We hurried on, but within a few minutes darkness dropped a curtain over all that we had seen from the hills.

Sec.2

We got home in time to be late for dinner, and as we sheepishly entered the mess the O.C.  Rest Camp cried: 

“Oh, here you are!  Where have you been?  Frantic wires have been buzzing all the afternoon for you—­priority messages pouring in.  You’re to proceed forthwith to the Peninsula.  Headquarters had forgotten all about you, so they are thoroughly angry with you.”

We sat down and began the soup at once, intending to have dinner, even if it involved the loss of the campaign.  Monty explained across the table that he was included in this urgent summons.

“Yes, rather,” endorsed the O.C., who was very full of the news, “all East Cheshire Details.  Apparently the East Cheshires are holding an awkward position on a place called Fusilier Bluff, and being killed like stink by a well-placed whizz-bang gun.  They’ve got about fifty men and half an officer left per company.  They’re screaming for reinforcements.  Salt and pepper, please.  Thanks.”

“Where is this Fusilier Bluff, sir?” asked I.  “At Suvla or Helles?”

“Haven’t the foggiest!” answered the O.C.  “The Cheshires always used to be at Helles, but I daresay they were moved to Suvla for the new landing there, along with the 29th Division.  Fusilier Bluff has only just become notorious.  Poor young Doon got his ticket there—­same gun.”

“We’ve a score to settle with that gun, Rupert,” said Doe.

Next day we dressed for our part on the Peninsula.  Doe smiled grimly as he swung round his neck the cord that dangled two identity discs on his breast. “Now there’s some point in these things,” he said.  We filled all the chambers of our revolvers and fixed the weapons on to our belts, wondering what killing men would feel like, and how soon it would begin.  “It’ll be curious,” Doe suggested, “going through life knowing that you killed a man while you were still nineteen.  Perhaps in Valhalla we’ll be introduced to the men we’ve killed.  Jove!  I’ll write a poem about that.”

A fatigue party of Turkish prisoners carried our kit down to the “Egyptian Pier,” whence we were ferried to the Headquarters Ship Aragon.  Once aboard, Monty took the lead, seeking out the cabin of the Military Landing Officer and presenting to him our orders.  He was an attractive little person, this M.L.O., and, having glanced over our papers, said:  “East Cheshires?  Oh, yes.  And where are they?  Are they at Suvla or Helles?”

Monty said that he hadn’t the slightest idea, but imagined it was the business of Headquarters to have some notion of a division’s whereabouts.

“East Cheshire Division?  Let me see,” muttered the M.L.O., chewing his pencil.

We let him see, with the satisfactory result that he brightened up and said: