We were glad when the darkness came, for we wanted to try the effect of the candles, both those on the table and those on the Christmas tree.  And truly the darkness, the candles, the flying sparks from our Yule log, and the smell of burning wood made Christmas everywhere.

Then we sat down to the meal.  The menu said:  “Consomme Gallipoli, Stew Dardanelles, Plum Pudding, Dessert, Lemonade a la Tour Eiffel.”  The soup was very good, even if it was only the gravy from the next course.  And the stew in its plate looked almost too fine to disturb; the very largest onion was stuck in the middle—­was it not Christmas Day?  The pudding we set on fire with the Army rum issue.  And the dish of dessert was a fine pile of lemons and oranges—­the lemons not being there to be eaten, of course, but to make the show more brave.

Then the batmen were fetched in and given the presents from the Christmas Tree.  And we drank healths in lemonade a la Tour Eiffel.  We toasted the King, the Allies, “Johnny Turk beyond the Parapet,” and, above all, “Our People at home, God bless ’em!” We sang “For they are jolly good fellows,” and it was wonderful what a fine thing two officers and their soldier-servants made of it.  Somebody, warmed up by this lively chorus, raised his glass and suggested “To Hell with the Kaiser!” But this toast we disallowed, on the ground that it would spoil our kindly feeling, and besides, as Monty observed compensatingly, he would be toasted enough when he got there.

And, when it was all over, I went out into the darkness to walk alone for a little, and to get the chill night air blowing upon my forehead.  It was as clear and fine a night as it had been a day—­cloudless, still, and starlit.  And—­forgive me—­but I could only think of him whom we had left on Hunter Weston Hill, with his feet toward the sea, lying out there in the cold and the quiet.  O God, when should I get used to it?

CHAPTER XVII

THE END OF GALLIPOLI

Sec.1

Wandering down the Gully Ravine one morning, I encountered a long line of men marching up it in single file.  I passed as close to them as possible, so that, by a glance at their shoulder-straps, I might ascertain their regiment.  No sooner had I learned who they were than I turned about and hurried back to Monty’s dug-out.  This life holds few pleasures so agreeable as that of conveying startling news.

“Who do you think’s marching up the Gully?” I demanded.

“I don’t know.  Who?” asked Monty.

“The Munster Fusiliers!”

“What?  The immortal 29th Division?  From Suvla.  The dickens!  What does it mean?”

Before we could decide what it meant my batman came back from a visit to the French canteen at Seddel Bahr.

“They’re landing hundreds of troops at V Beach, sir,” said he.  “The Worcesters are here, and the Warwicks.”