The little groups of men lay in exactly the same positions on the
beach. That platoon by the side of Lala Baba lay in a black bunch--
stone dead. We could see our artillery teams galloping along like a
team of performing fleas, taking up new positions behind Lala Baba. So
this is war? Well, it's pretty awful! Wholesale murder . . . what's it
all for? Wonder how long we shall last alive before Mechanical Death
blows our brains out, or a leg off . . .

Queer thing, war! Didn't think it was quite like this! So mechanical
and senseless.

And now came the time for us to land. A lighter came alongside, with a
little red-bearded man in command--

"Remind you of any one?" I said to Hawk.

"Cap'n Kettle!"

"Yes!"

He was exactly like Cutcliffe Hyne's famous "Kettle," except that he
smoked a pipe. We huddled into the lighter, and hauled our stores down
below. Some of us were "green about the gills," and some were trying
to pretend we didn't care.

We watched the boat which landed just before us strike a mine and be
blown to pieces. Encouraging sight . . . At last we reached the tiny
cove, and the lighter let down a sort of tail-board on the sand.