He roared out: "We can't sit here doing nothing. Go in and help them!"

The Orphan, pale and staring, rang "full speed ahead", turned the

picket-boat's bows round, and dashed back towards the boats. The Hun,

yelling and half mad with excitement, followed in the pinnace, and so

did some of the other steamboats. The Orphan hardly knew what happened.

Bullets hit the protecting screen, a chip of wood from the gunwale hit

his cap; splashes leapt up all round him; his ears hummed with the

whistling noise. He remembered hearing the Sub roar: "Go for those two

over there!" and feeling him grip his hand on the steering-wheel to turn

towards the two most crippled boats. He got alongside one--saw Plunky

Bill and another hand get hold of her--had a picture of grey faces

looking up at him from the bottom of her, and a muddle of khaki lying

there across her thwarts; towed her across to the boat with only one

man; saw the Sub get hold of her painter, and then found himself, dazed

and horribly shaky and sick, back again at the trawler. Plunky Bill

came aft, grinning: "There's a 'ole in the funnel, sir, slap-bang

through!" and proudly showed a bullet which he had found lying on the

deck.

No one who looked into those transports' boats as they were towed

alongside the trawlers will ever forget what he saw: men dead, dying,

and wounded, all huddled and jumbled together on the thwarts of the

boats and on the bottom boards, with legs and arms twisted strangely;

wounded unable to free themselves from the weight of dead bodies on top

of them--those grey, placid faces and sightless eyes which, ten minutes

before, had glowed with excitement as they turned them to the sun; the

blood-stained, torn khaki; the blood-stained water lapping round them,

and the one, two, and in some boats three bluejackets, in their

Condy's-fluid-dyed jumpers, sitting among them, flopping, exhausted,

over their oars.

In one boat there was a Scotsman, in gold spectacles--not unlike

Fletcher the stoker--a St. John's Ambulance man, and now a Territorial

ambulance orderly. He had already dressed all the wounded in his boat,

and now stepped into another, working away quietly, as if he was doing

it in the accident-room of a hospital.

"We must get a doctor," he told the Sub; and as the trawlers had not

one, the boats requiring most urgent assistance were towed across to the

_Newmarket_ anchored near. Here the wounded--most of them--received

further treatment.

There was no time for sentiment. The boats were all urgently required

to take more men ashore; three of them, those with the most dead and

wounded, were told off to take on board the wounded from the others;

bluejackets were told off to take the places of those of the crews who

had been killed and wounded; and then the beach parties, Bubbles, the

Pink Rat, and the Lamp-post, tumbled down into them. Bullets began

flying round them and the _Newmarket_, but no one was hit. "Shove off!"

was shouted; "land them under the rocks to the left of the beach;" and

the Sub and the Orphan towed them inshore.

There was much less rifle-firing now, but many bullets came over and

splashed round the picket-boat. The mist and smoke had cleared away, and

the _Swiftsure_ was still firing very rapidly at the Turks' trenches on

the edge of the cliff, to the right of the beach, the _Achates_

assisting with her small guns. Their shells burst along it one after

the other, all along the dark line which marked the trenches, and

scarcely a Turk dare expose himself to fire down at the beach.

The Sub, as he approached, saw through his glasses two Turks close

together, leaning over and pointing their rifles down at the beach, and

saw spurts of sand fly up where the bullets struck among a line of men

lying prone, half in and half out of the water, in front of lines of

barbed wire. One of the shells from the _Achates_ burst close to them,

and when the smoke had drifted away the two Turks were still

there--motionless--in exactly the same attitude, but their rifles were

sliding down the rocks. He cast off the boats with the beach parties,

and waved to them as they pulled past him inshore. The three snotties

crowded in the stern, and looking up at the cliffs with eyes wide open,

were, however, too excited to take any notice of the Orphan's shout of

"Good luck, you chaps!"

Back he went to the _Newmarket_, meeting steamboats towing in boats

packed with more troops. Another trip ashore with sappers and "details",

and then he towed those three boats with the wounded to the _Achates_,

where they were taken on board.

It was exactly half-past seven when he got alongside her, busy firing

her small guns in the port battery, and her for'ard 9.2 turret-gun.

The Captain wanted to see the Sub, so he climbed up and went for'ard to

the bridge.

The Orphan, left to himself, was sent off to a transport to tow more

soldiers ashore; and on the way to her he saw, over against the Asiatic

shore and the fort of Kum Kali, the French fleet, the _Jeanne d'Arc_

with her six quaint, squat funnels, and the Russian _Askold_ with her

five thin, tall ones, and two battleships, all firing very rapidly.

Behind them lay big transports, and dozens of boats loaded with

dark-coated infantry on their way ashore.

He reached the transport, got his orders, and steamed back to "W" beach

with a long string of crowded boats behind him.

It was then, whilst he waited for them to be emptied, that he had the

first clear view of "W" beach and the broad gully leading up to the

green ridge above it.

No bullets--or only very few--came near him, and he could look on

undisturbed. On the right, where the barbed wire was thickest, a row of

dead Lancashire Fusiliers lay as if they had all been swept by the same

torrent of maxim bullets. He knew that they were dead, because other

men, springing into the water and wading ashore, stepped over them,

looked down at them, and left them.

Higher up the beach, men were hanging on the barbed wire itself. At

first he thought it was only clothes hanging there; then he saw that

they had been men. Fresh troops were scaling the cliffs; soldiers

advanced up the green slope above, singly and in little groups. Away to

the left, under the rocks, more men clustered; and as some of them

limped along to the boats, some with bandages, some without, he knew

that these were wounded waiting to be dressed. They crowded into the

boats he had just brought ashore, and many were carried down--among

these being a wounded Brigadier shot through the leg. He saw nothing of

Bubbles, the Pink Rat, or the tall, lanky Lamp-post; but he did feel

certain that the landing had been made good.

Trawlers, loaded with stores, approached as close inshore as they could

get; boats of every description were flocking in, and already the

sappers were lashing pontoons together on the left, under the rocks, to

make a temporary pier.

Then the boats he had towed in came out to him, and he towed them and

their wounded back to the _Achates_. For the remainder of that morning

the Orphan was employed taking Staff Officers backwards and forwards

between the ship and "W" beach.

The beach parties had laid down six buoys at about ten yards apart and

some fifty yards from the beach, and had led ropes from these to the

same number of stakes driven into the beach opposite to them. The

intervals between these ropes made waterways into which the big lighters

could haul themselves ashore without colliding with each other. But

there was a certain amount of jostling just beyond the buoys, and the

Orphan had his work cut out, whenever he went near the beach, to prevent

his boat being damaged by the crowds of steamboats "mothering" the big

lighters into position. She had a big rope fender projecting across her

bows, another lashed across her stern, and two lengths of six-inch

"grass" hawser secured all round her side to protect her from bumps;

but, in spite of these, she soon had one corner of her stern crushed,

and her steering gear was jammed. The Orphan managed to take her back to

the _Achates_ safely, and, very sad about it, reported the damage to the

Commander.

The Commander, at his wits' end for boats, was very angry.

"I'll take you out of her, Mr. Orpen, if you can't manage her," he said

angrily, but then sent him away to get his boat coaled and watered

whilst the repairs were being made. "You and your crew can come

in-board and get some food," he called after the miserable Orphan.

So presently he was able to dash down to the gun-room, where Barnes had

some cold meat and pickles waiting for him. He had had nothing to eat,

except a couple of sandwiches, since the previous night, and the sight

of food made him realize that he was ravenously hungry. It was now

half-past one. The China Doll--the only one there--lay fast asleep on

one of the cushioned benches; and he ate his food in peace, with the

burly Barnes waiting on him. He was nearly as hungry for news as he was

for food; but the old marine would not talk or tell him anything. "Just

you go on with your food; there ain't no time for talking," and he gave

him a cup of strong coffee afterwards. "That'll keep you awake," he

said, as he cleared away.

The Orphan looked at the China Doll and longed to throw himself down on

a cushion and sleep; but heavy firing broke out again, and, too excited

to think of doing so, he went up on the quarter-deck to see what was

going on.

"Your boat will be ready in half an hour," the officer of the watch told

him.

The _Cornwallis_, _Swiftsure_, and _Albion_ were now firing at a small

knoll which showed up above Cape Helles, the big cliff half-way between

"W" beach and Sedd-el-Bahr. This knoll was known as Hill 138, and

barbed-wire entanglements round its slopes were plainly visible through

the Orphan's telescope.

He asked the Fleet-Paymaster and the Navigator, standing on the

quarter-deck and looking through their glasses, what was happening.

"The Turks still hold it," the Navigator said. "Our chaps are preparing

to rush it when the ships have finished their bit of work."

"How are they going on down in the _River Clyde_?" he asked.

"Badly; they've been terribly cut up; haven't landed a man since nine

this morning; something went wrong when they tried to get the lighters

in position under her bows. Look through your glass! You see those

chaps there under the little bank on top of the beach, this side of her;

those are all who are left of some six or seven hundred who tried to get

ashore early this morning. They can't budge; they have been there all

the time. And those are their dead, those brownish lumps scattered

along the beach. Those two transports' boats, stranded under Cape

Helles, drifted there. Every man aboard them was killed before they got

near the shore. They've been drifting about all the morning, and

fetched up on the rocks. Look at that splash jumping up close to the

_River Clyde_--that's another 8-inch shell from the Asiatic shore. They

hit her three times before she took the ground, but have missed her ever

since. Ah! There goes a salvo from the _Prince George_--she's looking

after the Asiatic guns--that'll quiet 'em."

"Any news from the Australians, sir?" the Orphan asked, feeling horribly

miserable.

"They and the New Zealanders have done grandly," the Fleet-Paymaster

answered cheerily. "Pushed inland a devil of a way. They'll be across

the Peninsula in no time--with luck."

No news had come from the French on the Asiatic side. "They seem to be

doing all right," the Navigator said; "but it's precious difficult to

make out what's happening there."

Some men came through the battery door carrying a stretcher with a man

on it, his face covered with a cloth. They bore it right aft on the

quarter-deck, lifted back a tarpaulin, which the Orphan then noticed for

the first time, laid the body on the deck, drew the tarpaulin over it,

and went for'ard.

"That's the seventeenth," the Navigator told him; "most of them

soldiers."

Dr. O'Neill, capless and haggard, came up the after hatchway. "By the

powers that be, but the General has a bad leg!" he said as he hurried

past them on his way to the sick-bay.

"That's the General you brought off this morning," the Fleet-Paymaster

explained.

The Sub and the China Doll came up from below, the China Doll just

wakened by the heavy firing.

"That R.H.A. chap promised to send you off your rifle, China Doll; he

called out to us just before he landed," the Orphan said; but the

Assistant Clerk shook his head sorrowfully. "No, he's dead; he died as

they brought him on board; he and that chum of his are both there," and

he pointed to the tarpaulin.

"Someone told me," said the Sub, "that the R.H.A. chap got ashore all

right, fixed up his signal things, and sent off one or two messages

before he was knocked over. He was more lucky than a good many of those

there; they never got out of the boats."

"Why did the Captain want you?" asked the Orphan.

The Sub took him aside, his eyes very bright. "He'd forgotten why he

sent for me, but then wanted to know if we'd had orders to go after

those crippled boats that time. I told him that we hadn't, but that I

couldn't stand by and do nothing. I thought he was angry; he said that

if the steamboats had been disabled it would have meant a serious delay.

I told him we'd only had a bullet through the funnel and a bit chipped

out of the gunwale. He looked me up and down, tugged at his beard, and

I saw that he was smiling. So that's all right, my jumping Orphan!"

"Did he know that the Hun went in too?"

"I told him."

"What did he say?"

"Oh, you know that funny, slow way he has of talking when he's trying to

be humorous. He just tugged his beard and said: 'I thought I noticed

that young officer's boat'. Gosh! what a morning it's been!"

The picket-boat's steering gear having been reported repaired, the

Orphan was sent away again, and kept busy until nightfall, backwards and

forwards between "W" beach and the ships. Once he took Captain

Macfarlane on board the _Queen Elisabeth_, now anchored off the _River

Clyde_, and waited for him whilst the big ship fired salvoes of 6-inch

shell into Sedd-el-Bahr village and the earthwork on Hill 141 above it.

Another time he went alongside the sappers' pontoons, and Bubbles dashed

down to speak to him. "My dear chap, it's a great game; we're having a

ripping time!" he gurgled and snorted, looking a terrible brigand in his

clothes--already very dirty. "Oh, that's nothing!" he laughed, as he saw

the Orphan smile. "We lay in the old Turks' trenches for two blessed

hours this morning. It was a great time. If you get a chance, bring us

in some butter and some sausages--and, my hat! old chap, I'm dry--dry as

a lime-kiln, and my water-bottle's been empty for the last three hours."

