“Asiatic Annie!” we both said, at once and in unison.

For all of us knew the evil reputation of Asiatic Annie—­that large gun, safely tucked away in the blue hills of Asia, who lobbed her shells—­a seven-mile throw—­over the Straits on to the shores of Cape Helles—­a mischievous old lady, who delighted in being the plague of the Beaches.

“If Asiatic Annie is going to begin,” said Doe, “we’ll have important business elsewhere.  Hurry on.  We’re going to find White’s grave.”

To get from Seddel Bahr to Fusilier Bluff it was necessary to cross diagonally the whole of the Helles sector.  There lay before us a long walk over a dusty, scrub-covered plateau, every yard of which was a yard of battlefield and overspread with the litter of battles.  This red earth, which, when the Army first arrived, was garnished with grass and flowers, groves, and vineyards, was now beaten by thousands of feet into a hard, dry drill-ground, where, here and there, blasted trees stood like calvaries against the sky.  The grass resembled patches of fur on a mangy skin.  The birds, which seemed to revel in the excitements of war, soared and swept over the devastated tableland.  Northward from our feet stretched this plateau of scarecrow trees, till it began to incline in a gentle rise, and finally met the sky in the summit of Achi Baba.  That was the whole landscape—­a plateau overlooked by a gentle hill.

And here on this sea-girt headland the land-fight had been fought.  No wonder the region was covered with the scars and waste of war.  Our journey took us past old trenches and gun-positions; disused telephone lines and rusting, barbed wire; dead mules, scattered cemeteries, and solitary graves.

And not a grave did we pass without examining it to see if it bore the name of White.  Our progress, therefore, was very slow, for, like highwaymen, these graves held us up and bade us stand and inquire if they housed our friend.  Whenever we saw an isolated cross some distance away, we left our tracks to approach it, anxious not to pass, lest this were he.  And then, quite unexpectedly, we came upon twenty graves side by side under one over-arching tree, which bore the legend:  “Pink Farm Cemetery.”  And Doe said: 

“There it is, Rupert.”

He said it with deliberate carelessness, as if to show that he was one not easily excited by sudden surprises.

“Where—­where?” I asked.

“There—­’Lieutenant R. White, Royal Dublin Fusiliers.’”

“Good Lord!” I muttered:  for it was true.  We had walked right on to the grave of our friend.  His name stood on a cross with those of six other officers, and beneath was written in pencil the famous epitaph: 

“Tell England, ye who pass this monument,
We died for her, and here we rest content.”

The perfect words went straight to Doe’s heart.

“Roop,” he said, “if I’m killed you can put those lines over me.”