Letter from 2nd Lieutenant F. Norman Payne—March 25, 1917.—“After the Regiment getting nicely settled down to their garrison work they were suddenly ordered away, and are now seventy miles beyond Baghdad.
“Poor chaps may be out weeks and weeks, and already have been five weeks without any kit, it all still being at Bassouia Camp.[55] The boats coming up river are fully laden and won’t stop to pick up anything like that.”
 DEPARTURE FROM BAGHDAD | ||
 DEAD TURKS | ||
 CAPTURED ARABS AWAITING EXECUTION | ||
THE DIALA AND KHALIS CANAL CAMPAIGN | ||
From Private Hugh H. Mortimer to his Mother, April 3, 1917.
On the trek, 3. 4. 17.
“My dearest Mother,—No doubt you all thought my last letter a bit of a hash, which it verily was, but if you only knew the conditions under which I wrote it you’d think I was lucky to get it off as it was. I wrote part of it in Baghdad, as I was in the City Military Police for a week, and could not manage to post it then, so I had to take it with me when the order came to get on the move again. Do you think they could do without the Thirteenth Hussars here when there’s any dirty work to be done? Not likely. We got the job as Cavalry garrison in the capital because we’d distinguished ourselves on the drive-up, and incidentally lost more than half, but when reinforcements came up and not many of them, out we had to go again: the Cavalry Division could not manage without us.
“We’ve been living mainly on fresh air, biscuits, dates, and water, with an occasional bully or fresh-meat stew when we can buy or pinch a sheep from Mr Arab. Lor’ knows where we are now, but we can’t be far from the Russians; in fact, I believe one column of ours is in communication with them. Our aeroplanes have been over to ’em several times.
“Well, that’s that. We have had some very exciting little times since we left B. [Baghdad?], and I thought it was all up when ten of us, all that’s left of the 4th troop, ‘C’ squadron, had to go out twelve miles in advance on reconnaissance, as we got cut off by their Cavalry twice, and had to gallop miles for life and ford a canal, known as Kelly’s Canal,[56] about eight feet deep. Still we got back none much the worse.
“Have you ever experienced the thrill one gets when something happens to lift one out of the blackest depths of depression, &c.? Well, it was like this, I hadn’t got a fag or shred of baccy, and hadn’t had a smoke for days; was browned off to the eyebrows on bully and biscuit diet with occasional spoonful of jam thrown in here and there—more then than now—and was trying to snatch forty winks—we were having a rest day—under my saddle with flies and mosquitoes buzzing around, sweating like a bull with the heat of the aft’noon even with one thin shirt on, when a bloke kicked my feet and shouted, ‘Cheero, Morty, mail’s up.’