So we set off--a long, straggling, follow-my-leader line of men and
stretchers. The officer first, then the stretcher-sergeant--(myself)--
and the squads, two men to a stretcher, carrying the stretchers folded
up, and last of all a corporal or a "lance-jack" bringing up the rear
in case any one should fall out.

Cold, dark, shivery mornings they were; our clothes soaked in dew and
our pith helmets reeking wet, with the puggaree all beaded with dew-
drops. We toiled up and up the ridges and gullies of the Kislar Dargh
and the Kapanja Sirt slowly, like a little column of ants going out to
bring in the ant eggs.

Often we had to wait while the Indian transport came down from the
hill-track before we could proceed, and we always came upon the
Engineers' field-telegraph wires on the ground. I would shout "Wire!"
over my shoulder, and the shout "Wire! . . . Wire! . . . Wire!" went
down the line from squad to squad.

From the old Turkish well I led my stretcher-squads past the gun of
the Field Artillery (mounted quite near our hospital tents) along a
track which ran past a patch of dry yellow grass and dead thistles--
here among the prickly plants and sage-bushes grew a white flower--
pure and sweet-scented--something like a flag--a "holy flower" among
the dead and scorched-up yellow ochre blades and the khaki and dull
grey-greens of thorns. We went along this track, past the dead sniper
which Hawk and I had so carefully stalked. Near by, hidden by bushes
and rank willow thickets lay a dozen more dead Turks, swollen, fly-
blown and stinking in the broiling sun. We hurried on past the Turkish
bivouacs--many of the relics had been picked up by the British Tommies
since last I saw the place: the tobacco had all gone--many of the