The Orphan had some water in the boat and gave it to him. The next time

he went back to the ship he got a barricoe filled and took it inshore;

but there was too much of a crush for him to go alongside, so the

Lamp-post waded in up to his waist and fetched it. "We've almost run

out of it; all our people gave their water to the wounded, and there are

any amount more coming down now. We've just heard that the Worcesters

have rushed Hill 138, and they and the Lancashires are going to try and

take Hill 141. Yes, there they come," and he pointed up the gully, down

which many stretchers were being carried. He shouted to a couple of the

beach party, and seizing the barricoe of water, they ran it up the beach

towards a little tent under the rocks to the left, with a Red Cross flag

flying near it, and crowds of men in every attitude of weariness

gathered round it. These were all wounded men.

At this time, about a quarter to five, there was a period of comparative

quiet. The Worcesters had cleared the Turks out of Hill 138, so that

"W" beach was practically free from rifle-fire; and now they and the

Lancashire Fusiliers were forming up to attack the earthwork on Hill

141. This dominated both Hill 138 and "V" beach, where the _River

Clyde_ lay, so that, until it was captured, it was impossible to join

hands with the remnants of the Dublins on "V" beach. A very brave

attempt was made about half-past five to take this earthwork; but the

two gallant regiments were almost exhausted after their hard day's

fighting under a hot sun, and they met more wire entanglements, so

thickly laid, and commanded by such a heavy fire, that they were unable

to advance farther. At nightfall the Turks still held Hill 141, and

separated the troops who had landed on "W" beach from those who had

landed on "V" beach.

These poor chaps had suffered terribly all day, and still remained

crouched under the low cliff or bank there, unable to move.

During the fighting for this last hill, the Orphan towed in two

horse-boats with two field-guns and their limbers. They were covered up

with tarpaulins, and he was not certain whether they were English

18-pounders or French 75's. At any rate, the beach parties soon got

hold of them with hook-ropes and drag-ropes, hauled them ashore, and

"man-handled" them up the gully. The Orphan knew, in a general sort of

way, that things were not "going" as well as had been hoped, but he was

kept so busy, and was so fatigued, that by sunset he could hardly keep

his eyes open. Several times he had to hand over the wheel to Jarvis;

but at last, after having spent nearly an hour hunting in the dark for

an important transport which had anchored in the wrong place, he found

himself at nine o'clock back again alongside the _Achates_.

The Sub, on watch, told him that he would not be wanted for some time.

"Go and get something to eat, and a rest," he said; "you've had a pretty

hard day of it."

He stumbled down into the gun-room, where he found the Hun fast asleep

with his head on the table. Barnes brought him a glass of beer, and he

swallowed it in one draught. "Give me a biscuit--anything--I'm too

sleepy to eat."

But Barnes had some sandwiches ready. "Plenty of mustard on 'em--made

'em myself--mustard'll ginger you up. Just you lie down on the

cushions, and I'll stick the plate alongside you."

The Pimple found him, and wanted to tell him the latest news. The

Orphan told him to "chuck it". The China Doll came in and would have

asked him questions, but the Orphan pretended to be asleep, so he

tiptoed out again like a mouse. Uncle Podger strolled in, smoking his

pipe, and began to play patience. He watched him shuffling and dealing

the cards, and then fell asleep.

He woke. The corporal of the gangway was shaking him.

"The Commander wants you, sir."

He dragged himself up. The gun-room was empty. The alarum-clock on the

notice-board showed a quarter to eleven, and he went up to the dark

quarter-deck, where he found the Commander and reported himself.

"Oh! there you are, are you? I've been sending all over the ship for

you. The 'wounded' launch is going down to the _River Clyde_; I've no

one else to send with her; Rawlinson has gone away in a cutter and I

can't trust anyone else; the steam pinnace will tow you down, and the

doctors are going with you. I've sent four hands into the launch

already, and she's at the starboard boom; drop her astern and alongside

the port gangway. Hurry up!"

Still half asleep, the Orphan found this big pulling boat (fitted to

transport wounded, she had been), dropped into her, and five minutes

later brought her alongside.

The Hun, in the pinnace, came along out of the dark, bumped into her,

and got her painter made fast to the towing-cleat. "They're having a

jolly lively time down at the _River Clyde_!" the Hun called across.

The Orphan, turning his sleepy head in that direction, listened, and

heard a good deal of rifle-firing, and occasionally the spluttering of a

maxim.

"Right into it," he thought, and forgot his tiredness.

Dr. O'Neill and Dr. Gordon scrambled down the ship's side into the

launch; the big chief sick-berth steward came down after them. Bags of

dressings were passed down; and Dr. O'Neill cursed irritably when a bag,

fumbled owing to the darkness, slipped through the hands of the people

on the gangway above, fell into the boat, and only just missed falling

overboard.

The Commander called down to the Doctor: "Keep the steam pinnace if you

want her." The Sub roared out orders to the Hun, and he started his

engines and towed the launch away from the ship's dark side.

Six bells struck on board her--it was just eleven o'clock.

*CHAPTER IX*

*The "River Clyde"*

The night was not very dark, a pale moon--past the quarter--appeared

occasionally between slowly drifting clouds, and the sea was still quite

smooth. The Peninsula showed as a dark wall rising gradually from Cape

Tekke to the high cliffs at Cape Helles, beyond and under which the

_River Clyde_ lay.

The Orphan--wide awake now--steered the big clumsy launch, and listened

to the two weary doctors talking of their day's work and the job in

front of them. Dr. O'Neill, the Fleet-Surgeon, had a grievance--he

generally had. This time it was with the Padre and the Fleet-Paymaster.

They had tried to make out a list of the men killed and wounded--the men

who had been brought on board the _Achates_--but the sights and sounds

in that crowded sick-bay, with the for'ard turret-gun firing directly

over it, every two or three minutes, had been too much for them. Their

stomachs would not "stick it".

"The only job they have, and they can't do it," he growled. "It took me

another two hours getting in all the names and the official numbers on

their identity disks."

"It was pretty beastly in there, P.M.O., and they've never seen anything

like it," Dr. Gordon said soothingly. "They did their best; the Padre

fainted outside, and the Fleet-Paymaster was sick."

"Never seen anything like it before! Nonsense! Nor have I! Did you get

them all safely to the hospital ship?"

Dr. Gordon told him that he had only just returned from doing so. "The

whole thing's silly, confoundedly silly, and this is the stupidest of

all--this trip of ours," the Fleet-Surgeon snapped.

"It's not much of a joy ride, is it? You must be awfully tired," Dr.

Gordon said in his nervous, self-disparaging manner, as if he too had

not been hard at work the whole day.

Silence followed for some time, until the steam pinnace, swerving

suddenly to port to pass two trawlers, indistinct in the darkness,

jerked the launch after her and waked the Fleet-Surgeon. "Why the devil

can't that young imp in the pinnace steer properly?"

The noise of furious rifle-firing coming from Sedd-el-Bahr stopped him

for a moment, but then he went on again with his dismal groan. "A nice

little job at this time of night. Running straight into it we are."

As the boats had altered course so much to port, they presently found

themselves close under the high cliffs, and whilst being towed along in

front of them, the moon, peeping out for a few moments, made them

conspicuous.

Dr. O'Neill had just asked angrily: "Why the devil they wanted to go in

so close! Didn't they know the Turks still held the end of them!" when

ping! went a bullet over the stern of the boat and plunked into the

water.

Another came, and another.

"Keep down, under cover!" growled Dr. O'Neill, more savagely than ever,

and he and Dr. Gordon, the chief sick-berth steward and the four men of

the crew, sat themselves down in the bottom of the boat. The Orphan,

sitting exposed in the stern-sheets, wished he was ten sizes smaller.

They were close to the _River Clyde_ now; its dark shape loomed just

ahead of them, and the noise of firing crackled fiercely, tiny spurts of

flame from hundreds of rifles lighting up the water's edge.

They ran under the starboard quarter and gained shelter; the launch

scraped against a rough wooden ladder and stopped; the doctors scrambled

up it, followed by the chief sick-berth steward; their surgical

dressings and lantern were handed up to them, and they disappeared

through the dark gangway port in the ship's side--one of those ports

which had been cut to allow her troops to pour out quickly. The Orphan

and his crew in the launch, and the Hun in his steam pinnace, were left

to themselves.

A maxim rattled--fired somewhere from the _River Clyde_ herself; and

when it stopped, Dr. O'Neill's harsh voice could be heard asking: "Where

the wounded were; what he could be expected to do in that damnable

darkness! and calling for a match to light the lantern." A head peeped

out from the gangway port, and a voice called down: "That's not a very

'ealthy spot, mate. The trawlers, what comed for the wounded, were

sniped something 'orrid down there. They 'ad to shove off out of it."

"We've come for the wounded," the Orphan sang out.

"Well, you bally well won't get 'em. All that are left are hup on the

hupper deck, and can't be got down whilst this 'ere shooting's going

on--they're quite all right up there--be'ind the bulwarks they are."

From inside the ship came shouts of: "Put out that light! Curse you!

We don't want any light here!" Evidently Dr. O'Neill had managed to

light it, and was looking round for wounded.

"They'll begin sniping again--they starts directly they sees a

light--better keep down in those boats. Off they go--I'm 'opping it!"

sang out the man above.

Ping! Ping! Ping! Three twinkles from somewhere to the right--a

bullet hit the water, another clanged against the pinnace's steel

wheel-screen, another hit the side of the ship just under the ladder,

slid down and fell into the water.

The Hun, from behind his shield, sang out to the Orphan to know if he

was enjoying himself. The shouts from inside grew louder; then there

was silence. Evidently the lamp had been extinguished.

The voice from the gangway called down: "'Ave they stopped? Hany one

got a souvenir in 'im?"

"Where are they firing from?" asked the Orphan.

"That old castle sticks hout in the sea, this 'ere side," called back

the voice, "and them there snipers 'ave been doin' themselves something

proud."

The Orphan strained his eyes and could just distinguish, about two

hundred yards away--ahead of the _River Clyde_--the battlemented outline

of the castle walls and, farther to the right, a much more indistinct

and blurred mass sticking out into the sea. This was actually the sea

walls of Sedd-el-Bahr castle, jutting out on a reef.

No more shots came from there, and there was quietness everywhere for a

few minutes. He began to feel sleepy, but then one or two solitary

rifles rang out on the cliff side of the ship, five or six followed,

thirty or forty seemed to chip in, and, almost before he knew it, a

perfect pandemonium of rifle-fire burst out, making a ruddy glow against

which the stern of the ship and the masts stood out quite plainly.

Presently maxims started on shore, whether English or Turkish he could

not know; and then, up above, from the foc's'le of the ship herself,

several maxims added their voices to the din. The snipers from the sea

walls did not take part in this "show". It died down after a while; a

few crashes of musketry, then a few scattered shots apparently answering

each other, and silence--silence which seemed absolutely

extraordinary--as if it was something tangible.

What had happened, the Orphan had not the faintest idea. He could only

stay where he was, and hope that Dr. O'Neill would decide something

shortly.

Presently he heard the Doctor's voice in the darkness: "Steam pinnace!

Steam pinnace!" and the Hun calling back "Aye, aye, sir!" "Go back to

the ship and ask the Commander to send for me half an hour after the

next attack ceases."

"Right, sir!" and jeering at his pal, the Hun, shoved off and

disappeared back to the _Achates_, drawing a solitary twinkle from the

sea wall of the castle and a solitary bullet which hit the ship's side,

above the Orphan's head.

In a few minutes a voice called down: "You've got to make fast and come

along inside 'ere--you and your crew," so he clambered up the wooden

steps with his four men. Very willingly he did this, for he was anxious

to be able to say that he had been aboard the _River Clyde_, and he felt

lonely and very exposed, waiting alongside.

Inside her was absolutely pitch dark; a man who bumped against him could

not be seen. The Orphan heard Dr. O'Neill's voice, and elbowed his way

towards him, stumbling across something which he knew was a stretcher,

but evidently not waking the man asleep on it.

"Sit down, and keep out of the gangway," Dr. O'Neill snapped, "unless

you want a bullet in you. There's nothing any of us can do. There they

go again, curse them!" as more rifle-firing started, just as it had done

before--one or two shots, then more, then apparently a whole line

blazing away as if they had millions of rounds of ammunition to spare.

This time he heard hundreds of bullets pattering against the opposite

side of the ship, and the glare showed him another gangway port opposite

the one by which he had just entered.

