[Illustration:  Stores, horses, and munitions were being landed on V. beach.]

[Illustration:  Magnificent work was done by the landing parties in their advance inland.]

‘Hurrah!’ cried Horan gleefully.

‘Shut up, you ass!’ snapped Ken.  ’Do you want to bring every Turk within half a mile down on us.  Look out.  There’s one chap moving.  Tie him up, and, Dave, gather their rifles.  I must go through their pockets.  There’s always a chance of useful information.’

‘Lively now!’ he added.  ’They were expecting ammunition, and we shall have visitors in pretty short order.’

‘My word, here they are already,’ muttered Dave Burney.  ’Half a dozen of ‘em.’

Ken looked up quickly.  A number of figures were just visible, coming along the ridge to the right.

‘There are more than half a dozen,’ he whispered sharply.  ’More like double that number.  And that looks like an officer with them.’

‘We’d best make ourselves scarce,’ suggested Dave quietly.

‘Too late for that,’ answered Ken.  ’They’re bound to see us.  Besides, if they find the pit empty they’ll only put fresh men here, and all the work will be to do again.’

’Let’s tackle ’em then,’ said Roy Horan recklessly.

‘Odds are too long,’ replied Ken.  He paused a moment, and glanced round.

‘I’ve an idea,’ he said swiftly.  ’I believe we can fool them.  Quick!  Take the coats off the dead men, and put them on.  Their fezzes, too.  In this light they’ll never know the difference.’

‘But if they talk to us?’ objected Roy.

‘Then I’ll talk back.  I know the language.’

As he spoke, Ken was swiftly stripping one of the dead Turks of his overcoat.  The others did the same, and within an incredibly short time all three were wearing dead men’s clothes.  The coats sat oddly on their long frames, but fortunately there was as yet very little light, and in the gray gloom they presented a tolerable resemblance to the late tenants of the rifle pit.

They had hardly completed the change when the officer who was leading the party reached the edge of the pit.

‘Why are you not firing?’ he demanded, and by his harsh guttural voice Ken knew him at once for a German.

‘We are out of ammunition,’ he answered readily.

’Schweine Hund!  Do you not know enough to say “Sir” to an officer when he addresses you?’

‘Your pardon, sir,’ said Ken gruffly.  ’The light is so bad, and my eyes sting with the powder smoke.’

‘They will sting worse if you do not mend your manners,’ retorted the German brutally.

Ken, boiling inwardly, had yet wisdom enough to hang his head and make no reply.

‘How many are there of you in the pit?’ continued the officer.

‘Only three, sir,’ Ken answered.

’You will retire to higher ground and construct a new pit.  This position is required for a mitrailleuse.  You understand, blockhead?’