Section 8 of the Anzac Book, CEW Bean

THE ANZAC THUNDERSTORM FROM THE TRENCHES

D0 not we know that fall of night over Anzac ! Boom-boom! Boom-boom! Boom-boom! All the afternoon the warships on our right had been engaged in the playful work of tearing pieces from the hillsides of Achi Baba, eight miles to the south of us, ruining the trenches of our friend the enemy, blowing up a supply base, a mule train, dropping shells on the forts, or indulging in some of the many small acts of friendliness to which Jack Tar is prone. As the evening wore on we could see the flash from both shell and gun.

About the time we finished our frugal evening meal lightning began to play in intermittent flashes, like a heavenly searchlight, from far across the hidden Narrows and Asia Minor, and put to shame the puny bursts of light from the handiwork of man. The boats were still at it, but their dull booming was now intermixed with the rumble of distant thunder.

The lightning becomes more vivid. There is a rattling, crashing roar from the artillery of the skies that can never be equalled by any earthly batteries. Surely the Creator is in angry mood to-night, as comes a deafening peal, followed by vivid flashes of forked lightning in fantastic shapes. One seems a long arm with hooked fingers, as though the Most High would grasp one or both of the contending armies and hurl them into the seas.

The lightning plays around the steel points of the bayonets of the motionless sentries, standing ever ready under the parapets, and keeping a ceaseless watch the night through on the enemy trenches.

Trench and traverse, hill and valley, are revealed by a brighter light than that of day. The rude wooden crosses, marking the places where, alas! too many of Australasia's best have fallen, are brought out in bold relief against the dark background of holly scrub, and the narrow strips of winding roadway on the long hillsides from the beach - the work of months- up which perspiring fatigue parties toil with rations, water, ammunition and other necessary stores the day long, are laid out as a relief map by Heaven's electricity.

A rattling, crashing roar, such as I have never heard in any Australian thunderstorm, is followed by a deafening clap, and a huge ball of fire falls earthward at terrific speed in the direction of Constantinople, followed by a sound as of a shattering explosion, which causes the very hillsides to quake, traverse and parapet to tremble, and the roofs of dug-outs to send down a shower of stones.

The ships have long given up the unequal struggle to make their voices heard against those of the elements, and as the storm passes over, and the rumblings of the thunder become more and more distant and the lightning less vivid, the veil is drawn from the face of the moon, and the White Lady sails out into her own once more.

The storm has had its effect on those manning the trenches. The bubbling rattle of the machine-gun, the sharp crack of Turkish rifles, and the heavier report of our own arms, which usually punctuate the night, are noticeable by their absence. The turmoil of an hour ago has turned to unbelievable quiet.

I. A. Saxon, 21st Australian Battalion.

SENSE OR --?

There's a certain hard-hearted old censor
- (Which is not meaning any offence, Sir)
- Who won't let us tell,
- When we say " I'm quite well,"
- Where we've planted the water condenser.
And that same stony-hearted old censor,
- When we speak of the shell-smoke as dense, Sir,
- Will rule it out straight-
- And the same if we state
- That some of our non-coms are denser.
And yet this same rigid old censor
- (Whose business must now be immense, Sir)
- Will let it go through-
- Tho' he knows it's not true-
- If we tell her our love grows intenser!
But though mostly this rigid old censor
- Is a far stiffer bar than a fence, Sir,
- Yet he let down the rails
- For our Christmas mails,
- So three jolly good cheers for the censor.

C. D. Mc. (Sergt.).

OUR SAILORS-THE AMPHIBIOUS MAN

Our special correspondent having been permitted the exceptional privilege of obtaining some insight into the work of the Navy, we are enabled to publish the following invaluable article :

BUT was that really he? That stylish pair of khaki-coloured overall trousers surmounted by a serviceable-looking British warm patrol tunic of the same excellent material? At first glance it was hard to distinguish him from the dapper looking foot-gunner, with whom he was engaged in lively conversation. Their words were inaudible to us onlookers, but from what one could gather the foot-gunner was making some interesting comments on the system of naval pinnaces.

And was this all of the representative of the greatest naval power that ever placed foot upon the land? But as the observer drew nearer, the flash of illumination came. For there, poised elegantly on the bows of the natty blue trench sou'wester was the emblem of Britain's naval supremacy, the silver anchor in a golden hoop.

"Shiver my corrugated iron!" he was saying-using a phrase I remembered having heard so often as a young sub-midshipman (or "spotty," as they are affectionately known by their seniors) on the old Bellicasus - when, noting the presence of company, he turned with a polite smile to the intruders and waved his apologies. It was then that one noted the true stamp of the man. He was a sailor every inch of him, from the drop of salt spray that dangled lazily from the tip of his nose to the purple-tinted seaweed that chin affectionately to the soles of his boots ; and his speech was laden with that peculiar crispness and alertness which we associate with sailors; they imbibe it from the salt atmosphere of the gunroom and the ward-room. But what struck one most about him was his youthful appearance. " What's What * ~ would probably give his age as 29 (though he did not look a day more than 28), and yet from the three bands on his cuff it was obvious to one of the writer's experience in naval matters that be must be a subaltern-commander.

" Is it much like what you thought it would be after all your training?" I asked.

" Yes, pretty much," was the reply, with an oddly reminiscent smile. " Iron is heavier than water, and a pinnace afloat is worth six aground."

Here, I realised, was a man of perception-one who was fitted to guide the destinies of a great nation. " And the landing of all these vast quantities of stores," I urged; " is not that a great task?"

" We do not land them," be said impressively and decisively, with the air of one closing an argument. We unship them."

I nodded understandingly. So that, then, was the key to the great mystery.

Lieut. A. L. PEMBERTON, HQ Staff, 24th Siege Bde. R.G.A.