"It's blocked up with boards, and you can see the light between them,"

someone sitting next him said; "and those blighted Turks can see a light

inside here, through them, too."

This burst of firing died away very rapidly; and as he sat there, jammed

among a lot of soldiers, his eyes gradually became accustomed to the

darkness, and he made out that he was close to a big hatch leading down

into absolute blackness--the hold probably--and that above him was

another hatchway, with a coaming round it, the edges of which stood out

quite clearly against the clouds. A broad wooden ladder--the foot of it

quite close to him--led up to this and, as he knew it must, to the upper

deck, where the remaining wounded lay. The gangway port through which

he had come, showed as a lighter patch than the ship's side, and anybody

moving across it could be just distinguished; but people did not move

across it more than they could help, because a lot of bullets had

already come through it from the sea wall. Under this, his launch

lay--at the foot of the ladder he had just climbed up. Dr. Gordon kept

on talking, evidently trying to pacify Dr. O'Neill, and a man near him

kept rattling something--a ship's lantern it sounded like--so he guessed

that the chief sick-berth steward sat quite near. People conversed all

round him, in a drowsy sort of way, as if to prevent themselves being

nervous or of going to sleep; farther away, hundreds of people seemed to

be snoring. A soldier leant against his back; he knew it was a soldier

because a bayonet kept pressing against his thigh; someone slid down

across his legs, snoring loudly; he pulled up his knees, and the man

went on snoring peacefully; out from a distant corner came the sound of

a man in pain, in his sleep.

Some men were sitting at the foot of the ladder, and, because he heard

Dr. O'Neill talking to them, he guessed that they were officers. He was

evidently suggesting the possibility of getting down the wounded now

that the firing had died away, but they kept on saying: "They'll start

off again in a minute! It can't be done." Every now and then came the

noise of heavy boots trampling hurriedly across the deck above; a figure

would appear over the coaming, silhouetted against the clouds for a

moment, and then someone would come hastily clattering down the ladder

as if he were glad to get away from there. The whistle of an occasional

bullet over that hatch explained this.

Another burst of firing broke out, swelled to a perfect fury of noise,

and then subsided just as the others had done.

During a comparatively quiet interval which followed, several men

scrambled down the ladders. They called out: "Worcesters to go ashore at

once!" and then went back again, screwing themselves over the coaming

and disappearing along the deck. The group of officers stirred

themselves and stood up wearily--a tired, lackadaisical voice kept

repeating "Sergeant-Major! Sergeant-Major!" then seemed to wake

properly, and yelled it out.

Men began to stir. '"Ere, wake up, Major! You're wanted," came out of

the dark; the sound of a man waking irritably from his sleep, scrambling

to his feet, a long yawn, and then a sharp, decisive "Yes, sir!

Sergeant-Major, sir!"

"Fall in, the Worcesters! Worcesters! The Worcesters have to go

ashore," the officer shouted.

"Fall in, Worcesters! Fall in, Worcesters! Fall in! Fall in round the

ladder!" Men all round took up the cry, waking those asleep. Men

cursed and yawned, and yawned and cursed again.

"Who are you a-shaking of? I ain't a ruddy Worcester," growled someone.

The darkness was full of bustle and noise as the Worcesters dragged

themselves to their feet and groped round for their packs and rifles.

Rifles clattered to the deck; men jostled, cursing, against each other,

and the Sergeant-Major's voice kept calling out: "Come along, lads!

We've got to go ashore! Hurry up, Worcesters! This way, Worcesters!

Fall in near the ladder!"

Men began humping on their packs. The Orphan--by this time on his feet,

to keep out of the way--had a rifle shoved into his hands. "'Old on to

it, mate, while I shoves my blooming pack on." He helped the man whilst

he secured the webbing-straps. Then a plaintive voice came out of the

dark: "I cawn't find me pack! Where's me pack?"

There was a titter of amusement as the Sergeant-Major yelled for the men

to help him find it.

"'Ere it is, you blighted idiot!" someone shouted. "You was a-sittin' on

it."

"'Elp me on! 'Elp me on!" the idiot pleaded.

"You'll 'ave to 'ave a lady's maid, that's what you'll 'ave to 'ave. We

cawn't go waiting for you, Bill 'Awkins," bawled the Sergeant-Major; and

to judge by the silly cries of Bill Hawkins, they were strapping him up

too tightly.

"Where's me rifle? I 'ad it in me 'ands, and now I cawn't find 'e," the

company idiot stammered helplessly; and the man whom the Orphan was

helping chuckled: "'E's a fair treat, that 'ere 'Awkins; 'e can never

find nothink."

The rifle had to be found. The Captain with the lackadaisical voice was

getting impatient. Matches were struck to look for it.

"Come along, Worcesters! Get up on deck!" shouted the Captain; and they

began clattering up the wooden ladder, actually bandying jokes as they

disappeared over the coaming, and went pattering along the deck. The

company idiot, who was in a pitiable state of terror lest he should be

left behind, found his rifle at last, and, clutching it, he rushed up

the ladder after them.

"Now 'old on to it, and don't let it out o' yer 'ands. You'll 'ave to

look arter yerself now," said the Sergeant-Major kindly, as he followed

him.

Whilst these men had been getting ready, another outburst of firing had

commenced, and the fusillade on shore sputtered furiously.

"I shouldn't care to have to go ashore, out into that," Dr. Gordon said;

and Dr. O'Neill answered: "I wouldn't go as cheerfully as they seemed

to. Grand chaps those!"

"That's the first time I've heard him praise anyone," thought the

Orphan.

Firing died away again, until only an occasional shot broke the silence;

and with that company of Worcesters gone, there was much more room.

The two doctors talked in a low voice. The Orphan heard Dr. O'Neill say

cynically: "You can't get a night like this in Harley Street;" and the

volunteer reserve doctor laughed, in his funny, nervous manner: "No, I

can't. I expect my old butler wouldn't sleep much if he knew how I was

spending my night. He looks after me as though I were a baby."

Someone came down the ladder--the Orphan thought he had on a naval

cap--sat with his back against a stanchion, and went to sleep. A man

coming down presently, knocked against him and woke him--a perfect

torrent of oaths, in a very childish voice, following.

"Why, that's old Piggy Carter from the _Queen Elizabeth_," thought the

Orphan. "I'd know his voice anywhere." He went across and shook him,

for he had fallen fast asleep again. "Carter! You are Piggy Carter,

ar'n't you? I'm Orpen; you remember me?"

He did; and listened sleepily to the Orphan telling him all about the

shell and splinter holes in the _Achates_ deck and funnel, until Dr.

O'Neill called out irritably: "Stop chattering!"

"Look here, Piggy, I want to go up on deck and have a look round," the

Orphan whispered; but Piggy said he'd spent all day there, and in the

water, with the lighters, and if the Orphan wanted to go along, more

fool he, and he could go by himself. He--Carter--wanted to sleep, and

didn't want to hear any more of "W" beach, or "X", or "Y", or "A", "B",

or "C", or the whole tomfool alphabet of beaches.

And he went to sleep, with his back against the stanchion; and the

Orphan, left to himself, sat on some sacks, watched the clouds moving

across the open hatchway, and listened to the firing ashore, the

pattering of bullets against the ship's side, and the snoring of tired

men.

He went to sleep, and woke in the midst of a tremendous din. There was

a perfect scream of rifle- and maxim-firing. He longed to go on deck,

and wondered whether Dr. O'Neill would see him. Perhaps he was asleep

too.

There was a new noise now--a much louder boom following a glare which

lighted up the clouds, and then a smaller glare and a lesser sound;

nearer they were, much nearer. "Those are field-guns," he said to

himself; and after listening to them for some minutes, judging the

distances of the different sounds, realized that they were our own guns.

They began firing two shots, one after the other. "Two guns," he

thought; and then felt certain that these were the very same guns which

he had towed ashore that afternoon at "W" beach. He _must_ see what was

going on.

He wriggled cautiously to the foot of the ladder--Dr. O'Neill's voice

didn't call out to him--he went up it on hands and feet. As he reached

the top a bullet whistled by; he ducked, and threw himself over the

coaming, clung there, found himself on deck--the noise seemed louder

there--and doubled himself up as he ran across to the shelter of the

bulwark. He waited for half a minute to pull himself together, and then

drew himself up and peered over.

Right in front of him was the dark mass of the cliffs--they seemed to be

not 200 yards away--and twinkles of flame sparkled out all along the

tops of them. As he looked, there was the glare of a field-gun flash

which outlined the whole cliffs--the crash--and then a glare farther

inland, and a fainter report of a shrapnel bursting. For an instant he

saw before him a narrow strip of beach with a dark shadow above it.

Then it was dark again; but all along it, all the time, spurts of

rifle-flame, ten times as distinct and large as those twinkles of the

Turks' rifles on the cliff, marked an irregular, uneven line, where he

knew our own troops must be--those Worcesters, who had just landed,

probably among them.

A little to the right, down in the centre of that spluttering line of

flashes, there was a regular spout of flame--a maxim was rattling;

farther away inland, twinkles darted out everywhere--the whole air

seemed full of noises. Then he jumped nervously, for suddenly two or

three maxims at the other end--from the bows of the _River

Clyde_--opened fire at something or other, just as they had done before.

He could see nothing moving; it was all very uncanny, and fearfully

exciting. He forgot that bullets occasionally pinged overhead or

splattered against the side of the ship, and waited there until that

attack had been beaten off--or perhaps, after all, it had been a false

alarm--and gradually first the maxims, then the volleys, then the

individual firing died down, and left only a few snipers trying to find

each other.

Then he had time to look round the deck. Close to him he saw

something--some queer shape--moving in the shadow of the bulwark, and he

put out his hand and felt the rough hair and the long, smooth ears which

could only have belonged to a donkey. There were two of them, both tied

up behind a little deck-house. They were glad for anyone to touch them;

they nosed at him, as if he gave them comfort, and stamped their little

feet on the deck to show their pleasure, and to make him understand how

they wanted to be taken on shore.

He gave them each a friendly pat and scratched their ears, wondering

what they were doing there.

But what he wanted to see were those maxims, away at the other end of

the ship; to be actually behind them when they next opened fire, and to

find out what was happening, and what they were firing at. So he crept

along the deck, along a row of stretchers, with shapeless forms on them,

lying close under the bulwark. One or two groaned, but they all seemed

to be asleep, and then he gained the entrance to the dark passage or

alley-way under the superstructure. In it a man was smoking--he saw the

glowing end of his cigarette.

"Can I get along here?" the Orphan asked. "I want to get to the

maxims."

A rough Yorkshire voice told him the passage was full of people asleep.

"You'd be doing better to go up along; keep away t'other side, it's

safer so."

So the Orphan retreated, crossed the open deck in front of the mast and

cargo winch, found the ladder leading to the superstructure, and was

just going up it, to the shelter of the starboard side of the

deck-house, when he saw a stooping figure bending over a stretcher, and

Dr. O'Neill's harsh voice growled out: "Here, you! come and lend a hand.

Lift that corner of the stretcher."

A wounded man lay on it, very heavily asleep; and as the Orphan lifted,

the Doctor pulled free a blanket which had caught under the stretcher,

and spread it over him.

He had not recognized the Orphan, who promptly darted up the ladder lest

he should do so, and stop him going to find those maxims. He groped his

way to the ladder, which he knew must lead down to the for'ard "well"

deck; found it, climbed down, and then the fo'c'sle itself was in front

of him, and an iron ladder to climb up. He was up it like a redshank,

and at last found himself right in the bows of the _River Clyde_.

Two almost simultaneous glares from the field-guns lighted the clouds

and showed up, for a moment, the high battlemented curtain-walls and the

bastions of Sedd-el-Bahr castle, and showed the fo'c'sle he stood on,

the cables, the capstan winch, some sand-bags piled up in the bows, some

men standing behind them, and three box-shaped structures--two on the

port side and one on the starboard.

He did not know what these were.

*CHAPTER X*

*A Night Attack*

The Orphan, holding his breath, crept forward to look over the sand-bags

in the bows, treading on hundreds of empty cartridge-cases which rolled

about the deck.

Another glare from the field-guns, and he saw that one of the men

standing there, peering through his glasses into the gloom below, was an

officer of the Royal Naval Division--the "R.N.D."--a Sub-lieutenant,

wearing a naval cap with the silver anchor badge. (He actually belonged

to the Armoured Car Section.)

"Hello! Who are you? Where've you sprung from?" this officer called

out.

The Orphan told him, and, thirsting for information, asked what was

happening. "What's going on, sir?"

"I'm hanged if I know."

"But what were you firing at? Those maxims were firing a minute ago,

weren't they?" he asked, disappointed.

