the river; but a thin scurf of yellow grass and coarse
herbage overspread the ruins, in which were abundant partridges and
quails. Germans had been excavating before we came, and we found in the
town many cases of antiquities, ready packed for transport to Europe.
The 7th Division, digging their positions, presently found pottery,
glazed fragments, and tear-bottles.

The town is walled, and sits above steep bluffs. Tigris, swift and
clear like a mountain stream, races by, dividing round an island. Below
the town is another island, with an expanse of shingle towards the
right bank; to this island Divisional Head Quarters went, a most unfair
avoidance of the 'dust-devils' which plagued their brethren. Here were
tamarisk thickets, haunted with great metallic beetles, with such wings
as Eastern smiths know how to use. The green bushes were good to the
eyes, and a pleasant curtain from flying sand. But a sudden rise in the
river flushed its shallow right arm, and made the place an island in
reality and all inconvenience. The righteous, seeing this, rejoiced.

The brigades scattered over the plain, the 8th Brigade going on, after
brief pause, to the ravines and jungles of the Adhaim, where the war
was dying. May's first week swept the Turk out of the Adhaim Valley,
and our troops settled down for the summer.

The brigades scattered; blankets came up, and we slept. For over a
month we had only bivvies, the usual rifle-supported blanket, tugging
and straining at the stones which held it whenever a 'dust-devil'
danced by or a sandstorm arose. But E.P.[19] tents dribbled in. Even
mails began to arrive, and parcels; and to me, on the first day of
ease, came a jubilant telegram from my old friends of the 19th Brigade:
'Come and have tea with us. We have a cake!' I went, and found them
where the shingles led to Divisional Island. Blue rollers swung
themselves on the air below the cliffs; and on the pebbles an owl
skipped and danced, showing off in the beautiful evening sunlight.
This was a daily performance, Thornhill told me. It had been General
Peebles' birthday, and the brag about the cake was splendidly
justified. There were buns also.

Summer dragged by. In Baghdad pomegranates blossomed, mulberries
fruited, figs ripened. But in Samarra the desert throbbed and shimmered
in the growing and great heats. Worst of all, we missed the dates. The
fresh dates are the one solace of Mesopotamia. My campaigning
recollections are embi