2 p.m.
Rumour hath it that we have taken the first two lines of trenches. The armoured cars return to their dugout garage, one with one man wounded inside.
4.30 p.m.
Prisoners come marching down the beach under escort. Big, hardy chaps, in ill-fitting khaki clothes, and many with cloth helmets on their heads, looking rather like the paper hats I used to make when a kid.
6 p.m.
I go up to see the Quartermasters, to pass on instructions that rations to-night will be dumped at the same place as last, namely at the ruined house in front of Pink Farm—and so we cannot have advanced much. I meet a wounded R.N.D. officer, and he tells me that the French have been forced to give way on the right, and that his Division, immediately on their left, having advanced, are in consequence rather hung between the Devil and the deep sea. I stop and look through Butler’s strong telescope, and see in front of Krithia, before a green patch, which we on the beach call the cricket pitch, little figures digging in hard at a new line.
9 p.m.
Rifle fire still intense, and shore batteries going at it—all out. The battleships have gone home to bed.
Achi Baba looks more formidable than ever.