"Were they?" the Sub-lieutenant repeated to the figure next to him, who

replied dryly: "I fancy I heard them."

"I feel sure I heard some little noise too, now I come to think of it,"

said the Sub-lieutenant jocularly.

"What are those things?" the Orphan asked, pointing to the two dark,

square, box-like structures along the port side of the fo'c'sle.

"Come along and see," said his new friend; took him to one, slid back an

iron plate, and pushed him into a little space where three men crouched,

in the darkness, round the breech of a maxim whose barrel stuck out

through a loophole in the front.

"Quiet little cosy place, that," he heard the Sub-lieutenant say from

the outside. "Come along and we'll shut them in again, or they'll catch

cold."

He slid the rear plate into place, and led the Orphan back to the maxim

in the bows. "They're comfortable enough in their little boxes, aren't

they? Steel plates all round them, and a steel plate on top--all home

comforts!"

"But what's going on? Do tell me," the Orphan begged, looking down over

the bows.

"Would you like to start a battle? I bet you would;" and before the

excited Orphan had time to think what he meant, he sang out: "Get hold

of that gun," and pushed him down astride the tripod.

Mechanically the bewildered and flustered midshipman gripped the two

handles, and stood by to press his thumbs on the firing-button.

"Now don't be in a hurry; point the thing over there. No, not there;

that's where our chaps are; they wouldn't like it--beastly 'touchy' they

are; point the other way; that's better."

The Orphan found himself training the gun towards where he could just

distinguish the biggest and nearest of all the bastions, straight ahead

of the ship.

"There's the front door of the castle, down there," continued his

friend. "Turks are always coming in or out--lazy beggars they are--they

want 'gingering up'. Wait till those field-guns, up beyond Cape Helles,

fire; then you'll see it; the front door-steps show up white. Ah! there

they go! That's about right! Keep her there! Let her rip!"

The Orphan, not really realizing what he was doing, pointed the gun

towards a white patch, and jerked both his thumbs against the button.

His eyes were blinded as "tut! tut! tut! tut!" flashed the gun, and the

jar on his unaccustomed thumbs and wrists took off the pressure.

"Keep her going!" he heard his new friend shout; and setting his teeth

and pressing with all his might, he tried to keep the maxim gun pointing

in the right direction as it shook and rattled, and the empty

cartridge-cases tumbled on to others upon the deck.

Immediately there were answering twinkles and sparks of rifles--a maxim

somewhere above the castle doorway flamed out--the firing rang along the

length of the beach, was taken on up above the cliffs; hundreds,

thousands of shots were fired, and bullets whizzed over the fo'c'sle of

the _River Clyde_, one or two thudding against the sand-bags.

"All right; let 'em go to sleep again," the Sub-lieutenant laughed, as

the Orphan's tired thumbs and wrists refused to press the button any

longer and the maxim stopped. In two minutes there was absolute

silence.

"Well! Enjoy your battle?"

"Thank you very much!" the Orphan answered, tremendously pleased, and

picking up a couple of the cartridge-cases he had fired, to keep as

curios.

"What did happen?" he asked as he stood up again.

"A strong attack on the _River Clyde_ was beaten off with heavy loss,

thanks to the brilliant handling of the maxims under the charge of--what

did you say your name is?"

"Orpen of the _Achates_."

"----under the charge of Midshipman Orpen of H.M.S. _Achates_."

"But there wasn't any attack, was there, sir?"

"Not as I know of; but it sounds better, and we'll leave it at that,"

laughed the Sub-lieutenant.

He kept on peering into the darkness; he seemed a little anxious, taking

advantage of the frequent glares from the field-guns to look very

closely through his glasses.

"There's something going on down there--I'm blest if I know what! You

have a look," and he handed the glasses to the midshipman. The Orphan

peered through them, waited for the sudden coming of a glare, thought he

saw figures moving, and said so.

"So do I; but I can't make out whether they are our fellows or not."

"Where are our men?" the Orphan asked.

"More to the left, along the beach--there's no cover just in front of

the bows down there. You see those dark shadows under the bows; they're

the lighters your chaps fixed up. The Turks have some maxims in one of

the bastions of that old castle; they're the guns which did all the

mischief this morning. We've been trying to knock 'em out all day, but

can't seem to get hold of 'em."

"Was it very bad this morning?"

"Bad! My God! it was awful. You see those pontoons or lighters--wait

for a flash from the field-guns. Ah! now you see them! By half-past

eight this morning they were actually heaped with our men--dead and

wounded. If a wounded man moved a finger, they filled him with bullets.

Not one man out of three got ashore. They're still lying on them; thank

God, the night hides them! Keep your eyes skinned; I'm certain there's

something going on down there," he added sharply.

A messenger came from the bridge, climbing the fo'c'sle ladder, and

calling out: "The officer! Where's the machine-guns officer?"

"Here I am."

"The Colonel thinks the Turks are going to try and rush the pontoons.

He wants you to 'stand by' with your maxims."

"All right; let 'em try," and he calmly filled his pipe, struck a match,

the flare of which seemed to the excited Orphan to illuminate the whole

fo'c'sle, and proceeded very slowly to light it; whilst the Orphan

hardly knew whether he was standing on his head or his heels for

excitement.

"Tell those two guns in the 'boxes' to train on the shore, near the

pontoons, and 'stand by' to fire," the Sub-lieutenant said, casually

giving the order, and sucking at his pipe as though he was thoroughly

enjoying it.

"I'm certain there are some chaps down there, but we've landed nearly

twelve hundred more since dark, and those may be some of them. I'm

hanged if I know!"

"Ah, look!" he said quietly, as a glare from the field-guns showed,

unmistakably, a figure approaching the end of the pontoons. "What kind

of a cap has he? The Turks wear a shapeless thing, almost like one of

our Balaclava helmets."

The Orphan, hugely excited, had caught a glimpse of him, but could not

see the shape of his cap. He was scrambling from one pontoon to the

next, moving about and then disappearing in a particularly dark shadow.

It struck him that the man seemed to be putting his feet down very

cautiously, almost as if he were looking for something and was afraid of

treading on it.

"He has to move carefully, there are so many dead lying there," his

friend explained.

"He's going back now," the Orphan whispered.

"That's rummy; so he is! and there are a lot more other chaps--a whole

mass of them--coming towards him."

As he spoke a tremendous fusillade broke out on shore, above where the

dark line of pontoons ended and these dark figures were moving, and the

air over their heads seemed to be filled with whistling bullets. Bullets

rattled up against the bows of the ship and smacked into the sand-bags,

one or two pinged against the plates in front of the other two maxims;

rifles began firing from the other side of the ship, from the lower sea

walls. An answering crackle of musketry broke out along the shore to

the left; and as the Orphan ducked his head below the sand-bags, his

friend the officer, not waiting for any further orders, opened fire with

all three maxims, and two more, down on the port side of the fo'c'sle

well deck, joined in as well.

It was the most furious firing the Orphan had heard since he came aboard

the _River Clyde_. He pushed his hand and arm between the sand-bags,

and tried to look through the gap. Rifles began firing below him, close

to him, and _towards_ him; the men firing them must be on the pontoons

themselves. The Sub-lieutenant saw them; jumped to the gun, yelling,

"Depress! depress! fire on the last two pontoons." A sand-bag was

pulled away to allow the maxim to depress, and it spurted fire and

bullets; left off to correct the depression, and started again. The

Orphan thought he heard shrieks (afterwards he swore he did); those

rifles on the pontoons dropped from twenty or more to three--then to

one--then to none; but the firing behind, up above the bank, went on

more furiously than ever, and the bigger flashes of the English rifles,

along the beach to the left, seemed to be blazing all the time. Two

maxims among them made spouts of flame quite three feet long.

The din was so terrific that the Orphan could only just hear what his

friend yelled in his ears: "Pretty to watch, sonny; but you'd better

scoot back aft--they may come on again, and that doctor of yours may

want you. Keep your head down, well down, as you go."

The Orphan, who had entirely forgotten Dr. O'Neill, and would have given

his soul to stay and see the end of this, found himself stumbling down

the ladder from. the fo'c'sle, up again and along the superstructure,

down and along the line of stretchers; bumped into the donkeys at the

top of the hatch, crawled over the coaming, and very gently went down

the ladder, hoping that Dr. O'Neill had not missed him and would not see

him coming back.

He need not have bothered himself about that. There was a great deal of

confusion down there; orders were being yelled out, men were gathering

at each side of the gangway port, rifle-butts were banging on the deck,

and bayonets snapping on the muzzles. He was pushed out of the way, and

found himself next to Dr. O'Neill and the chief sick-berth steward. He

expected to get a "wigging", but Dr. O'Neill only snarled: "They've

started a silly yarn that the Turks are trying to board along the

platforms--all this silly, stupid fuss--it's confounded nonsense.

You've slept through the last two hours, you lucky little devil!"

The Orphan was just going to say that it wasn't nonsense, that he had

seen the Turks trying to get across the pontoons to the platform, but he

thought it wiser to keep quiet. He asked the chief sick-berth steward

where Dr. Gordon was.

"Gone back, sir, an hour ago; a steamboat came along, and the

Fleet-Surgeon sent him back to the ship. I wish he'd sent me. I'd be

just as happy there, sir."

That snotty--Piggy Carter--was still sitting with his back to the

stanchion, at the foot of the ladder, his chin on his chest, and

snoring. The Orphan thinking that he would love to know that the Turks

were trying to board through the gangway port (about twenty feet away

from him), shook him till he woke, asking: "What's the matter?"

The Orphan told him excitedly.

"Oh, bother the Turks! I don't care a tuppenny curse for them; what

d'you want to wake me for?" and promptly went to sleep again.

For a few minutes everyone was in a state of nerves, expecting at any

moment to see the heads of Turks appearing at that big opening in the

ship's side; the noise of firing, on the other side of the ship, rose to

a perfect frenzy.

Although the Orphan had seen the first attempt crumpled up, he could not

know what would happen to a second, and felt very jumpy, too; but

presently the firing gradually subsided, and word was passed down that

all the soldiers there were to go ashore. These men unfixed bayonets,

strapped on their packs, and went on deck, knocking against the sleeping

midshipman, who cursed them in his juvenile voice. That was about three

o'clock, and for some time afterwards things were very quiet. The

Fleet-Surgeon, the Orphan, the chief sick-berth steward, and Piggy

Carter snoring against his stanchion, were alone, as far as they could

see although from the dark recesses of the space round them they heard a

great multitude of snores of every variety. The Orphan's launch's crew

had not been seen since they had come inboard, and no doubt four of

those snores belonged to them.

The Orphan himself dozed off once or twice, but kept on being awakened

by bursts of firing. He did not want to go to sleep, for fear of

missing any of the excitement, so went and leant up against the edge of

the gangway port, only putting his nose out, because bullets were still

coming along from those snipers on the low sea walls which jutted into

the sea on this side. A cool breeze blew in through the port and made a

pleasant "popple" against his launch, which was bumping gently against

the side of the _River Clyde_. It was raining a little, and the cool

drops on his forehead were jolly refreshing.

Even standing there he could not keep awake; his brain began to lull

itself with the burbling noise of the sea and the boat, until suddenly

the most appalling, panic-stricken shrieks came from overhead, and the

noise of heavy boots trampling along the deck.

The Orphan, with his heart in his mouth, dashed to the foot of the

ladder, just in time to see a half-naked figure, his chest and neck

swathed in blood-stained bandages, throw himself over the coaming of the

hatchway above him; dragging a blanket after him he came scrambling down

the ladder, yelling that the Turks had boarded the ship and were

bayoneting everyone on deck. There happened to be the sound of many

feet running about overhead at the time, and for a moment the Orphan was

entirely terror-struck--his heart really seemed to stop beating; but the

Fleet-Surgeon, jumping to his feet, seized the man, who was still

yelling, "Save me! save me! the Turks will get me; they're bayoneting

everyone!" cursed him, and told him to lie down in a corner and cover

himself with his blanket.

With another yell the man tore himself away, shrieked out that "it

wasn't safe anywhere in the ship"; and before the Orphan could stop him,

he dashed to the big gangway port and half-fell, half-slid down the

ladder into the launch. There, in the stern-sheets, he coiled himself

up, covered himself with his blanket, and appeared to go to sleep.

"Nightmare, that's what's the matter with him," the Fleet-Surgeon said,

a little shakily. "If he prefers to lie there in the rain and the

sniping, he can. Phew! it gave me a bit of a fright."

Piggy Carter snored peacefully--even through this incident.

After it, nothing exciting happened for a long time. Occasionally a few

solitary rifle-shots rang out, and sometimes there were rapid bursts of

heavy musketry and volleys. Those two field-guns kept on, at intervals,

all through the night, but by now they were accustomed to them. Dr.

