l of battle
before the bombardment, Sergeant Strachan and Cleek Smith talked of
old times. There had been nine Strachans in the regiment when we
landed in France two and a half years ago, one of whom was then my
orderly. "Any news this morning?" I would sometimes ask.--"Nothing
much, sir, only another of the Strachans was killed last night." My
orderly had become a sergeant, but the other eight were no longer with
the battalion. They had all left, "on command." "Yes," said Cleek
Smith, "I wonder why it is so many poor chaps get it the minute they
join the regiment, while fellows like you and me go through one show
after another and never get a scratch." Scarce a bullet was fired
during that half-hour, yet as a full stop to his question came one
that found a way to that gallant heart, which had never failed him in
the most critical fight, nor on the most dangerous duty when out
scouting. Cleek Smith, you know the answer now to an even greater
Riddle than the one you put to the last of the Strachans. No man
liveth unto himself, and whoever dies in battle, dies for his
regiment, his country, and the cause.

The telephone plays an important part in open warfare, as it does in
the trenches, and though the Brigade Signalling Officer and many of
his men were killed, intermittent communication was kept up throughout
the battle between the battalion, the covering batteries, and the
Brigade Commander. The value of this was now extreme. By telephone our
Colonel communicated his intentions to the firing line, and thus
prevented those sporadic attacks by independent platoons, at once so
gallant, so ineffective, and so deadly in losses. By telephone he
explained the situation to the Brigadier, who ordered up half a
battalion of another Highland regiment, old friends of ours, but never
more wanted than now, and by telephone he arranged that the
batteries should bombard as heavily as possible the trenches on the
right of Sugar Loaf Hill, the bombardment to begin at 6.25 and to last
for six minutes.

[Illustration: Sergeant-major I. E. NIVEN.]

[Illustration: Interior Of A Hospital Ward In Mesopotamia.]

During this hour rifle fire grew less and less, artillery firing
ceased. High above the battlefield some crested larks were singing,
even as they sing on a quiet evening over the trenches in France, as
they sing over the fields at home. A few green and bronze bee-eaters
hovered almost like hawks over the sand-dunes, and a cloud of