ere following the
retirement, for they were chanting their weird invocations to Allah not
very far distant.

At the foot of the ravine, near the ruins of a solitary fisherman's
hut, he and half a dozen others were instructed to take up a position
and to stick to it till the last. He expected that, when the Turks
emerged from the dried-up watercourse, there would be some fun, but,
though their cries to Allah floated down the ravine, along with some
indiscriminate firing, they themselves did not choose to come. During
the long wait here, the padre, heedless of danger from spattering
bullets, which flicked fire when they struck the dust, and despite the
dysentery which racked his frame, and the long days and nights without
sleep, went right along the scattered exposed firing line, taking
cheese, biscuits and water to the weary, thirsty troopers. Wherever
they went in action there was their quiet old padre, always working
among the wounded, and, if these lacked, he would join in some other
good work, bringing up water and provisions, or the like.

The Turks had attacked heavily the summit of a ridge about one hundred
yards to Mac's right, and here he was sent now to bring in wounded, one
of whom three of them were instructed to carry round to Anzac Cove. It
was a long and weary journey, stumbling over scrubby hillocks and then
away along the stony beach. This bad going in the dark was pretty
rough on the wounded man, but, like most in his condition, he stuck it
splendidly, and was deeply grieved he was such a burden to his cobbers.

At length they reached the dressing-station at the Cove, and placed him
on a table in a room with sandbag walls. Several medical men examined
the wound and spoke technically thereon. The stretcher-party asked
anxiously after his condition, and sought tidings also of cobbers who
had been brought back earlier. Then they set off for the firing-line
once more.

The third dawn in this outpost affair was now lighting the eastern sky,
beyond the hills where the night's fighting had taken place. Half-way
back near the poppy-patch, one glorious riot of red summer flowers,
they met their regiment returning. They had done their work, the Turks
had ceased attacking and the weary regiment which had been kept busy
the long, hot days in this outpost skirmish had been relieved. The
tired troopers trailed homewards, carelessly tramping the dewy wild
poppy heads on their way. A bathe and a drink,