O'Neill, who was trying to sleep, would curse whenever he heard three or

four sniping shots, and then perhaps a volley in reply. "Curse those

snipers!" he would growl; "they'll start the whole lot of them off

again, and I can't sleep."

Eventually the Orphan must have fallen asleep, for the next time he

remembered anything it was growing dimly light. He looked out of that

big opening in the side, away over the grey water--absolutely still

now--and made out the obscure shape of a battleship, the _Albion_, he

knew. To the left he saw, gradually becoming distinct, the lower walls

and fantastically crumbled ruins of the Sedd-el-Bahr castle stretching

out into the Straits. Putting his head out and looking for'ard, along

the side of the _River Clyde_--rather nervously, because he did not know

that the snipers behind those projecting ruins had been withdrawn--he

saw two great round bastions and a huge curtain-wall with its

battlemented parapet--the main "keep" of the old castle. Down at his

feet the "nightmare" man lay in the launch's stern-sheets fast asleep.

Inside the _River Clyde_ there was now sufficient light to see that they

had spent the night in a big cargo space, littered with boxes of stores

and ammunition, and quite a hundred men lay there soundly sleeping. By

the Red Cross badges and by the Red Cross marks on the panniers and

store boxes among them, he knew that they were R.A.M.C. orderlies. Two

men with blood-stained bandages lay on stretchers--also asleep--and near

them his launch's crew. On the opposite side of the ship he saw the

planks which filled in the opposite gangway, and close to it a heap of

"something" covered with a tarpaulin.

Piggy Carter had gone, and so had Dr. O'Neill and the chief sick-berth

steward.

Everything seemed quiet and peaceful, except for some solitary

rifle-shots which came, every now and again, from the direction of the

cliffs.

A man walked down the ladder smoking a pipe, and winding a woollen scarf

round his head in turban fashion. The Orphan recognized him as his

R.N.D. friend of the maxims.

"Hullo, youngster! want a smoke? Try one of my 'gaspers'."

The Orphan, who was dying for a cigarette, took one and lighted it.

"Did the Turks try again?" he asked.

The Sub-lieutenant shook his head. "Come over here," he said, and

showed him the holes made by three 8-inch shells in the deck above, and

in the side of the ship where they had gone out.

"That was when we were coming along here. Lucky they didn't burst, for

our chaps were packed as thick as thieves. One had his head taken clean

off--nothing left of it; two others were killed--we stuck 'em down there

in the hold."

The Orphan, looking down through the hatch, was glad he couldn't see

them.

"There are a lot more 'deaders' under that tarpaulin. Come on

deck--your Doctor is 'nosing round' there."

When they went up the ladder, the Orphan concealed his cigarette in his

hand. But Dr. O'Neill was not worrying about a midshipman, under

eighteen years of age, smoking; he was examining the wounded on the

stretchers lying under the bulwarks, and looked very old and haggard in

the dim light of the dawn.

The two donkeys seemed horribly miserable, nosing wearily at some dirty

straw and cabbage-leaves on the deck. "Poor little blighters!" said the

Sub-lieutenant. "They've not been really happy since one of those shells

went through the deck between them--look at the hole it made. We've

brought them along with us, from Port Said, to carry ammunition--poor

little chaps!" and he fondled them as they put up their noses to be

petted.

He was a very restless individual, and seemed not in the least affected

by the strain of the last twenty-four hours. He pointed out the grey

cliffs of Cape Helles. They seemed uncomfortably close, and looked

right down upon the deck.

"That's where those snipers are--they're there still--I thought

so--d'you hear that?" (a bullet pinged past); "you needn't worry--they

can't shoot for toffee. If we move about and show ourselves, some more

of them will start potting at us. Let's try!"

The Orphan found himself crouching behind one of the donkeys, but stood

up again as his extremely cool friend laughed at him.

Dr. O'Neill now sent him to collect a dozen of those sleeping orderlies

and start handing the wounded men, in their stretchers, down the ladder

from the upper deck, and then down into the launch. They were very

sleepy, and not too inclined to stir themselves; but he found a

weather-beaten R.A.M.C. sergeant--a regular "terror"--who soon began

"rousting them up". For the next hour this job kept him busy, his

maxim-gun friend sitting all the time on top of the hatchway, smoking

his pipe contentedly and warning him whenever the snipers from the cliff

became too busy. "Better keep under cover for a bit, sonny," he would

sing out; "your chaps are getting on their nerves." He never shifted

his own position, although he was entirely in view; and after a few

minutes, would call down: "All right; you can carry on!", and the Orphan

and the orderlies would rush up, and start moving more men down. It was

quite safe moving them along, under the bulwarks; but what the Orphan

did not like was taking them across the deck, and lifting them over the

coaming, with the delay there, whilst men standing on the steps of the

ladder took charge of the stretcher. Those cliffs seemed so horribly

near.

At last they had all been struck down below, and the Orphan was

listening to a very humorous dissertation from his loquacious friend, on

the merits of different kinds of rifles (they were both standing at the

foot of the ladder, and it was broad daylight), when suddenly there was

a roaring noise, followed immediately afterwards by a most terrific

explosion, which made them both quail, and made the _River Clyde_

tremble as though a mine had exploded under her bows. The youthful

orderlies handing the stretchers down into the launch dashed for cover,

their nerves much "rattled"; but the Orphan and his friend, recovering

themselves, jumped across to the gangway port to see what had happened.

As they did so, the _Albion_--perhaps a thousand yards away--fired one

of the 12-inch guns in her fore turret, and another terrific

thunder-clap crashed out as a lyddite shell burst against one of the big

bastions of the castle. When the smoke cleared away, they saw that the

top half of it had been almost destroyed.

The R.N.D. Sub-lieutenant grinned. "'Finished' that battery of maxims

they had up there all day yesterday; we couldn't turn them out." The

_Albion_ continued to fire her big shells, and the bursting of the high

explosive against the solid masonry of the castle, not more than 250

yards from the _River Clyde_, made the most overwhelming and

overpowering noise inside the poor old ship. Some of those youthful

orderlies were very nerve-shaken indeed.

A steamboat came alongside soon afterwards, and Dr. O'Neill, singing out

that he would borrow her to tow away the wounded, went up on deck.

The Orphan, very anxious to have another look round, followed him to the

superstructure deck, and there he left him talking to a white-haired

naval Captain in khaki--the Beach-master of "V" beach--and a big, burly,

red-faced man, in very much stained khaki, with Commander's

shoulder-straps. This was Commander Unwin, who had won the Victoria

Cross the day before.

The midshipman went for'ard to where some army officers and signalmen

were standing watching the shore. From there he saw the foc's'le, the

maxims, and the sand-bags behind which he had crouched. He could not see

the lighters and pontoons because they were hidden by the fo'c'sle, but

right in front of him was the great mediaeval castle of Sedd-el-Bahr,

with its bastion towers--one of which he had just seen demolished--its

curtain-walls, and arched gateway at which he had fired that maxim.

Farther to the right, the height of the walls decreased as they jutted

out into the Straits; they were much battered about, and, in several

places, huge breaches had been blown in them by the ships' guns. Fallen

masonry sloped down from these breaches into the sea itself. Scrambling

along the rocks below the walls, and wading through the shallow water

round the masses of fallen masonry, he saw many of our soldiers.

Officers were evidently forming them up below the breaches; men were

crawling up these slopes and kneeling down in front of barbed-wire

entanglements, which he could plainly see across the top of one breach;

somewhere close by a maxim spluttered, and a few single shots--whether

English or Turkish he did not know--rang out. The _Albion's_ shells

were now bursting some way in rear of these breaches.

Close to the water's edge, sheltered by some rocks, a dark-blue army

signal-flag began waving to and fro. The Orphan could "take in" Morse,

and spelt out "R-E-A-D-Y T-O A-D-V-A-N-C-E". He heard one of the

signallers standing behind him repeat this, and a tired, weary voice

called out: "Signal to the _Albion_ to cease fire." He heard the rustle

of the Morse flag signalling to the ship; a minute later the signaller

called out: "They've taken it in, sir."

The weary voice sang out again, in the most matter-of-fact way: "Tell

Colonel Doughty-Wylie to carry on the advance--as arranged;" and,

fearfully excited, he heard the blue flag behind him whipping backwards

and forwards, and saw the blue flag on shore answering.

Then men seemed to appear in hundreds; they swarmed at the feet of those

breaches, and began dodging and climbing up them. Rifle-fire burst out,

maxims rattled, and the Orphan held his breath to watch what was

happening; but then he was pulled away, and Dr. O'Neill, savage with

rage, ordered him back to the boat. "I've been looking for you

everywhere; now's our chance to get away to the hospital ship." So,

very reluctantly, he went back to the launch.

As he and Dr. O'Neill were going down the ladder, at the foot of which

they had spent most of such an exciting night, a big man, his face

wrapped in bandages, rushed down after them, and wanted to know if it

was necessary for him to go off to a hospital ship. His tunic was

soaked in blood.

"I feel all right; I don't want to go," he said.

"Take off those bandages," Dr. O'Neill snapped, and he rapidly unwound

them.

Dr. O'Neill sniffed.

"It's my nose, I think, sir."

"Hang it, man! you've not got a wound anywhere. Who was the fool who

wrapped you up like that and sent you back?"

"One of the ambulance men. Can I go back?"

"Of course you can. Get out of it!" and, intensely relieved, the man, a

magnificently built sapper of the West Riding Field Company, darted up

the ladder on his way ashore.

"That comes of having half-trained idiots," Dr. O'Neill snapped, as he

went down into the launch. "A stone thrown up by a bullet must have hit

his nose and made it bleed. He looked confoundedly pleased to get

another chance of being killed--the fool. Shove off? Of course you

can! D'you think I want to stay here all day? Tell the steamboat to

take us to the hospital ship."

So off they went with their wounded, and as the boats cleared the stern

of the _River Clyde_, and the high cliffs came into view, a sniper up

there sent a last bullet pinging over them. He did not fire again, and

in a couple of minutes or so they were out of range, and being towed

towards the crowds of ships of all sorts which were lying off the end of

the Peninsula; the noise of the rifle-firing gradually fading away as

they left it behind.

It was a perfectly glorious morning--about six o'clock--and the Orphan

was fearfully hungry--too excited still to feel sleepy. As they were

towed across the bows of the _Cornwallis_, she saw the wounded lying in

the launch, and waited for them to pass before firing her fore turret

again--she was shelling Achi Baba. In twenty minutes the steamboat

towed the launch alongside the hospital ship _Sicilia_, and left her

there.

Dr. O'Neill scrambled up the ladder, and told the Orphan he could come

too. "We may get a cup of coffee," he said, less harshly than usual.

After the scenes they had just left, the _Sicilia_ was so quiet and

peaceful that when they were taken into her saloon, trod on the thick

carpet, and sank on soft, plush-covered settees, the Orphan fell asleep,

even before his cup of coffee was brought.

It was after half-past eight when the launch, now emptied, reached the

_Achates_. The Sub was on watch. "You won't be wanted until the

afternoon; go and have a bath, something to eat, and turn into my bunk,"

he said.

Down in the gun-room Uncle Podger, the Pimple, Rawlinson, and the China

Doll were just finishing breakfast. They all shouted questions at him,

and he was also talking and answering them when the Sub came down and

cleared them all out.

"Leave him alone!" he roared angrily. "Let him have his food in peace

and turn in; he hasn't had any sleep for forty-eight hours."

"I had a bit last night," the Orphan expostulated; he rather wanted to

tell them about firing the maxim.

"Do as I tell you."

"Are things going on all right?" he ventured to ask.

"I don't know," growled the Sub. "Go on with your breakfast."

*CHAPTER XI*

*The Beach Party*

We must now follow the adventures of the Pink Rat, Bubbles, the

Lamp-post, and the fifty men of their beach party whom we had left being

towed across to the _Newmarket_ on Saturday night.

On board her had embarked details of Royal Engineers, Army Service

Corps, and a weak company of the "Anson" Battalion, Royal Naval

Division; also a Commander (from another ship) who took charge of the

beach party, and a naval Captain to take charge of "W" beach--to act as

Beach-master there--as soon as the landing commenced.

This little steamer slowly steamed across from Tenedos Island during

Saturday night, and on Sunday, at daybreak, anchored about twelve

hundred yards from "W" beach, just as the first of the Lancashires

jumped out of their boats on to the shore. Almost immediately

afterwards, stray bullets began to whistle over her or splash in the

water round her.

