en. This is the busiest landing place we have, men in large
numbers embarking and disembarking all night long.

A Turkish aeroplane crossed over our camp about 10.30 a.m. flying so
low that, when I heard it in my tent, I said to myself only one of our
own machines could fly at that height. It must actually have gone
right over an anti-aircraft gun on the top of Hizlar Dagh, almost
immediately behind us, and before this fired a shot it was allowed to
go nearly a mile. Then it opened fire and shells went after it in
quick succession, but every shot burst, as is almost invariably the
case, hundreds of yards behind it. The machine glided gaily along past
the point of the bay, straight over the British lines to Sari Bair,
rifle shots being fired in a regular fusillade. It turned, perhaps
three miles from here, went to its right, came straight over the
warships in the bay towards us, all the time flying at the same low
elevation. It then went to the east right over our centre lines where
all our infantry opened on it, but it never veered from its straight
course. I was watching all this with an officer of the London
Territorial Fusiliers, and asked if he thought there could have been
20,000 rounds fired, and after thinking a little he said there must
have been twice that number. At least fifty shells also went after it.
I hope the aviator got a V.C. or its equivalent on his return to his
own lines. Our shell fire was atrocious; I felt so thoroughly ashamed
of it that I hoped the Turks were not watching the puffs of smoke as
the shells burst a good quarter of a mile behind their mark. When the
machine came within range again on its return journey the
anti-aircraft gun opened fire on it again and did no better than at
first, but at the very end there was a distinct improvement. I can't
think how all these shots at such a short range could have missed a
vital spot. The man's sailing over us a second time was the coolest
act I have ever witnessed, and I would have been sorry to see him
drop.

As McLean was coming in from the dressing station after dark last
night two bodies of troops passed each other, a sergeant of one
shouted to a ditto of the other, "Are you the West Ridings?" "No," was
the reply, "we are only the bloody Monmouths walking."

Lt-Col. Fraser, our C.O., who has been ailing for some time, left for
hospital to-day. This leaves me as C.O. of the Ambulance, Dickie and I
being the only officers remaining of the ori