George and Bill, Tom and Dick and Harry—all a happy family, having a wonderful time. You never knew what was going to happen next. At any moment your turn might come. You could not tell. But you saw old pals in the morning, and you didn't see them in the evening. Sometimes the mate who had shared your tent and fought alongside you in the trench—the mate who was with you at Holdsworthy, who was with you in Egypt, and laughed and joked with you at Anzac—was suddenly snatched away from you, and then you realized what a thin line it is that separates life from death. Have you ever dreamed that you were standing on the edge of a precipice and that an enemy was racing along behind you to push you over? That was how we felt during these days on Gallipoli. A moment, and then you too might be falling headlong down the precipice. But we found it best not to let our minds dwell upon it.

So we went on burrowing into the side of the hill. We banked up the sides of our dug-outs with sandbags and tins and earth. Most of the fighting was being done in the trenches. In some places they were now 1,500 yards apart, in some only twenty-one feet apart; and in the latter case life was all excitement. It was sap and mine and bomb and fusillade all the time. My brigade had now been here for some time, and despite the "accidents" which were always occurring we all had, somehow or other, a feeling of absolute security. We laughed at the Turks, and we smiled at what Liman von Sanders said—that he would drive us into the sea. We were just waiting, content and confident, for the big move that was going to lead to Constantinople!

And as I have said, we were a fairly well-fed army. We had none of the luxuries that the British Expeditionary Force had in France and Flanders. But on the whole we did not do too badly. The brigadier ate the same "tucker" as his batman.

We were given meat and vegetables and biscuits and cheese and jam. If only we could have had a lump of bread for a change! For the biscuits were so hard that they could be used to defend the trenches, if necessary—either as missiles or as overhead cover. Colonel —— broke one of his teeth on one. So we tried to soak them in our tea. Then we made them into porridge.

There was fighting on land and sea, in the air and under the water. Aeroplane reconnaissance was a daily spectacle. Our airmen would go aloft and have a good look at the enemy's position. The enemy's guns would boom out all the time, and shrapnel shells would burst all round the 'plane without ever seeming to hit it. We thought it was great sport watching the white puffs of smoke where the shells burst. Then the aeroplanes would drop bombs on the Turks for spite—"throw-downs" we called them. Sometimes the position was reversed, and the Germans dropped bombs on us. Two can play at the same game in war. Take the hand grenades. You should have seen Corporal Renwick take them! Before he became a soldier Renwick was well known on the cricket field—as indeed were hundreds of others—and on Gallipoli he used to catch the bombs and throw them back before they exploded. Nor was he the only one who did this. It was like tossing live coals back and forth—playing with fire. Some of our boys used to say it was the best "slip practice" they ever had! Sometimes a bomb would explode prematurely and a man's fingers would be blown off, and worse than that. But the others went on with the game.

And we went swimming down at the beach, just as if it had been Manly or Coogee. Only it was more exciting: Shells took the place of sharks. Instead of the sudden cry one would sometimes hear at Manly or Coogee of "'Ware shark," it was "'Ware shell!" The Turks are not the surfers that the Australians are. They had little sympathy with such healthy exercise, and they showed their disapproval of it by opening fire on the beach; and then there was a warning whistle, and we all rushed in to shelter. Afterwards we had the pleasure of initiating some Turkish prisoners into the joys of surf-bathing, but the majority of them did not take kindly to it.

And all the time the fighting went on. One night we had a great set-to. The Turks mined one of our trenches and rushed in and captured it. This was the affair at "Quinn's Post." We counter-attacked and re-took the trench, killed and captured some of the Turks, and then took one of their trenches. Then the hand grenades began to come, and the cricket commenced. It was an exciting match. The Turks made a determined attempt to recapture the position. They charged in strong force, but our chaps all along the line "hit them to leg." We enfiladed them with rifle and machine-gun fire, and they were eventually repulsed with a loss of about 2,000.

Wiggins, of the Field Ambulance, was sitting in his dug-out, and two of his mates went out and called to him. He leaned out and said: "Not yet; the shrapnel hasn't stopped." Then a shrapnel shell passed between the other two and struck him on the head and killed him.

