November 8th
A cool, lovely day. Flies are dying rapidly—the best news to record for a long time. Two new A.S.C. officers arrive to join us, named Matthews and Elphinstone. Very few shells this morning, but they come very near our dugout this time. Cox, of the Essex, comes in for a chat, the only original officer now left of that regiment. I walk back with him to Brigade H.Q., and Matthews comes with me. Walking across the flat space just leading to the 86th Brigade H.Q., I point out to Matthews the lines of light-brown earth running up the slopes of the hill on our left front, and he hardly believes me when I tell him one line is Turkish. Like all who newly arrive, he is surprised at the short walk from the beach to the line. Our batteries are dusting the Turkish line with shrapnel, and their batteries are retaliating. They make very good shooting on both sides, as, of course, they have all ranges registered to a nicety. We call at both Brigades, and have tea at each. Coming away, Matthews tells me that he is of a retiring disposition, and that he does not like being thrown suddenly into new society, and that two tea-parties is more than his nerves can stand, more especially when a General is present at each.