A year or more ago, when we sang this old song, we thought that the days of the grenadiers were numbered, that future warfare would know them no more.

Yet here we were on Gallipoli, reverting to the grenades of the Peninsular War, and the old Roman catapult, and even the bows and arrows. The enemy was so close to us that we could not use some of our guns to demolish his trenches. We even had to take some of our howitzers back a mile in order to hit the enemy in front of us. What a conglomeration of anomalies this war presents! In an age when our big guns can hurl huge projectiles many miles, we are compelled to fight with bows and bayonets and bombs and brickbats.

Bricks were not often used. But when the Turkish snipers "sneaked" close up to our lines through the scrub, we threw stones at the likely places. Thinking these missiles were bombs, the Turk would often run, or else disclose his position. Then we gave him a few rounds rapid.

One day a German aeroplane flew along the coast, and in plain view of the army dropped a huge bomb at our hospital ship, only missing the target by about fifty yards. There were no other ships near, so there was no excuse. This cowardly act so incensed our medical officer that he went straight out to our firing-line and threw a brick at the Turks, forty yards off. "I wear the Red Cross," he apologized, "so I cannot fire at them, and they are not supposed to fire on me. But I must show my indignation somehow."

As to the bows and arrows: this was Major Midgley's idea. At night the Turkish patrols crawled up close to our lines, and sniped away without being seen. Our flares could not be thrown far enough to show them up. So we made bows out of pine saplings and wire and sent fiery arrows into the scrub. This made the unwelcome visitors keep a respectful distance.

But if bows and bricks were only incidentals, the bombs were the real thing. In the wild bayonet charges our footballers were simply irresistible. But with the bombs our cricketers excelled. One of them exclaimed: "We've got the cows bluffed." Another boasted: "We've got 'em beaten to a frazzle"—shade of Roosevelt! Anyhow, our chaps could beat the Turks at the bomb business. Have I not already told how some of our cricketers caught the enemy's bombs and hurled them back again?

There was a picture—in Punch I think—of the incident of the Irishman who yelled out to the Germans, "How many of yez are there?" and on getting the answer "T'ousands," he heaved a bomb, saying, "Well, share that amongst ye!" The Australians have quite the same humorous appreciation of the situation. With the trenches anything between 10 and 1,000 yards apart, there was ample scope for the passing of compliments as well as bombs between the contending forces. It was quite common for a trooper to cry out: "Are you there, Abdul? Well, here's baksheesh." Or may be, "Here you are, Mohammed, here's a Christmas box"; and a hand grenade would accompany the sally. When a Turkish bomb arrived the Australian merely observed: "Maleesch," or "Ver' good, ver' nice," in imitation of the "gyppie" dragoman. If a bomb exploded right in the trench or on the parapet the real Australian "Slanguage" was sure to be heard. One Light Horseman was heard to observe as a bomb exploded over his head: "These Turks are clumsy cows; they'll be killing some of us if they ain't more careful!" Once the voice of a Hun sounded from a Turkish trench: "Come on you—kangaroo-shooters!" But prisoners told us that the German officers were rarely seen in the firing-line. They felt safer further back.

A curious incident happened in the infantry lines. A kangaroo-shooter from the Kimberley country threw a bomb at a Turkish trench only fifteen yards away, and the cries of "Allah," "Allah," told him that his aim was true. He turned to his mates and remarked casually, "That's the first man I've killed without getting into a heap of trouble." A much more unsophisticated youth—one of the recent reinforcements—had been a week in the trenches without actually seeing one of the enemy. Then a Turk jumped on the parapet, threw a bomb, and jumped down again. And the guileless one exclaimed, "That's the first Turk I've seen in his wild state!"

Lieutenant Massie, the giant Varsity cricketer, son of the General Manager of the Commercial Banking Company of Sydney—known in the 1st Brigade as "Massive"—was throwing bombs one night (he can throw bombs farther than any man on Gallipoli), and after landing a few in the Turkish trenches, he accidentally struck his hand on the back of the trench. The bomb he was about to throw rolled along the bottom of the trench and then exploded. Everybody in the vicinity bolted to the nearest traverse, so no one was hurt badly. But Massie was kept busy for a week picking bomb splinters out of himself.

Massie had several miraculous escapes since landing on Gallipoli. The closest shave occurred when he was out in front of the firing-line fixing some barbed wire. He was clambering back over the parapet when one of his own men mistook him for a Turk and lunged at him with his bayonet. Massie ducked just as if he were dodging a "straight left," but the point of the bayonet caught him in the neck, inflicting, fortunately, only a slight wound. Later he was seriously wounded, and was taken off to hospital.

There was one senior officer in the Light Horse who occasionally enjoyed fresh fish for breakfast. This was very rare on Gallipoli. The cook would never tell whence the fish came, but it was noted that the regimental supply of bombs was always one or two short. Nobody ever connected the absence of bombs with the presence of fish. But one morning very early the officer noticed the cook making stealthily in the direction of the cove. He followed. Then he saw the bombs explode in the water, and he saw the cook swim out and gather in half a dozen fine big mullet. An hour later he had delicious fresh fish for breakfast, while most of the officers had bully-beef and bacon. The officer was in a quandary. He did not know whether to court-martial the cook or promote him!

One other bomb incident I hesitate to give, as I did not see it, and cannot vouch for it. But up at Quinn's Post they swore it was true. I give it in the words of the callous-hearted soldier who told me the story. "We were giving Abdul a 'bit of hurry-up up' at Quinn's," he said. "Jim always was slow, and it settled him. He had a 5-seconds bomb, made out of a 'baccy' tin, and he was told to count one, two, three, and on the 'three' chuck the blame thing into the Turkish trenches. Well, he lit it, and it never burned too good, so he starts blowing at the fuse. He looked awful comical, and we yelled at him to 'shot.' But he kept on blowing till the dash thing exploded, and blew half his head off. He was a humorous bloke."