"Indee very good--English very good--Turk, finish!"

With a sudden jerk and a rattle of chains our water-cart mules pulled
out on the trail again and the ghostly figure with its well-folded
turban and gleaming white teeth was left behind.

A beautifully calm race, the Hindus. They did wonderful work at Suvla
Bay. Up and down, up and down, hour after hour they worked steadily
on; taking up biscuits, bully-beef and ammunition to the firing-line,
and returning for more and still more. Day and night these splendidly
built Easterns kept up the supply.

I remember one man who had had his left leg blown off by shrapnel
sitting on a rock smoking a cigarette and great tears rolling down his
cheeks. But he said no word. Not a groan or a cry of pain.

They ate little, and said little. But they were always extraordinarily
polite and courteous to each other. They never neglected their
prayers, even under heavy shell fire.

Once, when we were moving from the Salt Lake to "C" Beach, Lala Baba,
the Indians moved all our equipment in their little two-wheeled carts.

They were much amused and interested in our sergeant clerk, who stood
6 feet 8 inches. They were joking and pointing to him in a little
bunch.

Going up to them, I pointed up to the sky, and then to the Sergeant,
saying: "Himalayas, Johnnie!"