e was awful to hear; but, privately, the trooper was
keeping an eye open for some one else's washing. Both had aches in
their left arms from the M.O.'s latest injection, and altogether they
considered themselves much-abused, long-suffering soldiers.

Vague rumours floated round, some doubtless originating from that
indispensable apparatus of every camp, the backyard wireless station.
No great reliance could be placed upon such information, but
occasionally statements based on much more stable foundations
circulated. That a troop-train was standing in the siding at Palais de
Koubbeh, and that there were several transports moored in Alexandria,
was absolutely positive proof that the N.Z.M.R. were about to land in
Asia Minor or to be at Constantinople in a week or two. Other proofs
were not lacking--a super-abundance of staff officers in the vicinity,
or confidences from the orderly room clerk. Then came the definite
fact, and the wireless was temporarily idle.

It was a Wednesday night. The brigadier himself asked the brigade
whether they would volunteer to go to Gallipoli as infantry.

Well, it was not too good leaving the horses; they would have preferred
going into action with the "prads" but they didn't mind doing anything
to get out of this God-forsaken country and into the real thing. So
all was business; grouses were forgotten and a new day dawned. Each in
his own way set about squaring up his kit, his saddlery and his affairs
generally.

Mac overhauled his with much care and thoughtful consideration. Into
his base kit went those things which would come in handy in
Constantinople. He had heard it was a cold place in winter-time, so
therein went six complete suits of warm underclothing, and many
superfluous comforts from his thoughtful mother. He knew she had put
much work into many of these small knick-knacks, and valued them
accordingly, though they were of little material benefit in this
flaming spot. In another neat pile he had those articles which were
absolutely essential for Gallipoli; but he was soon faced with the
horrible reality that there was at least three times too much for his
equipment.

He culled several times, the final combing causing much mental strain
and strong will. Into a barley sack went his saddlery, with a reserve
of many straps, buckles and horse-brushes, all collected at odd
moments. Rifle, revolver, field-glasses, everything underwent a
thorough overhaul. Ammunition