Our garrison town is not an inviting place, nor has it an inviting reputation.  Lord Kitchener himself had good reason to remember it.  As a young lieutenant of twenty-three, in the Royal Engineering Corps, he was nearly killed there by a band of fanatical Arabs while surveying for the Palestine Exploration Fund.  Kitchener had a narrow escape of it (one of his fellow officers was shot dead close by him), but he went calmly ahead and completed his maps, splendid large-scale affairs which have never since been equaled—­and which are now in use by the Turkish and German armies!  However, though Saffed combines most of the unpleasant characteristics of Palestine native towns, we welcomed the sight of it, for we were used up by the march.  An old deserted mosque was given us for barracks; there, on the bare stone floor, in close-packed promiscuity, too tired to react to filth and vermin, we spent our first night as soldiers of the Sultan, while the milky moonlight streamed in through every chink and aperture, and bats flitted round the vaulting above the snoring carcasses of the recruits.

Next morning we were routed out at five.  The black depths of the well in the center of the mosque courtyard provided doubtful water for washing, bathing, and drinking; then came breakfast,—­our first government meal,—­consisting, simply enough, of boiled rice, which was ladled out into tin wash-basins holding rations for ten men.  In true Eastern fashion we squatted down round the basin and dug into the rice with our fingers.  At first I was rather upset by this sort of table manners, and for some time I ate with my eyes fixed on my own portion, to avoid seeing the Arabs, who fill the palms of their hands with rice, pat it into a ball and cram it into their mouths just so, the bolus making a great lump in their lean throats as it reluctantly descends.

In the course of that same morning we were allotted our uniforms.  The Turkish uniform, under indirect German influence, has been greatly modified during the past five years.  It is of khaki—­a greener khaki than that of the British army, and of conventional European cut.  Spiral puttees and good boots are provided; the only peculiar feature is the headgear—­a curious, uncouth-looking combination of the turban and the German helmet, devised by Enver Pasha to combine religion and practicality, and called in his honor enverieh. (With commendable thrift, Enver patented his invention, and it is rumored that he has drawn a comfortable fortune from its sale.) An excellent uniform it is, on the whole; but, to our disgust, we found that in the great olive-drab pile to which we were led, there was not a single new one.  All were old, discarded, and dirty, and the mere thought of putting on the clothes of some unknown Arab legionary, who, perhaps, had died of cholera at Mecca or Yemen, made me shudder.  After some indecision, my friends and I finally went up to one of the officers and offered to buy new uniforms with the money we expected daily from our families.  The officer, scenting the chance for a little private profit, gave his consent.