The three midshipmen, almost too excited to notice these, stood with

their hands shading the sun from their eyes, trying to pierce the cloud

of smoke and haze over "W" beach and see what was happening beneath it.

The _Swiftsure_, quite close to them, fired her 7.5-inch guns very

rapidly, and they were spectators of a most beautiful bit of gunnery

work. This ship had already cleared the Turks away from the trenches

running along the edges of the lower cliffs, on the left of "W" beach,

and had driven them over the ridge above; now she began bursting shells

on the higher cliffs, to the right of the beach, and as the smoke cloud

melted and gave her a clear view of them and the little groups of

Lancashires forming up beneath them, her shells, which had been

searching those cliffs in a blind, indeterminate way, began bursting

with the most marvellous accuracy, first in the galleries the Turks had

cut in the cliff face, and when these were cleared, in the trenches

above. Shells from the _Achates_ helped her; but the _Swiftsure_ was

within shorter range and could enfilade them, so that most of the credit

of stopping the murderous fire of rifles, maxims, and nordenfeldts from

this position, and of driving the Turks away, is due to her. This made

it possible for the Lancashires, who had already gained possession of

the top of the low cliffs to the left, to press on across the head of

the gully, and for those still on the beach to advance up it.

As they advanced, the three tongue-tied midshipmen could see them

plainly, and as they gained ground, so did those shells drop farther

along, always some fifty or seventy yards in front of them. It was

grand and most efficient gunnery, a remarkably fine example of the

co-operation of supporting guns and advancing troops. To realize this

thoroughly, you must put yourself in the place of the men who were

actually firing her guns, and who, looking through their telescopic

sights, could actually see the Lancashires in the lower half of the

field of vision. The slightest unsteadiness, the lowering of a sight by

a hair's-breadth, at the moment when they pressed their triggers, would

have sent a 200-lb. lyddite shell to burst right among them. If there

had been the slightest roll on the ship this feat would have been

impossible, but, as you know, the sea was absolutely calm.

All the three midshipmen could do was to gaze, open-mouthed, and burst

out with excited "Oh's!" and "Look at that one!" "Look at them there--up

there; those are our fellows!" "There's another shell, just in front of

them! Isn't that grand!"

Then the emptied transports' boats were towed alongside by the Orphan,

and down into them they and their beach party had to scramble. The boat

in which they found themselves had a pool of blood in her stern-sheets,

and the thwarts and gunwales were smeared with it. They were too

excited to pay any attention to this, because bullets were flying round

the _Newmarket_ pretty thickly at that time, and they had to shove off

as quickly as possible, being towed inshore with the _Swiftsure's_

shells passing over their heads.

This beach party was actually the second unit to land, and Bubbles said

afterwards that it was exactly ten minutes past six when he scrambled

out on to a large boulder, and found himself at last in the enemy's

country. As a matter of fact, his watch must have been nearly twenty

minutes slow.

They landed, without casualties, among the rocks and under the low

cliffs to the left of the sandy stretch of "W" beach, the calmness of

the sea enabling the boats to run alongside, and shove themselves

between the boulders scattered there, without damage. This place was

hardly exposed to fire, and the whole of the beach party scrambled

ashore and reached the foot of the low cliffs without loss.

Here they were met by a Staff officer, who ordered the Commander in

charge of them to scale the cliff and occupy the trenches along the top.

The men had brought their rifles; were extremely pleased at the prospect

of getting a shot at the Turks, and climbed up eagerly, throwing

themselves into a broad, shallow trench running along the top. They

waited for a few stragglers and for the men of the "Anson" Battalion,

and then the little party of perhaps a hundred and fifty men trotted up

the slope and towards the right, passing across one or two communication

trenches, many craters made by the ships' shells, and one or two dead

Lancashires. No one was hit in this little "jaunt", although many

bullets were flying past. At last they were told to lie down in a

trench--a deeper one--and remain there.

It was interesting to see the different behaviour of the three

midshipmen. Bubbles, big and burly, bustled along with his elbows bent,

his head thrown back, a laugh on his face, and his mouth wide open as

usual, his red face perspiring and the collar of his tunic unbuttoned,

charging through the little scrub bushes and running straight, never

looking behind. The Pink Rat, with his eyes bulging out of his head,

dodged and stooped, and set his teeth, very obviously conscious of the

bullets; whilst the Lamp-post trotted along, swinging his long legs, and

looking as little discomposed as if he was at some silly

manoeuvres--possibly he was setting the noise of the bullets and the

ships' shells to music. He was the only one of the three who looked

back, at all, to see how the men were coming along, and to keep his

section in something like order, preventing them from bunching

together--as sailors always will--and steadying those who wanted to run

too fast.

Once in this trench, the Pink Rat was sent along to make the men spread

out and take cover properly, for again they were "bunching". The

"Ansons", though they were mostly sailors, had had six months' military

training, and so did not want telling what to do.

Next to where Bubbles sprawled, panting and blowing, was a bluejacket

who, even at this time, had begun collecting "curios", and now showed

with pride a Turkish bayonet and a trenching tool which he had picked up

on his way. "If I'd left 'em there," he told Bubbles, "I'd 'ave never

seed them again."

From the moment he had commenced to scramble up the low cliffs and then

to trot along the slope above them, Bubbles had been entirely oblivious

of anything except pushing on and saving his breath, but now he was able

to look about him and see what was happening.

The trench in which he knelt ran almost at right angles to the sea and

the cliff they had just climbed, and whilst the lower portion dipped

into the gully which led down to the sandy portion of "W" beach, the

upper part reached the sky-line formed by the ridge which extended from

the end of the Peninsula, parallel to the sea, above the cliffs.

He, Bubbles, was almost in the middle of the trench, with most of the

beach party lower down, and the "Ansons" above him. Looking along it

and up the slope, he saw that the sky-line was, here and there, dotted

by soldiers lying prone, and apparently firing inland. Straight in

front of him the ground sloped a little downwards to the gully, to the

ruins of a little house--a farm-building, perhaps--and then gradually

rose again, rising with the higher cliffs beyond "W" beach, till it

reached the spot where the white lighthouse buildings of Cape Helles

stood very conspicuously. There it made another sky-line, perhaps eight

hundred yards away from Bubbles, joining up with the sky-line of the

ridge on his left. Behind, where these two sky-lines met, was a small

eminence, and through his glasses he could see the barbed-wire which

surrounded it. This was Hill 138, still strongly held by the Turks, and

had to be taken before "W" beach could be used in comfort. Looking

downwards to the right--where the gully sloped to the sea--a strip of

"W" beach showed at the foot of the steep cliffs facing him there, with

the galleries and the trenches along the upper edge, from which the

_Swiftsure's_ lyddite and the shells from the _Achates_ had driven the

Turks only three-quarters of an hour ago.

The green slopes were brown with a maze and network of trenches,

rifle-pits, and shell craters; and beyond these the Lancashire Fusiliers

still advanced towards the lighthouse--pressing forward by rushes of

little groups; men running a few yards, throwing themselves down among

the bushes, and firing; springing up and advancing again. When Bubbles

saw a man fall, he could not know whether he was hit--so naturally did

he fall--unless the line of scattered khaki figures went on and left him

lying there. The _Swiftsure's_ shells screeching over the trench in

which Bubbles knelt, burst continually just in front of them. Firing was

very brisk at this time, both on the ridge to his left and also from the

sky-line near the lighthouse, and the crackling of musketry and the

angry swish of bullets over the trench were almost continuous--minor

noises among the deep, thundering bellow of the ships' guns and the rush

of their shells. The Pink Rat came along the trench, stooping well down.

"What's going on? What are we supposed to be doing?" Bubbles asked as

he stopped for a moment.

"Doing support to the firing-line," he squeaked, and hurried along with

a message for the "Ansons".

Left to himself again, Bubbles looked out across the blue waters of the

Straits to the Asiatic shore and its high mountains fading away in the

distance. The reddish ridge showing on the Asiatic shore was Kum Kali

fort, and under it the French fleet was hammering away at the shore, the

most conspicuous ships being the _Jeanne d'Arc_, with her six funnels,

and the curiously shaped _Henri IV_. Not far from them was the lighter

grey of the Russian _Askold_ and her five tall, thin funnels, lighted by

continuous flashes from her guns--the "Packet of Woodbines" the sailors

called her. Farther away lay the big Messageries Maritimes transports,

the huge _La Provence_, and rows of boats being towed inshore.

Destroyers and French torpedo-boats dashed about; the whole surface of

the sea was a mass of ships--one solitary white-painted hospital ship

among them; and away beyond the lighthouse on Cape Helles--far up the

Straits--Bubbles could hear the heavy guns of the _Lord Nelson_ and

_Agamemnon_, and the 6-inch salvoes of the _Queen Elizabeth_. He could

not see these ships because the cliffs hid them from sight.

Firing died down, and the Lamp-post came sauntering along, looking

bored, and sat down beside him, with his long, thin legs drawn up,

resting his chin on his knees. "Those are the Plains of Troy," he said,

pointing across the Straits to the belt of green pastures lying behind

Kum Kali fort. "We should be able to see the ruins of Troy itself," and

he got out his glasses, and looked disappointed when he failed to find

them.

Bubbles watched him with amusement. "Go it, old Lampy, keep your head

in the clouds, and get a bullet in it! Who wants to see your silly old

Troy! let's have some grub. I'm terribly hungry."

They pulled some stale sandwiches from their haversacks, and commenced

munching them contentedly.

"I'm jolly glad I'm not the Orphan--out there," said Bubbles, talking

with his mouth full, and waving a half-eaten sandwich across beyond "W"

beach--"pegging away in his old steam bus. I wouldn't be him for

anything."

"Jolly hard luck on Rawlins to be left in the ship," added the

Lamp-post.

"Hello! there's a chap badly knocked about--look--dragging himself

towards us through the grass!" The Lamp-post had "spotted" him about a

hundred yards away from the trench.

"Let's go and give him a hand," suggested Bubbles.

"Right oh!" said the Lamp-post, pushing his field-glasses back into

their case, and together these two midshipmen stepped out of the trench

and walked towards the man. Only a few stray bullets were coming along

just then. "Hullo! What's up?" they asked the soldier when they

reached him.

"Got me in the knee," he said--his face ghastly white--as he turned over

on his back, with one leg helpless and that trouser-leg soaked in blood.

The Lamp-post knew all about "First Aid"--there were not many things he

did not know something about--and the two midshipmen, kneeling down

beside him, lashed his two legs together with his puttees, and began to

carry him back.

On the way the Lamp-post stumbled once, and the wounded man let out a

groan: "For God's sake be careful!"--but they got him into the trench

and laid him down. Then the Lamp-post crumpled up. "Something gave me

an awful whack when I stumbled," he said; "I believe I'm hit," and put

his hand to his side.

Bubbles, frightened, made him lie down, and examined him. "There's no

blood outside--I can't find any--oh! but look here!" and he lifted up

the field-glass case. It had a slanting hole right across it, and when

he wrenched out the glasses themselves, the "joining" piece had a ragged

notch in it, and a small piece of torn white metal had been caught in

it.

"My aunt! Old chap, that's a bit of nickel casing--a bullet hit it--you

_are_ a lucky chap! If you hadn't put those glasses away you'd have

been a 'deader'."

The two snotties examined the field-glasses eagerly, and passed them to

the men close by. They all looked at the Lamp-post as if they envied

him very much, and Bubbles kept on gurgling: "You are a lucky chap,

Lampy!"

They hunted to see if there was a bruise under the Lamp-post's shirt,

and were disappointed when they found none.

"It feels jolly sore," the Lamp-post said as he felt the place.

"There'll sure to be a bruise to-morrow," Bubbles gurgled excitedly;

"you _are_ a lucky beggar."

By this time the stretcher-parties were already out, and they handed

over their wounded "knee" man to some of them. The others went up past

the trench towards the firing-line, searching the grass and bushes. The

two snotties watched them moving about. They would go across to a bush,

stoop down, and Bubbles and the Lamp-post would know that a man was

lying hidden there. If someone sat up between them, or they put down

and opened out their stretcher, they knew they had found a wounded man.

If nothing happened, and they went on with their stretcher, still

folded, they knew that it was a dead man who was lying there.

More soldiers now began coming up the gully, extending in long lines as

they debouched at the top of it. They turned to the left, coming over

the trench, and marching up to the slope behind and to the left. A

bluejacket shouted out: "Who are you, matey?" "Essex!" they called back

as they scrambled past, panting beneath their heavy packs. A youthful

subaltern, struggling under the weight of his, stopped a moment to get

Bubbles and the Lamp-post to hold it up, whilst he pulled the

webbing-straps more tightly.

"Thanks! that's better," and off he went.

