Now it was on this same evening that Paddy Doolan roused the whole regiment to a state of alarm. He was on sentry go on the extreme left of his regiment's line. Being dark, Paddy began to feel the effects of things supernatural. Every sound, every moving leaf or blade was a Turk. He had fired at a few nothings, and during a spell of silence he was amazed to hear on his left a chattering in a strange tongue.
"Turks, be Jasus, they're in our trenches. Mother of Mary, preserve us," said Paddy, crossing himself. He listened again. They were chanting a weird dirge. It was something between a Highland lament and a Hindoo snake song. Paddy was amazed. Life seemed to be a shorter affair, and he pictured himself lying dead on the parapet with his throat cut. His teeth were chattering, and his nerves on the run. At last he managed to bellow out, "Stand to!" The half-sleeping men jumped to their rifles and waited below the parapet.
"What's up, Doolan?" said the officer on reaching them.
"Turks in our trenches, sor. Heaven preserve us."
"Where?"
"There, sor! There, sor! Listen to them."
The officer listened. He heard the weird chanting. It wasn't English, it didn't seem Turkish. What on earth was it, he wondered. At last he made up his mind.
"Here, six of you fix bayonets, follow me," and down the communication trench he crouched and crawled towards the left. They now neared the weird chanting noise. The officer cocked his revolver and whispered back, "Get ready, boys." Then, dashing round a bend, he burst on to a dark-skinned group.
"Hands up!" he shouted.
"What's up, boss?" said a smiling dusky gent in khaki, with a New Zealand badge on his shoulder.