us had no blankets, and we lay bundled up, shivering under our
greatcoats on the sopping ground. Unable to sleep well, I heard, just
about or before dawn, a distant drumming, like the noise of rain on the
window, but recognised immediately as distant rifle-fire. Morning broke,
cheerless and wet. I asked if any one had heard firing during the night,
but no one near me had. Shivering and breakfastless, save for a morsel
of biscuit and a sip of muddy water, we saddle our dripping horses and
fall in. A Tommy sitting in the ditch, the picture of misery; cold, and
hungry, with the rain trickling from his sodden helmet on to his face;
breaks into a hymn, of which the first verse runs:--

"There is a happy land
Far, far away,
Where they get ham and eggs
Three times a day."

I find myself dwelling on the words as we move off. Can there be such a
land? Can there be so blessed a place?

We reach the ganger's hut, and the light spreads and rests on the hills.
Immediately we are deafened by a shattering report close behind us, and
starting round, find the long nose of Joey projecting almost over our
heads, while the scream of the shell dies away in the distance as it
speeds towards the Boer hill. One of the naval officers gives me a first
hint of the truth. There has certainly been an attack, he says, but he
fears unsuccessful.

We took the matter up, then, where we left off yesterday, all our
batteries coming into action and shelling the hills most furiously. The
enemy replied with three guns only, but so well placed were they that we