Abdul is struggling along the main road leading to Stamboul with many others. He no longer hearkens to the beating of the tom-toms, and to the patriotic exhortations of a straggling mob following behind with green banners. “It is Kismet,” he murmurs, as he turns once more for a last look at the silvery winding thread below—the Bosphorus, on whose shores lies his home, his all. He has been told there is a war. He does not question; he knows not the cause. It is fate. He trudges on.
The fighting has been fierce. He is hard pressed. Sweating with blood he draws back. His regiment is hard put to it, and, like sheep without a master, the men are preparing to disperse. Already German machine-guns from their rear are on to them. The road home means death. Like a man he faces the rush of his opponents.
He sees strange faces—the pain from his wounds is calmed. Once more there swim before his eyes his home, his wife, his plantation of maize so promising.
Allah was great—it was Kismet.
H. E. W.,
A. & N. Z. A. C.
ARMY BISCUITS
Biscuits! Army biscuits! What a volume of blessings and cursings have been uttered on the subject of biscuits—army biscuits!
What a part they take in our daily routine: the carrying of them, the eating of them, the cursing at them!