Lord! how the wind was rising!  And with it the dust!  The grey motor ambulances, as they purred past with their sick, raised dust storms, that blew away over the roofs in clouds as high again as the houses.  The ships and the harbour, though it was a sunny, cloudless day, could only be seen through a flying veil of dust.  Quickly the vines, overhanging the porches, became white with dust; our teeth and palates coated with it.  We hastened home to the sorry shelter of the mess that we might wash the dust down our throats with tea.

But bah! we went out of the dust into the flies.  The mess was buzzing with them; and they were accompanied in their attacks upon our persons by bees, who hummed about like air-ships among aeroplanes.  I dropped upon the table a speck of Sir Joseph Paxton’s excellent jam, now peppered and gritty with dust, and in a few seconds it was hidden by a scrimmage of black flies, fighting over it and over one another.  Other flies fell into my tea, and did the breast-stroke for the side of the mug.  I pushed the mug along to Jimmy Doon, and pointed out to him, with the conceit of the expert, that they were making the mistake of all novices at swimming; they were moving their arms and legs too fast, and getting no motive power out of their leg-drive.

“Don’t talk to me about ’em,” said Jimmy.  “I’m fast going mad.  I’m not knocking ’em off my jam, but swallowing the little devils as they sit there.  If I didn’t do that, they’d commit suicide down my throat.  Every time so far that I’ve opened my mouth to inhale the breeze, I’ve taken down a fly.  It’s tedious.”

Ah! this wit was all forced gaiety, and the more depressing for that.  It generated melancholy, as a damp fire generates smoke.  I felt there was something wrong around me this afternoon—­a shadow of evil.  The conversation died:  only the flies buzzed monotonously over us, as though we were offal or carrion; and the wind blew the dust in hail-storms against the canvas walls of the tent.  And then it came—­the terribly evil thing.  The O.C.  Rest Camp entered the mess, and announced with cynical cheerfulness: 

“Well, we’ve lost this campaign. The great new landing at Suvla has failed.”

There was a ghastly silence, and a voice muttered, “God!”

“Yes, and had it succeeded we’d have won.  But the Turks have got us held at Suvla beneath Sari Bair, same as they’ve got us held at Helles beneath Achi Baba.  The news is just filtering through.”

With horror I listened to the cold-blooded statement.  The shock of it produced a beating in the head, and a sickness.  And I felt foolish, as though I might do something lunatic, like giving a witless shout, or running amok with a table-knife.  I touched Doe, and whispered:  “I’m going to get out of this.  The old fool doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”