The narrative of the Zionists in Gallipoli has been written during the enforced idleness of the past month—a month which has been spent in endeavouring to recover sufficient health and strength to enable me to take a further, and, I trust, a more useful, hand in the Great Drama now approaching its climax.

In the following pages I have "set down nought in malice," neither have I given a word of praise where praise is not due—and more than due. My relations with those with whom I came into contact were excellent, and on the very rare occasions when they were otherwise, it was not due to any seeking of mine, but, unfortunately, my temperament is not such that I can suffer fools gladly.

My story is one of actual happenings, told just as I saw them with some suggestions thrown in, and if from these a hint is taken here and there by those in the "Seats of the Mighty," then so much the better for our Cause.

My chief object in writing this book is to interest the Hebrew nation in the fortunes of the Zionists and show them of what their Russian brothers are capable, even under the command of an alien in race and religion. Those who have the patience to follow me through these pages will, of course, see that I am not by any means an alien in sympathy and admiration for the people who have given to the world some of its greatest men, not to mention The Man who has so profoundly changed the world's outlook.

London, 1916.