Reaching Brigade Headquarters, which were on the slope across the Gully, I asked the least alarming of the Staff Officers, the Staff Captain, for a pair of trench-waders.

“Sorry,” answered he, “we’ve had orders to return them all.”  He looked most knowing, as he said it, and seemed to think it a remark pregnant with excitement.

“Oh, I see,” I replied, quite inadequately.

“Yes,” he continued, staring whimsically at me, “we’ve been ordered to shift our quarters to-night.”

“Good Lord!” I said, still confused.

“Yes, we leave—­by ship—­at midnight.  It’s the Evacuation.  The other two brigades of our Division have already gone, and we go to-night!”

“The devil!” exclaimed I.  “Then I’ll go and pack.”

“Of course; and tell the padre to meet the battalion at W Beach at ten o’clock.”

Down the hillside I went, across the Gully, forging like a steam-pinnace through the water, and up the face of the opposite hill.  Full of the glorious bursting weight of good news, I looked down upon our batmen at work in the cookhouse, and roared:  “Pack the valises.  We’re off to-night.”  I rushed into the dug-out.  “Get up,” I commanded Monty; “we leave by ship at midnight.”

Never did an invalid with a broken back leap so easily out of his bed, as did Monty.  He assured me, however, in an apologetic way, that he had been feeling much better even before he had the news.

“Now you know,” said he, “what the Special Order about holding Helles was for—­to deceive old Tomfool Turk; and why those regiments from Suvla were landed here—­to appear to the Turk like reinforcements, but really to conduct the evacuation at Helles, having learnt the job at Suvla; and why we wanted the Turkish aeroplanes to get back with news of our landing of troops—­but, my bonny lad, for every two hundred we land by day, we’ll take off two thousand by night!”

After a morning of hurried packing we decorated the dug-out walls with messages for Johnny Turk to find, when he should enter our deserted dwelling.  “Sorry, Johnny, not at home”; “Au revoir, Abdul.”

“Really,” said Monty, “we possess a pretty wit.”  And, having placed a mug of whisky on the table with a bottle of water, so that Old Man Turk could pour it out to his liking, he wrote:  “Have this one with me, John.  You fought well.”

“Get my kit down with yours,” said I.  “I’ll meet you at W Beach at ten pip-emma.”

“Why?” he asked in surprise.  “Aren’t you coming with me?”

“No,” I replied, playing scandalous football with the cookhouse; “I’m going to join my company and lead my braves to safety.  Good-bye.”

“For Heaven’s sake, don’t be rash,” he called after me as I set off.  “There may be dangerous work.”

“Meet you at W Beach at ten pip-emma,” cried I, now some distance away.

“But you haven’t the doctor’s permission to return.”