"Good luck!" they sang out after him.

Almost directly after this, the order came for the "Ansons" and the

beach party to fall back to the beach. "That finishes soldiering; now

we've got to be labourers," the men grumbled as they straggled down the

gully, helping any wounded they met on the way.

And now they saw that horrible line of dead, lying at the water's edge,

with the sea lapping round their legs and bodies, and the men hanging

over the rows of barbed wire.

"It's rotten. It spoils all the fun," said the Lamp-post, as he stepped

across the body of a very finely-made man lying face downwards in the

sand, one hand still gripping his rifle, and the fingers of the other

still dug into the sand. "Look at those bits of firewood in the straps

of his pack. Poor chap! He'll never want them to cook his food with.

It's rather rotten, isn't it?"

"Don't be an ass," Bubbles said comfortingly. He wasn't much of a

philosopher, and these sights did not affect him.

It was now about half-past nine, and by this time a large number of

boats, full of stores, had wedged themselves among the rocks--farther

along, where the beach party had landed--and the crews were throwing

them out, shoving off, and going back for more. Army Service Corps men

were already taking charge of them and taking them higher up the beach;

the Sappers were already busy building a pier with casks and pontoons;

and among all this hustle and bustle, the wounded sat or lay huddled up

against the foot of the cliffs, waiting whilst the army doctors went

from one to the other. The first thing that the Lamp-post and Bubbles

had to do was to drive six stakes into the beach whilst six buoys were

being moored, some sixty yards out, in the sea, and then stretch hawsers

from each stake to its opposite buoy--as you have read before. That

took a good hour, and when the big lighters came hauling themselves into

these rope "gangways" they and their men had to unload them.

Whenever there was not a boat to unload, there were wounded men to carry

down to the empty boats. They were not idle for a moment, and all the

time stray bullets were falling on the beach and occasionally wounding

some of the men there. One of the Lamp-post's "section" got a bullet in

his side and had to be sent off to the _Achates_, but no other of the

beach party was hit that day. However, they were all much too busy to

worry about, or even notice, these bullets, and never had a "stand easy"

until about two o'clock, when they watched the shells from the _Albion_

and _Cornwallis_ bursting round Hill 138, beyond the lighthouse ridge,

and listened to the _Swiftsure's_ shells screaming overhead again to

burst in front of the advancing Worcesters. They hastily munched a bit

of biscuit and tore off a bit of bully beef, had a pull at their nearly

empty water-bottles; but more lighters coming in, crammed with stores,

they went on with their work. Much heavy firing went on, stray bullets

flipped about in all directions, and by half-past three they heard that

the Worcesters had captured the hill; and, half an hour later still, had

to help the wounded who streamed back down the gully from that gallant

little assault.

The Orphan brought them in a barricoe of water about this time, but that

the wounded drank. Fortunately, a water lighter was brought ashore and

beached shortly afterwards, and the Sappers pumped the water into a

canvas tank they set up at the water's edge, so they didn't really want

for long. It was rather unpleasant to go and get it, because you had to

pass along and step across those dead men lying there. There was no

time to move these, and they lay where they had fallen, when scrambling

out of the boats, all that day and all the night, until next morning.

After the Worcesters captured Hill 138, there was very little firing for

some time. Later on, before sunset, the beach party had the joy of

helping to run two field-guns out of horse-boats, and helped to haul

them up the gully with hook-ropes--hauling them almost as high as the

trench they had occupied in the early morning, then hurrying back for

their limbers.

"What a thing to remember!" the Lamp-post said, patting the

tarpaulin-covered gun, and panting with the exertion of hauling it up

the steep gully. "Fancy helping with the very first gun to land!"

Dusk came, and night fell grey and calm. Flares--oil flares, the same

as those one sees over a green-grocer's barrow, in a market, at

home--were lighted and placed along the beach. No one had a "stand

easy".

"What have you got?" would be shouted as a loaded boat crept in through

the dark. "Come over this way--haul on that rope under your

bows--that's better--there's room here."

Perhaps they were Ordnance stores or Army Service stores--each had to be

kept apart--the coloured stripes on the boxes would be scanned by the

light of a lantern or of the flares. The bluejackets hoisted them on to

the shore, and placed them in separate heaps for the soldier

working-parties to take away to their proper "depots", already formed,

one on one side of the gully, the other on the other side. Hour after

hour this work went on; the men commenced to realize that they were

almost "played out", and, without thinking, would throw themselves down

and rest whenever there was the chance. Rifle-fire grew as the night

went on, and wounded came back with stories of strong Turkish

counter-attacks on the ridge beyond the cliffs. If they had had time to

notice it they would have heard one continuous splutter of musketry, but

they were too tired to do anything except go on working mechanically.

At about midnight things became serious. Several men on the beach had

been hit by stray bullets, and word was passed round to put out all the

flares; news came that the troops up above were exhausted and running

short of ammunition, and eventually the order ran along the beach:

"Everyone with a rifle to fall in!"

The bluejacket beach party dropped their boxes and groped for their

rifles, fell in, and were marched by the Lamp-post and Bubbles up the

gully again. The Pink Rat dashed about carrying orders from the

Commander and the Beach-master.

Those who had no rifles were told to get hold of ammunition-boxes and

find their way up to the firing-line. The position was really serious at

this time, though Bubbles and the Lamp-post were much too stupefied with

fatigue to realize this.

Once up at the top of the gully, someone gave the order to turn to the

left, and led the beach party up the slope. Things were evidently

pretty lively; the air seemed alive with bullets, and the ridge was

outlined by spurts of flame. They came to a trench running parallel

with, and below, this ridge, and were told to lie down in it. "Line

out, men! You may be wanted to reinforce the firing-trench in front.

Don't fire unless you get the order," and the officer, whoever he was,

disappeared in the dark, leaving Bubbles and the Lamp-post--now

thoroughly awake--to spread their men along the trench. Some of their

friends--the Ansons--joined them, and presently the Beach-master, the

Commander, and the Pink Rat found them too.

For an hour they lay there doing nothing, Bubbles and the Lamp-post

lying flat on their stomachs, next to a Staff officer at a telephone,

who told them from time to time how things were "going". They both

hoped that the front trench _would_ require reinforcing.

Then they were taken out of that trench, and brought back to one still

farther in the rear--almost on the edge of the cliffs. The men, losing

interest, coiled up and went to sleep.

Some time afterwards there were calls for "volunteers to carry up

ammunition"--the firing-line was "shrieking" for more cartridges.

"Let's go!" the Lamp-post suggested. "We're not doing any good here; we

can carry boxes all right."

They found the Commander, who gave them leave. "Be careful," he said;

"and you're not to stop up there."

They scrambled to their right, to the foot of the gully, and found the

stacked ammunition-boxes by marking the line of men who came from them

carrying boxes on their shoulders.

They seized a box between them. A small man--it was the Beach-master's

servant--was trying to lift one on his shoulder. The three of them took

the two between them--Bubbles gripping a loop of each box--and together

they "lugged" them up the gully.

At the top stood someone shouting out: "You go straight on along the

edge of the cliff.--Keep along the Turks' trench there, as far as you

can go; that'll take you right.--You go straight up the slope, away from

the sea.--You get along to the left, as far as you can go--keep going

uphill."

As the Lamp-post, Bubbles, and the little servant came panting up, he

sent them along the edge of the cliff, in the lighthouse direction.

"Hurry along!" he called after them. "Keep along the trench."

Off they went as fast as they could; an ill-assorted trio, for the

Lamp-post's long legs and the servant's short ones did not keep step.

The little man panted in the rear, but kept on bravely; Bubbles's two

hands soon began to be cramped.

They found the trench and followed it. The night was almost pitch-dark;

but the rifle-firing ahead, to the left of them, gave an unsteady light,

just sufficient for them to see the dark line of the trench. On their

right, the cool wind blew gently up from the sea and the edge of the

cliffs; it seemed to be humming with bullets. People kept meeting

them--appearing out of the darkness, bumping into them, and

disappearing; all had the same cry--"Hurry up!" as they dashed down for

more ammunition.

"How much farther?" Bubbles, whose hands were so cramped that he could

not now feel his fingers, called to a passing soldier.

"A hundred yards," the man shouted as he ran past.

The Lamp-post caught his foot in something and fell; the box of

ammunition fell out of Bubbles's cramped fingers--fell on something

soft--a dead man. The Lamp-post jumped up, seized the box, hoisted it on

his shoulder, and disappeared ahead; Bubbles and the servant followed

with the other.

[Illustration: "THE LAMP-POST JUMPED UP, SEIZED THE BOX, HOISTED IT ON

HIS SHOULDER, AND DISAPPEARED AHEAD"]

They were very near the front trench now; the whole ridge near the

lighthouse and to the left of them was almost continuously outlined by

the flashes of incessant musketry.

Bubbles panted--his ear-drums were splitting--the little servant was

catching his breath with half-frightened gulps. Then they cannoned

against a bend in the trench, and were going on, when a gruff voice sang

out: "Put it down here! Keep your heads down, damn you! Cut away back

for more!"

The Lamp-post joined them, breathing hard, and together, empty-handed,

they ran back as fast as the narrowness of the trench and the darkness

would allow them; the noise of the bullets coming along from behind, and

pinging round their ears, making them go faster.

Those two field-guns began firing just about then, lighting up the whole

place with the glare of their flash, so that they could see, every time

they fired, the trench in front of them, and the "drawn" faces of the

men coming along it with more ammunition-boxes.

The noise of these guns and their bursting shrapnel was most comforting.

They realized then why it is that soldiers so love the sound of

supporting guns.

They regained the gully, dashed down it, and got hold of more

ammunition. Each of the midshipmen put a box on his shoulder this time,

and left the little servant to bring up a case by himself as best he

could. On their way along the trench, at a place where it was deep and

narrow, they had to push past two men crouching together.

"What's the matter? What are you doing?" they asked, taking a breather.

"We're wounded," they answered in a dull, stupid way.

"Can you walk?"

"Yes."

"Well, don't block up the place. Get away back to the beach."

When they returned, these two were still there.

The Lamp-post had tripped over their feet and their rifles, and they

blocked the trench.

"Where are you wounded?" he asked savagely.

"In the arm," one said, holding his right arm; the other growled

sullenly that he'd been hit in the shoulder.

Like lightning the Lamp-post pulled up the man's sleeve and his

shirt-sleeve, and ran his fingers up the arm. He tore open the other

man's tunic, and passed his hand under his shirt and over his

shoulder--felt nothing--felt no blood on his hands--looked at them as a

field-gun flashed, and found none.

"Get out of it!" he yelled at them. "You're neither of you touched."

"We ain't 'ad nothink to eat since last night," one of them whined.

"Get out of it!" the Lamp-post kept yelling. "Go back to your

regiment," and losing his temper completely, as the two men never

attempted to move, struck one in the face--hard; but he was so

absolutely cowed and exhausted that he only uttered a pitiful moan, and

sunk a little farther down in the trench.

"If you are here when I come back," the Lamp-post hissed, "I'll shoot

the two of you!" and the two snotties doubled back for more ammunition,

passing the little servant staggering along under his load. "I'm all

right, sir!" he gasped as they passed along the trench. When they did

come back for the third time, those two men had disappeared, they never

knew where. They were the only panic-stricken men they saw that day or

night.

On their third return journey the volume of fire was appreciably

lessening, and they brought back word that no more ammunition was wanted

in that direction. They were sent back to the beach party, and wandered

about for a long time on the exposed slope above the gully until they

stumbled across them, and reported themselves to the Commander. "We took

up six cases between us, and the Captain's servant--that little

chap--took up two at least." Then they flung themselves down beside

their friend with the telephone, who told them that "all was gay".

Most of the men in that trench were sound asleep, and the two tired

snotties would have fallen asleep too, had not the Pink Rat glided along

the trench to ask them where they'd been and what they'd done.

"I should have loved it," he kept on saying, "only the Commander

wouldn't let me go."

They did not altogether believe him.

Rifle-firing had now dwindled to an occasional shot from some nervous

rifle. The Turks by this time had given up any idea of pushing our

people back into the sea, and only the two field-guns kept up a

monotonous barking all night through.

Just before dawn the beach party was withdrawn, and staggered down to

"W" beach to commence another day's work; and, later on, Bubbles

overheard one horny A.B. explain to a fat A.S.C. sergeant: "If those

soldier chaps 'ad given way a bit, us chaps would 'ave 'ad a chawnce;

but they 'eld on--the silly blighters!"

That beach party, ever afterwards, had a grievance.

