went back
for ambulances. John was throwing a certain amount of explosive stuff
about, uselessly and recklessly. On my way back I found Owen, of the
51st Sikhs, with a wounded arm. Owen, long ago, lost an eye in a
bombing accident at Sannaiyat. He pluckily returned from India, and
again took over the work of bombing instructor to his regiment.

It was now getting hot, being well past nine o'clock.

In the trenches by the 56th's aid-post there were two Turks, each with
a leg smashed to pulp by H.E. But the most distressing sight was an
enemy sniper on one of the O. Pips already mentioned. Round him were
many used cartridges and bandoliers. He sat among the thorns, eight
feet above ground, with the impassive mien of a Buddha. His face had
been broken by our shrapnel, and his brains were running down it; the
flies were busy on a clot of red brain by his temple. He was one mess
of blood, and very heavy as well as high up. My efforts to lift him
down simply stained my clothes.

About 4 p.m. I was with a doctor, looking at a dead Turk who was a
particularly gruesome sight, with blood still dripping from his nose.
Suddenly appeared a merchant with a camera, who took this Turk's photo.
Not satisfied with this, he proceeded to stage-manage the place. The
ambulance was coming up to remove a wounded Turk. He ordered it back,
then bade it run up smartly, while the man was to be lifted in, equally
smartly. Then he bade the doctor and myself stand behind the dead Turk
aforementioned. When he went, the doctor said, 'Thank God, he's gone.'
I took the man, in my carelessness, for another doctor with a taste for
horrible pictures, and it was not till some time after that I realized
he was the official cinematograph operator, and was merely doing his
job. So, somewhere or other, a film has been exhibited, 'Wounded being
collected on Mesopotamian battlefields.'

Going back to the Turkish sniper, who was still on his stack and had
been overlooked by the cinematograph operator, I found that, in his
agony, he had dug a hole in the thorns, and buried his head; I suppose,
to escape the flies. His legs were waving feebly. It was right he
should be left to the last, as he had no chance of life, and nothing
could be done for him in any way. But never did I feel more the utter
folly and silly cruelty of war than when I saw this brave man's misery.
Next morning he was found to have crawled some hundreds of yards before
dying. He had left his sta