keep dry by sitting on sandbags with their feet on the old biscuit box which served for a table. Taking my seat on a floating box I contrived to eat what proved to be my last meal for several days-good hot stew, which warmed and revived me. This was one of the strangest of the many strange meals I have enjoyed. While I was busy assuaging my hunger the water rose above the level of the box on which I sat. Then the table floated, and the water, rising above the level of the sandbag bench on which the other officers sat, finally defeated their efforts to keep dry. Still the water rose, our primitive shelves fell in with a splash, and mess stores, clothing, books, papers, crockery, tobacco, cigarettes, all went under. Presently with a thud a supporting sandbag came through the ground-sheet roof, water poured in, and our position became untenable. We came out to find the officer on duty soaked to the skin and deep in water. Still the level rose-what could we do? Surely this appalling rain would cease. We looked at each other then at the darkened sky-no inspiration came from either source. Heavy rain continued to fall. Something had to be done. Water was now up to our armpits, and it was with difficulty we maintained our balance. We essayed to walk down the trench, but failed. The bottom of the trench, already below sea-level, had been further deepened in odd places, and these now formed deep and dangerous pits full of water into which the unwary stumbled. To climb out of the trench was

out of the question, owing to the sustained rifle and machine-gun fire which swept across our parapets. Realizing the futility of any further efforts to go along the trench, we caught a floating box and, standing on it, raised ourselves higher in the water. There we stood, with the rain and hail striking our faces, almost blinding us. Would it never cease? At last the sky became lighter in the east, and for a moment the intensity of the storm abated. Our spirits rose, but only to fall again as the storm broke out anew with redoubled fury. And then I confess to a momentary feeling of hopelessness. We looked in all directions for some sign of change, but saw only great banks of hard-driven storm-clouds, and all around a wind- and rain-swept waste, with now and then the flash of a gun and the shriek of a passing shell.

And the irony of it! Away behind we could clearly descry the illuminated Red Cross and green lines of two hospital ships. There they were, lightly riding the waters, suggestive of warmth, of food, of hot baths, of dry blankets. What a picture of luxury and comfort they conjured up, but such luxury, such comfort, were not for us. Presently the Turkish fire slackened, and deciding to take the risk we climbed out of the trench and walked along to inspect the line. What a tragic sight it was. The trenches of which we had been very proud were now wrecked lines of turbulent water. They had been model trenches, but were constructed for fine weather, and now the sides had fallen in, while from the high ground in front, which was all held by the enemy, great streams of surging water burst through our parapets. Communication trenches had become seething torrents, carrying packs, equipment, boxes, stores, and all manner of debris down towards the sea.

The weather having partially cleared the question aroseWould the communication trenches drain the front lines? One of these was already entirely blocked, and the efforts of a working party failed to clear the obstruction. Very slowly the water subsided, and as soon as practicable the sentries reoccupied the trenches, having been posted in a temporary line of defence on the top. An inspection of rifles showed them to be choked with mud, while many were buried under the fallen sides of the trench. Machine-gun emplacements had also collapsed. Rest trenches in the rear had fallen in, burying rifles, ammunition, and equipment. Working parties were detailed to endeavour to divert the water, which still flowed into our trenches, and to rebuild the parapets. These efforts, though futile, served to occupy the men and stimulate circulation. Their plight was pitiable. Cold and drenched, they stood deep in slippery mud or worked up to their waists in water, while the sentries kept watch crouched in corners of traverses seeking for shelter, no matter how scant, from the biting

wind which swept across and through all that was left of our model trenches. Once we endeavoured to revive animation by running across the country which lay between our front-line and support trenches, but here, on ground level, the land was flooded and soft, so that our efforts to run proved a ludicrous failure, degenerating, as they did, into the difficult process of picking up first one and then the other foot from the deep mud into which they sank.

Struggling along in this way I came across a rifle, and assuming it had been dropped by one of our men, I picked it up. It was a Mauser, bleached white on one side, while a few yards away lay a Turkish soldier, obviously one of the enemy killed in the first few days of the Suvla fighting.

Hostile fire had become feeble now, and we walked about freely on the top. Evidently the Turk was not too happy either, though his advantage of high ground saved him from the worst conditions under which we suffered.

After much labour-digging under deep water in a flooded dug-out-we recovered a jar of rum, and when at last the long night passed and the day broke grey and dismal, we issued one tablespoonful to each man, measured out in a tobacco-tin lid. The appreciation of the men for this small comfort was extremely touching. Eagerly they clustered round, waiting their turn, so numbed with cold that their limbs shook and their hands trembled. Indeed, it was with difficulty that they held their canteen lids or enamel mugs to receive their portion. Their eyes glistened with eagerness. One man knelt down in the mud and water and thanked God for his rum, while "God bless you, sir," came from many trembling lips.

