3 | p.m
Ride with Foley to Morto Bay for a bathe. Bay full of French and Senegalese bathing. As we sat undressing, one big, burly fellow came up to Foley and said, “Speak English, how do you do?” and held out his hands. Foley was so taken aback that he shook hands. He then turned to me, and showing his teeth, said, “Tobacco.” Being rather afraid that he was going to bite me, I quickly took out my pouch and gave him a handful. Then a sergeant, also a nigger, came running up, and ordered him off, using most fearful language apparently, and away he went, running like mad. They are fine-looking men. Morto Bay looking very beautiful. I can imagine this a fine watering-place, after the war, with promenade, gardens, hotels, golf-links, etc.
Achi Baba looked a beautiful bronze colour, with patches of green. The Dardanelles show a deep blue colour, gradually blending into the purple of the Asiatic side, with its background of mountains. At the entrance, little mine-sweepers are on duty. The beach is full of naked black and white figures bathing, and the country in the background is dotted with French camps. The firing-line in the distance, and our guns popping off at intervals, and enemy shells now and again whistling overhead—such is the environment in which we have our bathe.
Foley suggests riding back through Sed-el-Bahr, which we do, and we were fortunate in doing so, as eight shells, beautifully placed, exploded just over the road that we otherwise should have taken, and at about the time that we should have been passing along it.