When I was a good little boy going to Sunday school, teacher gave me a book entitled Wonderful Escapes. I read it with absorbing interest, for it told of the marvellous escapes of princes and princesses from fortified castles in the hands of their enemies.

Yet these delightful tales which so thrilled my youthful imagination pale into insignificance and seem quite commonplace when compared with the hair-breadth escapes which I have witnessed, and which I have myself experienced since the 2nd Light Horse Brigade landed on battle-scarred Gallipoli.

With the Taubes dropping bombs and darts from the sky, with the Turks undermining and blowing up our advanced trenches, with snipers cunningly concealed on the ridges, and the enemy's big guns sending high explosives right across the Peninsula, there is really not a single safe spot in all Gallipoli. So, when these Australian soldiers get home again and fight their battles o'er again, don't disbelieve them. The truth here is much more startling than any fiction.

I vouch for the absolute accuracy of the following incidents, for they all came within my own ken. Some will say 'tis "luck"; some, "fate." Others speak of the law of averages. It may be that the prayers of thousands of Australian mothers and sisters beseeching Heaven for the safety of their loved ones are not all in vain. For in very truth there have been occasions when escape from instant death has savoured of the supernatural. Men have left their dug-outs for a few seconds, and almost on the instant a shell has wrecked those same dug-outs. Others have seen shells fall on the identical spot they occupied a few seconds before. Men have come back scatheless from the open field which has been ploughed with shrapnel. Some have charged across the hills in the teeth of murderous machine-guns, which were spitting death-pellets unceasingly.

General Birdwood was having a look at the enemy's position when a sniper's bullet parted his hair and split his scalp. Half an inch lower would have been certain death. It would take pages and pages to tell of the lucky escapes I could relate.

Take the case of Colonel Ryrie, now a brigadier-general. There is a very comforting idea that regimental headquarters are always a long way behind the firing-line, while brigade headquarters are further back still. Therefore, it is argued, a brigadier has a nice, safe job. This may be all right in theory, but it does not work out so in practice. I call to mind that hearty send-off given to the then Colonel Ryrie by his constituents at North Sydney, and what the recipient of that favour said on the occasion. "Don't you worry about me," he said, "I'll come back all right. They may knock some corners off me, but they won't get me." Some "corners" have been knocked off him. I do not believe there has been a day when the Brigadier-General has not visited the firing-line of his brigade—up to the time when a bullet got him in the neck and he was lost to us for some time in hospital. Time and again he has taken the sniper's "posey" and mingled in a bit of sharpshooting himself. Also, he has at different times gone in advance of our firing-line to select new positions. Once, with his brigade-major and orderly officer, he suddenly stopped to watch a squadron at bayonet exercise, and a shrapnel shell burst, and the case landed right in front of him. Had he not stopped, it is certain the party would have been wiped out.

On another occasion the Brigadier-General and Major Onslow, Major Suttor, Major Windeyer, Major Rutledge, Captain Miller and Captain Higgins were outside Colonel Arnott's dug-out, when three shells burst overhead. No one was hurt, though a fragment of shell landed in the midst of them. There is always so much more landscape to hit than man.

Such incidents can be multiplied by the score. Sergeant Christie Hayden—who was badly wounded in South Africa—emerged from his dug-out the other day, and a shell missed him by inches, and wrecked his little grey home. Sergeant Paddy Ryan, Sergeant Ken Alford, and Lieutenant Pearce were standing together on Holly Ridge a few days ago and a sniper's bullet perforated the hats of both the sergeants, and missed the officer by a fraction of an inch. I wonder did that sniper wait till he got the three in line, instead of making sure of one? Trooper Sandy Jacques showed his head over a parapet for a couple of seconds, and a sniper fired, but by a merciful dispensation of Providence, the bullet split just before reaching him. The nickel casing went to the right, and the leaden missile to the left. So Jacques got a slight wound on each side of the head, and was able to walk to the ambulance. Some wag has suggested that the bullet knew very well what to expect if it struck Sandy's head, so it took the line of least resistance; another said that Jacques was wounded by two different bullets from a machine-gun. Lieutenant Lang sent a man for water. As he walked away a high explosive shell passed right between his legs and then exploded. The soldier merely exclaimed "Strewth!"

Here's an example of good and bad luck following one upon the other's heels. The Turks bombarded our lines, and hurled half a dozen shells into our trench, smashing down parapets, wrecking rifles and gear, splathering bullets and splinters everywhere, and yet miraculously missing everybody. Later on a single stray bullet found its way through a loophole, ran off at an eccentric angle, and killed young Trooper Bellinger, one of the best lads in the Sixth.

I went down to Anzac Cove for a swim. About 500 soldiers were having a glorious time—better than Bondi. Half a dozen shells landed in the water, while the pellets splashed all round like hail. Most of the swimmers sought shelter; some took not the slightest notice. Not one man was hit! But they are not always as lucky as that. Sometimes they pay for their temerity. Trumpeter Newman and I stood outside the field hospital a week ago, and a big howitzer shell burst fairly in front of us, killing or wounding a dozen men. Neither of us suffered a scratch, but there was a ringing in my ears for hours afterwards.

Lieutenant Ferguson was out on Ryrie's Post, beyond the firing-line, for over an hour, while the Turkish artillery just dotted the whole area with shrapnel. Hardly a square yard missed getting something, yet he never stopped one. When Sergeant Shelley walked along Shell Green a shell burst, and we could hardly see him for the dust kicked up by the flying shrapnel bullets, yet he never got a scratch. Another shell just shaved an infantryman, who turned round, shook his fist at it, and swore loud and long. A second shell came after the first, so close that it almost took the soldier's breath away. He did not wait to swear again, but ran like a scared rabbit to his dug-out!

An infantry officer vouched for the accuracy of the following story:—Two "Jack Johnson" shells (probably fired from the Goeben) landed in quick succession in a trench occupied by half-a-dozen Australians. The first tore down the parapet and buried one of the soldiers. Before his mates could dig him out the second shell burst in and disentombed him.