ambulance was now encamped.

"I'm going deep into this," said Hawk--he was a very skilful miner,
and he knew his work.

"None of your dead heroes for me," he said; "I don't hold with 'em--
we'll make it PRACtically shell-proof." We did. Each day we burrowed
into the soft sandy layers, he swinging the pick, and I filling up
sand-bags. At last we made a sort of cave, a snug little Peter Pan
home, sand-bagged all round and safe from shells when you crawled in.

I often thought what a fine thing Stevenson would have written from
the local colour of the bay.

Its changing colours were intense and wonderful. In the early morning
the waves were a rich royal blue, with splashing lines of white
breakers rolling in and in upon the pale grey sand, and the sea-birds
skimming and wheeling overhead.

At mid-day it was colourless, glaring, steel-flashing, with the
sunlight blazing and everything shimmering in the heat haze.

In the early afternoon, when Hawk and I used to go down to the shore
and strip naked like savages, and plunge into the warm water, the bay
had changed to pale blue with green ripples, and the outline of Imbros
Island, on the horizon, was a long jagged strip of mauve.

Later, when the sunset sky turned lemon-yellow, orange, and deep
crimson, the bay went into peacock blues and purples, with here and
there a current of bottle-glass green, and Imbros Island stood clear