seek its leeward corners. A few seconds of quiet waiting while he
exchanged the time of day with his host; then the burst, the singing
whistle of the fragments, the whirr of the nose-cap, and the
fut--fut--fut as the pieces came to earth. Then, if another whistle
had not sounded, he would thank his host and proceed on his way.

Often would come the cry of "Stretcher-bearer," and the M.O. would
hurry up the steep slope to some one who had been hit.

Mac lost his sergeant, a real fine fellow, one morning, while he was
serving out rations. The whole regiment was grieved. For the rest of
the day his body, shrouded in his grey blanket, lay on a stretcher in
his bivouac with as much calm and holy dignity as any royal monarch
lying in state.

Soon after dusk, for the little cemetery was under direct machine-gun
fire during the day, the regiment gathered, bareheaded and silent, to
bury its comrade. Six of the dead soldier's friends lifted the bier,
and bore it tenderly down the steep slope and over the bridge across
the sap. The regiment followed and gathered round the open grave.

It was given to few on the Peninsula to be buried thus. Many still lie
where they fell on those Gallipoli hills; some are graced with shallow
graves, scratched hastily under fire, among the torn and tattered
scrub, while others, with fire-bars and blanket and with a few parting
words, have been plunged into the blue AEgean.

On the little sandy point on the north of Anzac Cove is one small
graveyard, where, when Mac knew it, were fifty or sixty graves. In the
daytime it was shell swept and subject to direct rifle fire, but at
night came shadowy figures which passed to and fro from the beach
bringing neat stones and round boulders for picturesque and permanent
adornment of a cobber's grave. Or maybe there would be some diggers at
work, or a burying-party.

To-night, in the peaceful calm of that summer evening, when not a
ripple lapped on the stony beach, when the only indication of war was
the music of the firing high above and the occasional whistle of a
spent bullet overhead, the good old padre, in clear, low tones, went
through the sergeant's burial service. The rites were finished, and
the silent troopers moved away into the darkness as quietly as they had
come, while the padre started the service anew among another group of
silent, waiting figures. And so the summer passed over that little
burial-ground. In the daytime, the sco