7 | p.m
Colonel Pearson, O.C. Lancashire Fusiliers, of Lancashire Landing fame, visits us in an exhausted state, his clothes damp and sodden. We provide him with an outfit of dry clothes, gathered from our respective kits. He talks about going back to his regiment to-night, which is sheltering in the C.R.E. nullah, by our forward ration dump, but I think soon he will collapse altogether and have to be evacuated. He was all last night holding a portion of our flooded, sodden and freezing line. At night Horne and I go on to cart some of the rations from the C.R.E. dump to Hill 10 by A.T. carts. On arrival at the camp of the Royal Dublin Fusiliers, we find a poor shivering fatigue party waiting for us. I had expected to find these men in a miserable condition, for their camp has suffered heavily in the storm, and even the best built dugouts have been washed entirely away. We have brought with us whisky-bottles filled with rum and water. As the last cart is unloaded, we hand the bottles to the sergeant, who calls the men up one at a time. They come forward eagerly as each name is called, “Private Murphy! Private O’Brien!” etc., and drink a tot from the bottle handed to them.
It is amusing to watch them standing waiting their turn, with keen anticipation, for a pull at the bottle under the superintendence of their watchful sergeant, who regulates fair play in the length of the drink by interrupting an extra long one by snatching the bottle from the man’s mouth, now and again. As we go away, several of the men shout, “The blessings of Jasus be on you, sir!” in a Dublin brogue, and we leave the poor devils to shiver in the camp the rest of the night. We are delayed in our return by a chase after two mules, which we capture after much difficulty amongst gorse-bushes, trees, and boulders. Calling in at the Australians’ dugout on Kangaroo Beach, we see them sitting round a welcome log fire, and as we warm ourselves, a figure covered in a blanket, his head swathed in a cloth, creeps in stealthily like a cat. He is a half-frozen Drabi, edging towards the fire to warm himself. An Australian makes him understand that he had better go back to his camp, and orders him out. He creeps out, but after a pause I see him come back stealthily once more, unnoticed by the others, and sit at the back of the stove on his haunches, his hands spread out for warmth. He is at last noticed, but some one says, “Let the poor devil be!” and we go on talking, taking no notice of him.