Back of our trenches, on a little slope facing the sea, is a spot called Happy Valley, so named by our own men. It is dotted all over with little crosses that mark the resting places of our comrades who have gone under. When one stands and looks at those rough little mounds, which in truth are nought but shrouds of honour, teeth seem to clench and the rifle grip tighten, when one can see in imagery, a grey headed old mother sitting tremblingly, expectantly, patiently, with hopes that these little crosses only too truly shatter.
All our ammunition and provisions are brought up on mules by the Indian Transport Column. That