The men in the transports were delayed a night in the harbour, and on the following day disgorged into the floating omnibuses that plied nightly to Suvla or Helles.  These omnibuses were old Isle of Man passenger steamers, jolly old tubs, doing their bit like papa and uncle and grandad in the National Guard at home.  Being due to arrive with their crowds of fighting men at the Peninsula in the darkness of midnight, they would get under way just before dusk.  They went out with the sun, travelling straight and slowly between the hulls.

To the lads, thus being drawn to the danger-zone, a send-off would be given in salvos of cheers from the sides of the anchored vessels, the bands of the Navy sometimes playing them out with the old airs of England.  And the lads themselves, enjoying their evanescent triumph, and feeling like the applauded heroes on a carnival car, would shout back a merry response, or pick up the chorus of the tune rendered by the distant band.

Many a still evening Doe and I watched their departure, knowing that soon we should go out of the port like that in the red of a sunset.  And Monty, hearing the cries of “Good Luck,” “Love to Johnny Turk,” “Finish it off quickly,” “Hi, put yer trust in Gawd, and keep your ’ead down,” and the faint strains of “Steady, boys, steady, we’ll fight and we’ll conquer again and again,” would bewail the fact that he was too far off to cheer, and give vent to rising and choking feelings.  He wanted to pat these departing lads on the back.  For in the Green Room they had dressed for their parts, and were now going through the door on their way to the stage.

Sec.3

Were we really winning on the Peninsula or losing?  August, in spite of that black remark of the O.C.  Rest Camp, decided that all was well.  The fresh arrivals on the troopships brought with them like a breeze from the homeland that atmosphere of glowing optimism which prevailed in England in the early August days.  The same news came from the opposite direction.  For the streams of wounded, who in the weeks following the Suvla invasion poured into our Mudros hospitals, told us that the Turk was fairly on the run.  “It can’t last long,” they said.  “We’ve only to climb one of them two hills—­either Sari Bair on the Suvla front, or old Achi Baba at Helles—­and the trick’s done.  From the top of either of ’em we shall look down upon the Narrows, and blow their forts to glory.  Up’ll go the Navy, and there y’are!” It would be over by Christmas, they believed; for Christmas was always the pivot of Tommy’s time.

So spoke August, drinking deep from cups overflowing with confidence.  September detected a taste of doubt in the cheery optimism of the Green Room, and like a loyal British September, spat out the unpalatable mouthful.  But the taste remained.

Nothing but stagnation seemed to be prevailing on the Peninsula.  The incessant roll of guns could no longer be heard at Mudros.  The old-time shifts of wounded ceased to pour into our hospitals.  In their stead came daily crowds of dysentery, jaundice and septic cases.  And these men told a different tale from the wounded, who, a month before, had returned from the stage like actors aglow with triumph.  All reported “Nothing doing” on Gallipoli.