Life and death! A very thin line.... One never knows. "In the morning the grass groweth up, in the evening it is cut down and withered."

One day the word went round that "Robbo" had been killed. We would not believe it at first. It seemed a silly lie, one of those baseless camp rumours that some fool starts for a joke. Some of the officers went round to see for themselves. Colonel Cox stood by the dug-out, looking old and stricken. "Robbo's killed," he said. Then we knew it was true. Alas, alas, here was a loss! For "Robbo" was great.

The Turks had been subjecting us to a heavy bombardment for some days, and our artillery had been responding vigorously. Mostly their shells buried themselves in the sides of the hills, or exploded somewhat harmlessly in the air. Then one unlucky shrapnel shell burst right over the headquarters of the 6th Light Horse Regiment—and "Robbo" was there.

Lieutenant Henry Robson lay on the floor of the dug-out, a shrapnel bullet in his breast. And we who had lived with him in camp and on the march for eight strenuous months, sorrowed as keenly as will his North Coast friends. To Colonel Cox it was not only the loss of an officer; it was also the loss of an old friend who years before had shared the dangers of battles and the stress of war.

All of us liked Lieutenant Robson. His bark was far worse than his bite. He'd give a shirking soldier the full force of his tongue, but his heart—"right there" as "Tipperary" has it—was in the right place. Kind of heart, genial of temper, and always willing to help others along, we mourn a man that can ill be spared. He was reckoned the best transport officer in Egypt. He knew horses as few men did. Australians are reputed to be good horsemen, but poor horse-masters. But Lieutenant Robson was good all round with horses. He would get more work out of a team than any one I know. He could get a full measure of work from his men also. But he never overdrove man or beast. That's why we liked him.

Harry Robson was forty-eight years of age when he died a soldier's death on Gallipoli Heights. He was one of the original Northern River Lancers, and went to England with the New South Wales Lancers in 1893. Later on he went home with the Lancers under Colonel Cox in 1899. Standing six feet two in his socks, he was as straight as the lance he carried. He was an expert swordsman, and won several prizes at the tournaments in Scotland and at Islington. At tent-pegging he was an acknowledged champion. On the transport and in Egypt we had many bouts with the sword and singlesticks, but none of the younger officers could worst Robson, although he was old enough to be their father.

When the South African war broke out, he was sergeant-major in the New South Wales Lancers under Colonel Cox, they being the first Colonial troops to land at the Cape. He went right through the war, and participated in the battles of Modder River, Magersfontein, Grasspan, Paardeberg, Driefontein, and the Relief of Kimberley. He was with French's column during the main advance. When the 3rd Imperial Mounted Rifles were formed, Lieutenant Robson became transport officer under Colonel Cox, and saw a lot of service in Natal, the Orange Free State, and Eastern Transvaal. He participated in Kitchener's big drives, wherein his resourcefulness was of great help to the column. On one occasion Remington's column was held up by an impassable, boggy morass. The Inniskillens and Canadians were bogged. The Australians halted. Lieutenant Robson improvised a crossing with bales of hay and reeds, and got his transport over while the others were wondering how far round they would have to go. On another occasion in the Transvaal, by a simple device, he crossed the Wilge River with all his mules and wagons at a place reckoned absolutely hopeless for wheeled transport.

After the South African war he settled down on the Northern Rivers, and prospered. But when this great cataclysm convulsed the world, he heard the call of Empire, and responded like a patriot. He wired to Colonel Cox, offering his services, and left the comforts of home for the discomforts of war. On board the transport he was most painstaking and zealous in the performance of his duties. At Ma'adi he had his transport running as smoothly as a machine. When we found we were going without our horses, we thought that Lieutenant Robson would be left behind. But at the last moment the regimental quartermaster fell ill, and Robson filled the breach. And so for nine weary weeks of fighting he looked after the needs of the regiment, and not one trooper ever went to bed hungry. (I say "bed," but none of us has seen a bed for many months.)

As quartermaster, there was no need for him to be poking about the trenches and up in the firing-line as he did. But it was not in the firing-line he was killed. That is the fortune of war. He was standing just near headquarters watching the warships gliding over the Ægean Sea. Then came the fatal shell, and "Robbo" passed out to the Beyond.