At dawn we did all that was possible to repair the damage, but it was discouraging work standing in deep water trying to dig out mud. And now a new danger developed. Great blocks of earth from the sides were constantly falling into the trench, knocking men down and pinning them under water. They were drowned before it was possible to dig them out. We cleaned the few rifles we had and all we could recover from the mud, but our position was precarious and our damaged trenches gave little protection from the enemy snipers, while it was quite impossible to build firm emplacements for our machine-guns. The impossible condition of No Man's Land was our best defence.

The day passed drearily enough, and no rations arrived. The low country behind our lines was under water and impassable to wheeled transport. Seventeen men left for the beach to carry rations. Ten of them fell out from exhaustion, some died from weakness and exposure, while seven returned with a few sodden loaves. Nor had we the consolation of tobacco. Cigarettes had

gone to pulp in our pockets, tobacco and matches were wet and useless. Conditions were bleak and cheerless enough-without food, without warmth, and without hope. Hour after hour went by without news from our rear. We expected to be relieved, but late in the afternoon had orders that we were to remain and continue to hold the line.

The evacuation of wounded was a considerable difficulty in view of the wretched condition of the trenches, and in this connexion the conduct of a stretcher-bearer, which earned for him the D.C.M., is deserving of mention. Repeated attempts had been made to remove a badly wounded man from the front line. Each attempt had failed, and it looked as though we should have to wait till dark to send him over the top. But delay might have proved fatal, and where a man's life may be saved no effort must be spared. The stretchers could not pass round the obstruction in the trench, so this bearer took the wounded man on his back. The load was heavy and unwieldy, but the man staggered forward, deep in water and clinging mud. Many times he fell, but pluckily went on again. The distance was barely three hundred yards, but the physical effort was tremendous, and the journey took two hours. The stretcher-bearer collapsed on reaching the medical aid post. But a human life had been saved.

The weather during the day was cold, with only occasional storm showers, and anxiously we watched the sky when at “Stand to!" we prepared to face the ordeal of another night. We were not long in doubt-first rain, then sleet and hail, and all the time the relentless wind from the cold north-east. It should be remembered that these men were weakened by tropical conditions; many had lived years in India and were subject to recurrent attacks of malaria. Some still wore drill clothing, and had already endured a night and a day drenched to the skin and without food. About midnight the temperature fell, sleet turned to snow, and sodden clothing froze stiff on our backs. The men huddled together in a dismal attempt to borrow warmth from each other. Stiff and blue and trembling with ague they crouched in odd corners seeking shelter from the icy wind and driving snow. Stimulating movement was impossible. Walking through deep water and sticky mud was slow and painfully laborious. We could only endure and hope. But hope for what? We should be relieved some time, but what then? We knew there were no billets to go back to, no hot baths or warm quarters. Behind us only a strip of waterlogged land and then the sea. And again we saw the lights of the hospital ships.

The story of this night would be incomplete without reference to the conspicuous pluck of a young and diminutive lance-corporal who throughout the night remained courageous and cheerful,

leading his section in a pathetic attempt to sing, and making them try to exercise their limbs. He went away next day with frozen feet, and I lost sight of him until, a year later, he called to see me in France. He had rejoined another battalion, and I was glad to learn he had been promoted to the rank of sergeant.

The next day we received orders to prepare for a relief. We attempted to cheer the men with this news, but they were apathetic, many in a state of collapse--and this second morning there was no rum. Some men died during the night. They had made the supreme sacrifice, not, it is true, in the heat of battle, but in the more difficult and less spectacular duty of upholding the prestige of British arms in the front line under conditions terrible beyond description. Death from shell or bullet is merciful compared to the slow death from exposure.

Late in the afternoon our relief arrived. We handed over and then slowly staggered down the communication trench. When we reached the open an attempt was made to set a good pace, but limbs were cramped and slow to respond. On this journey we lost more men, many of whom followed on stretchers, though some had passed beyond need of help. At brigade headquarters we were met by a guide who had orders to take us to our shelters. These proved to be a series of holes dug in the ground. The best were ankle-deep in mud, the worst were kneedeep in water. They were exposed to the wind and without head cover. Our only alternative was to walk a mile farther, where we found shelter under tarpaulin sheets stretched over rations boxes. Here also we found food and a small amount of rum, and here at last the men lay down and slept. The next day the sun shone, and though very cold it was possible to get warm and dry. All that day and the next the medical officer worked, though he was suffering as much as many of his patients. With tireless energy he worked, hobbling about with sandbags wrapped round his swollen feet and a blanket round his shoulders. All that day and the next a constant stream of men went away to the field hospital.

Our losses in killed, wounded, those who had died, and those who were sick from exposure were exceedingly heavy.

Two days later a draft of reinforcements arrived from Mudros, and with these we returned to the line, holding a brigade front with a hundred men.

On the night of December 14-15, with heavy hearts, we took our final farewell of Suvla Bay, and sailed round to Cape Helles, where we remained till the end of the great Gallipoli adventure. But that is another story.

D. HARPER SMITH