We've had our first week in the trenches. The Turks have killed some of us, and we have killed some of them. They certainly fared the worst; and we agree with the chaplains that it is more blessed to give than to receive.

In some places our trenches are only seven yards from the Turks; in others they are 700. All day and night the sniping continues. Hand grenades and bombs are thrown to and fro. Aeroplanes circle aloft and drop bombs on the opposing trenches. When our aeroplane goes up the boys yell out: "Lay an egg on the Turkeys!" When the Taube drops bombs we "duck" to shelter. Most of our spare time we spend in dodging shrapnel. It's fine fun, but no one can guess where the splinters will fly to. We've all had the sorrow of seeing old comrades struck down at our sides, and yet we carry on cheerfully.

On Empire Day—five days after we landed—the Turks asked for an armistice to bury their dead. It took eight hours. In front of our trenches were 3,500 dead. We reckon that in the attack on our position on May 18-19 the enemy had at least 10,000 casualties. The Australians lost about 500. Time and again the Turks charged in solid phalanx, but withered away before the deadly fire of our riflemen. Whenever they did effect a breach they were speedily ejected by dashing bayonet attacks by the Australians and New Zealanders.

To-day—May 28—we are all in the highest spirits, for we have received a special "Force Order" from General Sir Ian Hamilton, and it shows that we have not been idle. Here is the order:—

And I have by me a copy of the little one-page Peninsula Press published at Sir Ian Hamilton's headquarters some distance from Anzac. It is No. 13, and is dated May 25, 1915; and it gives this "Official Account" of the enemy's losses:—"The burial of the dead on the Australian and New Zealand front was completed yesterday under the armistice asked for by the Turks. The number of the enemy's dead lying between the trenches was estimated at 3,500, counting only those who have fallen since May 18. Rifle fire broke out soon after the close of the armistice."

That Peninsula Press, little thing though it was, used to be read and re-read till we could almost repeat all its contents word for word. It gave us the war news on all fronts in a nutshell. In this particular number we read of the great Russian victory in East Galicia, when the Austrians were pushed back from the Dniester to the Pruth, and on a 100-mile battle-front the Russians took 20,000 prisoners in five days. We read of von Bethmann-Hollweg's threat to Italy—his threat to punish Germany's "faithless ally" who had seen fit to throw over the Powers of Darkness for those of Light and Freedom and Civilization. We read of the German losses between Steenstraete and Ypres, despite their use of asphyxiating gas which their enlightened scientists had been able to place at their disposal. We read this: "The British Navy has rescued 1,282 German seamen and marines from German warships sunk. Not one British seaman or marine has been saved by Germans in like circumstances." We read an extract from the Greek newspaper Athinai relating to the elections in that country: "If the people give the victory to the party of M. Venizelos, then the Entente Powers will have no further anxiety concerning us; Greece will be ready for war in accordance with the programme of M. Venizelos and with the engagements he has assumed." (And the people did give the victory to M. Venizelos—but Greece, oh, where was she?) And this also we read in our paper: "The people of Gallipoli Town," says a Turkish correspondent, "have seen only four British (Australian) prisoners of war. The men excited great admiration among the people, because it was seen that they were indeed soldiers. They wandered about freely and drank coffee, creating great excitement by their queer remarks and causing no ill-feeling." And the Lusitania! We read the lines from Punch of May 12—Britain to America, on the sinking of the Lusitania:

We ourselves had seen a ship go down. We saw the Triumph torpedoed. We saw her shiver from stem to stern—and then go down in the sea. She was a triumph of man's handiwork, and man's handiwork had destroyed her. The sea was very calm, but submarines and mines lurk in still waters as well as rough—and out of the calm sea came the thing of death. From the moment she was struck till she turned turtle but fourteen minutes elapsed. A dozen launches and torpedo boats rushed to rescue the crew, and all were saved except about forty. And we who saw it all from the trenches looked on at it stupefied. With a mighty lurch—as it were a giant in the agonies of death—the Triumph heeled over and was gone.

Such things are done, and will be done, as long as there are Hymns of Hate in the world. War is a gruesome business.

