th little opposition it
seemed, at any time. Why did they not make a general advance? Shells
fell occasionally on different sections of the general line, the
diminishing music of the machine-guns floated, almost unnoticed, across
the hot stillness of the midday hours, the freshness of the morning had
given way to the summer glare, softened rather by the blue haze from
fires which here and there crept through the scrub. Men-o'-war, close
inshore, were shrouded in a murky pall from their flashing broadsides,
while their shells tore holes in the village of Anafarta, or sent scrub
and earth flying as they searched enemy ridges or passed to unseen
billets beyond the summits.

Hospital ships weighed anchor and passed into distance, and destroyers
patrolled unceasingly to guard against submarine attack.

Up the narrow, twisting sultry bottoms of ravines swarmed confused
trails of sweating men and animals, mules laden with ammunition and
water, with their Punjab muleteers, Sikhs with their mountain pieces,
and fresh troops, British and Purkha, New Zealand, Australian, passing
up to the line. Trickling rearwards, moving when opportunities
offered, went limping the bandaged wounded, the stretcher-cases,
blood-stained and grey, but patient, splendidly patient, the unladen
mules, often waiting long periods for a clear passage, and all the odd
men, messengers, prisoner escorts and others who move up and down the
communications during a battle.

A few fellows of the Regiment were caught by snipers hidden still in
the scrub behind the advancing line. Otherwise the Table Top was
undisturbed, and the trenches grew deeper. Some went back to bury
those who had fallen in the night encounters. Mac, Bill and Charley
stuck to their shady spot most of the day. In a hollow at their feet
half a dozen dead Turks turned black in the sun. Midday came, and they
consumed the last of the Mudros luxuries; then they cleaned their gear,
slept awhile and awoke at five, expectant of great activity after the
lethargy of the day.

The Suvla Bay force had at last roused itself, and now steady extended
lines of men were advancing across the dazzling whiteness of the Salt
Lake towards Chocolate Hill and Osman. White puffs of bursting
shrapnel broke here and there above them; but only occasional men fell.
Naval artillery raked the hills in front of them, where no Turk could
be seen. The lines went forward slowly, too slowly, for there seemed
to b