He had been six years in the field now, what with the Italian and Balkan campaigns, and that was a good deal of war at a stretch.

After excusing ourselves, though the amiable Turk said that he was in no hurry, we were led to a sort of tent de luxe, lined in scarlet with snaky decorations in white, and when the young aid discovered that we had brought no beds with us, he sent out and in a moment had not only cots and blankets, but mattresses and sheets and pillows and pillow-cases.  He asked if we had fathers and mothers alive at home, and brothers and sisters, and if we, too, had been soldiers.  It surprised and puzzled him that we had not, and that our army was so small.  He was only twenty-two and a lieutenant, and he had a brother and father also in the army.  With a great air of mystery he had his orderly dig a bottle of cognac out from his camp chest, and after we had drunk each other’s health, he gave us his card with his name in Turkish and French.  He brought a table and put on it a night candle in a saucer of water, a carafe of drinking water, and gave me a pair of slippers—­in short, he did for us in that brush-covered camp in the Gallipoli hills everything that could be done for a guest in one’s own house.

You can scarcely know what this meant without having known the difficulties of mere existence once you left Constantinople and got into the war zone, and Colonel Shukri Bey and Lieutenant Ahmed Akif will be remembered by at least two Americans when any one talks of the terrible Turk.

I awoke shortly after daylight, thinking I heard an aeroplane strumming in the distance, and was drowsily wondering whether or not it was fancy, when a crash echoed up the valley.  We both hurried out.  It was sunup, a delicious morning, and far up against the southern sky the little speck was sailing back toward the west.  There was a flash of silver just under the flier—­it was an English biplane—­and a moment later another crash farther away.  Neither did any damage.  A few minutes later we were looking at the remains of the bomb and propeller-like wings, whose whirling, as it falls, opens a valve that permits it to explode on striking its mark.  Until it had fallen a certain number of metres, we were told, mere striking the ground would not explode it—­a device to protect the airman in case of accident to his machine or if he is forced to make a quick landing.  In the fresh, still morning, with the camp just waking up and the curious Turkish currycombs clinking away over by the tethered horses, our aerial visitor added only a pleasant excitement to this life in the open, and we went on with our dressing with great satisfaction, little dreaming how soon we were to look at one of those little flying specks quite differently.