Just as I walked out of my dug-out this morning two men were shot by a machine-gun not ten yards off—one in the shoulder and the other in the eye. Two seconds ago a big shrapnel shell burst right in front of our dug-out. The bullets flew everywhere, and we bolted to shelter. No one was injured. It is marvellous. Up to the present it has been the most wonderful week in my life—full of excitement and hair-breadth escapes.

Sunday came—May 30. The day dawned peacefully, minus the artillery duel which ordinarily heralds the coming day. The blue Mediterranean lay like a sea of glass at our feet. Imbros Island, opposite Anzac Cove, lay wreathed in the morning mists. Torpedo boats glided to and fro across the waters, lest some adventurous submarine should attack. All was peaceful. Ashore, the wild flowers blossomed on the hillsides. Birds chirruped contentedly in the scrub. Soldiers released from a night's vigil in the trenches sauntered along the winding road to the beach, dived in and sported freely in the sea. The transport mules munched contentedly, and the Indians lay back smoking hubble-bubbles. Light Horsemen (minus their horses) and infantrymen emerged from their dug-outs and stretched themselves lazily in the sun.

It was too good to last—too good altogether. Some activity behind the Turkish trenches attracted the attention of our artillery observation officers, and our guns boomed out a warning. It was evidently disregarded by the enemy, for more of our guns opened fire. Then the Turks replied. The hills around spat fire, and the valleys echoed and re-echoed with peals of thunder. Shrapnel shells and "Jack Johnsons" went screaming overhead, to burst with a deafening report over our trenches and bivouacs. Our guns were so cunningly concealed that the German artillery officers could not locate them, and for the most part their shells ploughed up the unoffending earth, or made harmless rents in the atmosphere. Our artillery had better success. Our guns tore down the Turkish trenches, and the Turks flying to shelter were met with a devastating fire from our machine-guns. Still, we did not have it all our own way. Now and then a shell landed in our trenches, and the story of it was told in the casualty lists.

About one o'clock the artillery duel began, and it continued without cessation for over an hour. The roar was awful. Bullets spattered everywhere. The marvel was that our losses were so few. Gradually the big guns grew silent. Our warships aimed a few salvos on to the enemy's position, then drew off. Soon there was comparative calm. There remained but the interminable fusillade of musketry which never wholly ceased on the trenches round Anzac.

At eventide the Ægean Sea took on new colourings. The sun set in a blaze of splendour; the whole western horizon was alight with its reflected brilliance. The islands seemed to rest against a superb canvas on which Nature had splashed lavishly a wealth of gold and rose-red and saffron and purple and amethyst. The sea in turn mirrored and accentuated the beauties of the scene. The angry armies gazed in quiet contemplation of Nature's craftsmanship, forgetting their mutual hate.

Up on Braund's Hill—where Colonel Braund, who used to sit for Armidale in the New South Wales Parliament, had met with a tragic fate soon after the historic landing was made—right at the entrance to the trenches in the firing-line, Divine Service was being held. In the days of my wanderings I have attended many church services, in shearing-sheds and on mining fields, on board troopships, and in the bush; but never had I attended such a service as this. Captain McKenzie, of the 1st Infantry Brigade, and Captain Robertson, of the 2nd Light Horse, were the officiating chaplains. Soldiers, unkempt, unshaven, unwashed, lolled around on the path or the hillside. Men coming from the trenches joined in the singing. Men going to the trenches for the night lingered awhile. And they sang the old well-known hymns. None asked for "Onward, Christian Soldiers," or any of the warlike hymns at all. They wanted the old gospel hymns. So we sang, "Jesus, Lover of My Soul," "Sweet Hour of Prayer," and "Abide with Me." ...

Firing had recommenced before we finished the service, and the chaplain's voice was now and then drowned in the rattle of musketry or the bursting of shrapnel. And because of the shells and bombs which continually burst overhead, we meant it when we sang "Cover my defenceless head with the shadow of Thy wing."

A few words of prayer, a few words of exhortation and commendation, and then the service was over. Some filed off to the trenches for the vigil of the night. Others formed up for the reserves. The rest of us returned to our dug-outs, to snuggle in while the roar of battle raged overhead. And one soon gets used to the battle noises. I fell asleep thinking of dear old New South Wales, my dear old home, and—my dear old mother.