Before the men "set to" again, they were given a little time to get

food. Then they started to unload more stores. Stores simply poured

ashore: clumsy bulky things like water-carts--more guns--two 60-pounder

"heavy" guns and their limbers (these were placed in position behind the

ridge, almost at the end of the Peninsula)--reels of telephone

cable--tents for stores--hundreds and hundreds of boxes of

ammunition--balks of timber for piers.

Horses began to arrive--big fellows for the heavy guns--Clydesdales

perhaps--great lovable fellows with a roguish eye for the beach, which

made the sailors love them all the more. These last they handled as no

one else in the world can handle them. Give a bluejacket anything on

four feet, from an elephant to a pig, and he'll get it ashore all right.

They've got "a way with them", and can coax a nervous horse or an

obstinate mule better than anyone else--or think they can, which is more

than half the battle. Perhaps the whole secret lies in the fact that

they are so accustomed to shifting heavy weights that, if a beast

resists all their blandishments, they know that hauling on to a rope

passed round their "sterns" will work the oracle.

Luckily, by the time they reached the shore in horse-boats, these poor,

patient creatures had gone through so many extraordinary experiences

that they did not worry much what happened to them. It was grand to see

their pleasure when they felt firm ground once more under their feet

and, when they were taken up the gully, saw grass growing once again.

Mules came--mules in hundreds; but nobody can be really fond of a

mule--not in a passing acquaintance, anyway.

The Sappers made great headway with their pier of trestles, casks, and

planks--No. 3 Pier--some way to the east of the pontoons they had placed

in position, the day before, and called No. 2 Pier. They also

discovered a freshwater spring at the foot of the cliffs, about two

hundred yards beyond "W" beach. The discovery of this seems now a

little matter, hardly worth recording; but quite possibly it was the

most important event of the twenty-four hours.

That day, also, the few Turkish prisoners who had been captured,

unwounded, set to work with a will to build a small breakwater, which

eventually became the base of No. 1 Pier.

The "Howe" Battalion, R.N.D., also began making roadways.

Work for the beach party became slacker towards night, not because there

was less to do, but because the men were absolutely "played out".

Officers and men had a regular "stand off", after dark, and a proper

meal. They also had time to peg off the site for the naval camp with

ropes, just below the Ordnance Store Depots, and to lay down some strips

of canvas on the sandy ground. They were also put in two "watches",

half of them working for four hours, and the other half working for the

next four, and so on.

Bubbles, who had the first watch "off", crept under his bit of canvas

and fell asleep in a "brace of shakes", whilst the Lamp-post stalked

back to the beach with his own section of men, and went on working. If

it had been light enough to see that young officer's face, you would

have noticed that his eyes seemed to have sunk back into his head, and

that he kept on biting his lips to keep himself awake.

*CHAPTER XII*

*Off Cape Helles*

The movements of the transports, store ships, and auxiliaries of all

kinds were controlled from the _Achates_, and to cope with this work

additional officers had been attached to her. An Admiral hoisted his

flag in her, and brought his Staff, including two Assistant Clerks;

three Captains joined as Naval Transport Officers--"N.T.O.'s"--and round

her gangways hovered, night and day, a restless crowd of steamboats,

picket-boats, and pinnaces--lent for various purposes from other ships.

Each of these steamboats had its midshipman--some of them two, working

watch and watch, twenty-four hours "on", and twenty-four hours "off"

duty--with the result that the Honourable Mess was completely overrun

with strangers.

With the Pink Rat, the Lamp-post, and Bubbles away _all_ the time, the

Orphan, the Hun, and Rawlins--who relieved these, two in turn--away

_most_ of the time, and the Pimple spending most of his days and a good

many of his nights visiting transports with the Navigator, when that

officer went away to anchor them in their proper places, there was

practically no one left except Uncle Podger, the China Doll, and the

Sub. Now the Sub was in charge of all steamboats; it was his duty to

hoist them out of the water when they required repairs, to get the

repairs carried out as quickly as possible, and then hoist them into the

water again. He also was in charge of all the coaling and watering of

these boats. These duties kept him so constantly employed that he very

seldom spent much time in the gun-room. In fact, Barnes generally left

something in his cabin for him to eat, whenever the opportunity

permitted.

Of all the Honourable Mess, practically only Uncle Podger and the China

Doll remained and came to meals as before. The result was that,

twenty-four hours after the _Achates_ had anchored off "W" beach, the

mess groaned under the weight of the Barbarians, and the Midianites, in

the guise of tired, hungry snotties from other ships, and the Admiral's

two Assistant Clerks had descended, pretty completely, on the fruitful

land of her gun-room. They crowded down into it in their

Condy's-fluid-stained "ducks"; they lay on the cushions and slept; lay

in the one easy-chair and slept; came in at all hours of the day and

night, demanding food, and drove the patient Barnes and the little

messman nearly off their heads.

The miserable little rat of a messman, thoughtless of the morrow, and

eager to turn an honest penny just as quickly as he could, produced all

the stores he had laid in at Portsmouth and again at Malta--stores which

had been intended to delight the stomachs of the Honourable Mess for

many "moons": tins of dainty biscuits, cakes, boxes of chocolate and

preserved fruit, bottles of anchovies, jars of bloater and anchovy

paste, jars of Oxford marmalade, and tins of Oxford sausages and of

tongue--and many other rare delicacies, impossible now to replace; and

this insatiable crowd of sojourners realized, like one man, that though

their work was hard and the hours long, their feet were indeed cast in

fruitful and pleasing places. Now the Pimple and the China Doll

worshipped their stomachs with an unswerving devotion, unalloyed by the

pangs of indigestion, so watched these intruders working havoc among the

gun-room stores with feelings of keen agony. They realized, only too

well, the barrenness which would soon fall to their lot, and they

implored the Sub to stop these devastating demands on luxuries and

"extras" before it was too late. Worst blow of all: that one last barrel

of beer wouldn't drip another drop, however hard you blew down the vent.

But the Sub was so seldom in the gun-room that he did not, for the first

few days, realize the impending danger. It was on the third day, just

as he had received an imploring, urgent order from the Commander, "to

hoist in the General's picket-boat and hack away a coil of rope which

had wrapped itself round the screw and shaft, and get her into the water

again as quickly as ever he could", that he was waylaid by these two

young gentlemen, who rushed to him with anxious faces. "Can't something

be done? It's simply awful! One of the _Lord Nelson's_ snotties has

just had his second box--his second box to-day--of those "chocs" with

walnuts on the top!"

They ran back much faster than they came; but that very day the Sub had

the whole tragedy brought vividly before him, when, later on, going down

to his cabin for a cup of tea, and feeling he wanted something "tasty",

he ordered a pot of anchovy paste.

Barnes came back with a long face. "That 'ere rat of a messman, 'e's

been and gone and let all of 'em strange young gen'l'men 'ave all the

han-chovy, sir. 'E ain't got none left, sir, but 'e 'as just one pot of

chicken-and-'am what's gone an' got a bit mouldy. There won't be 'ardly

nothink left of nothink, what with them strange young gen'l'men, and the

young gen'l'men what's gone with the beach parties a-sending off chits

for this and chits for that, as if this 'ere ship was a Lipton's

store-shop."

"It's just as bad along in the canteen, for'ard, sir," he added

dolefully; "beach parties and all of these stranger boats' crews,

they've just been and gone and raided it, that they 'ave; nothink there

now, scarcely, but penny bottles of Worcester sauce and tins of

blackin'. It ain't 'ardly fair; no, nor it isn't."

Even Uncle Podger thought things were going too far when one day a

midshipman from one of these ships ordered four tins of Oxford sausages

to be sent down to his boat's crew.

"It may be very pretty to watch," he said, finding the Sub in his cabin,

"but it's rotten bad luck on us."

The Sub was worried. "You see, it's like this," he answered; "they're

rather like guests, and we can't be rude to them. But I'll write out a

notice which won't hurt their feelings, and may be some good; we'll

stick it on the notice board."

He wrote out several; he didn't like any of them, and tore them up,

saying: "We can't be rude, can we?" And then, getting impatient, tore

up the last, and burst out with: "Well, let the blessed things go, and

don't let's worry, Uncle, old chap! You and I aren't particular."

So things took their course unchecked, till the messman, at the end of

ten days or so, announced to the rapacious throng, and the miserable

Pimple and China Doll, that he had nothing left in his private store

except one bottle of pickles and a bottle of Eno's fruit salt. Even that

pot of mouldy "chicken-and-ham" had been "taken up".

It is certain that if the Pimple or the China Doll were asked, now, what

went on during the days following the landing of "The Great Adventure",

and what struck them most forcibly, both of them would tell of the

snotty who had eaten two boxes of "walnut chocolates" in one day--the

two last boxes in the messman's store.

The China Doll would also recount days of unaccustomed toil, when he was

attached to one of the Naval Transport Officers as Clerk, and had to

copy out sailing orders and check lists of arrivals and sailings of

ships; work which frequently interfered with his great delight of

climbing to the main-top, and looking through the range-finder there

(against all orders, it may be said) at the shells bursting on the

slopes of Achi Baba and among the windmills and houses of the village of

Krithia. For the first few days he had felt very proud of his new job,

carried a big correspondence book about with him, and felt himself as

important as those very important young officers, the Admiral's

Assistant Clerks; but as the days wore on, it became monotonous and

irksome. The Captain whom he thus "assisted" was none too gentle with

his mistakes--which were many--and he wished that the old days would

return, when he had nothing to do but sit on the office stool in front

of a ship's ledger, and kick his feet against the bulkhead until Uncle

Podger told him to clear out of it. If only he kicked that bulkhead

hard enough and often enough, Uncle Podger would never keep him long.

It had been such a pleasant kind of a life, and in those days he had

only to run into the gun-room and make some cheeky remark, to be rolled

on the deck and be ragged; but even that was finished; the gun-room was

no longer like home nowadays, for the snotties were mostly strangers,

who took no notice of him if they were awake; and even if the Orphan,

Rawlins, or the Hun happened to be there, they were much too tired to

skylark. With the Pimple, who was more often available, he did not like

skylarking, for the Pimple generally hurt him--intentionally.

So, what with one thing and another, the China Doll was not entirely

happy whilst he copied out these "silly" orders, and guns thudded from

the ships all round him--guns whose shells he could not always run up on

deck to see burst.

There was so much to see, and it was so irritating to come out all this

way to the Dardanelles, and then to find that he had to stick in a

stupid office just when some of the most exciting things were going on.

However, he could always make sure of watching a duel between the

howitzers on the Asiatic shore--somewhere behind Kum Kali fort--and the

ship told off to keep them quiet--the _Prince George_ or the _Albion_,

sometimes the _Agamemnon_. At almost any hour of the day he went on

deck, he could make certain of soon seeing a splash leap up, close to

whichever ship was on duty, and then see her fire her 12-inch guns, and

watch till the brownish-red or black clouds flew up behind Kum Kali

ridge as the shells burst, hoping intensely that bits of "Asiatic Annie"

were flying up in it, and wondering what the spotting aeroplane,

circling high above in the blue sky like a hawk, had seen and signalled.

Then there were the shrapnel bursting behind "W" beach, and the little

shells which sometimes burst there, but, more often than not, only

buried themselves with a little spurt of dust. He would wonder whether

Bubbles or the Lamp-post had been hit, and hoped they had not, because

they had promised to send him off a shell, or anything interesting, as a

curio. And, later on, there were the high-explosive shells, which

sometimes burst in the air over that beach, and at other times burst on

the ground with a horrid noise which frightened him, even where he was,

in the ship, and made him rather alter his mind about going ashore to

see the fun.

The Turkish aeroplanes, or German most probably--the "Taubes" he had

heard so much of--they came often; and at the first news of "hostile

aeroplane approaching from the north-east" he would dash on deck, and

try to spot them as they appeared over the top of Achi Baba--little

moving spots which he lost sight of, if he was not very careful, until

they came nearer and nearer, and the sun made their wings glisten like

silver. He knew that each carried bombs, and often he could actually

see these little things at the moment they were released from the body

of the aeroplane, to burst somewhere near "W" beach, raising a cloud of

dust and smoke, or drop in the sea among the ships, sending up a rather

silly splash--such a waste of energy. And it was so "ripping" to hear

guns firing at the aeroplane and see the shrapnel bursting. He did so

long to see one crumple up and come tumbling down, but he was always

being disappointed; and when that particular aeroplane had seen what it

wanted, dropped all its bombs--seldom where it wanted--and turned back

up the Straits, the China Doll felt rather miserable.

Sometimes British and French aeroplanes went up after the Taube, and

chased him to his home up above the Narrows, whilst the Turkish shrapnel

burst round them just as they had done at Smyrna, only making better

shooting as the days went on and their practice improved.