And sure enough it was, and they were advancing, rifles cocked and loaded.
They came straight up to us and halted four paces away, just as we were debating whether to run away or trust to luck that our escort could protect us.
In a stentorian voice the leader exclaimed accusingly: "You lit three matches."
No one denied it, and on Captain M—— parleying with them, it transpired that under martial law the beach and cliffs are entirely forbidden precincts after sundown.
On discovering who we were they owned that they had seriously debated the advisability of shooting us from the cliffs, and would certainly have done so had we turned tail and fled!
Insignificant though the incident is, it serves to show how efficiently our Allies guard their coast, how thorough and quick they are in their methods, and how little they leave to chance, even at a hospital base.
April 22nd. It has been impossible to write. We have been working sixteen to eighteen, even twenty, hours per day. The rush of troops that preceded and succeeded the British success at Hill 60 has broken up most of the camp workers, so that we have taken to rising at 4 A.M., motoring to the camp in the car now devoted to the "relatives," and turning our hands at other people's jobs before it is time to begin our own.
Camp work is different from anything in the world. The crowd is such that it is impossible (with our limited number of workers and insufficient equipment) to keep supplies equal to demand.
After an hour spent in handing out field service post cards (which is all the men may send home from here) one is dizzy from the crowd. Twenty thousand cards disappear in less time than it takes to tell, although each man is in reality only allowed one.