Summary

Anzac On the Anzac trail: Being extracts from the diary of a New Zealand sapper (1916)

The worst of it is that even a slight fall turns this country into a kind of clay bog, owing to the top soil clogging on one's boots and then slipping over the subsoil. It is like climbing a greased egg to scale the hills—and our position here is on top of a high ridge running round a deep gully. Coming down one generally does a joy slide on one's hindquarters.
Source: Gutenberg

Anzac On the Anzac trail: Being extracts from the diary of a New Zealand sapper (1916)

Such, with the addition of ear-splitting coo-ees, wild bush oaths, and a running fire of blasphemy and unearthly cat-calls were the battle cries of the men from Down Under as they drove the enemy out of his trenches and up the hill, through the scrub, over dongas and gullies, right to the base of the sheer cliff itself, up which finally, all mixed together and sliding, crawling, and clinging like monkeys, scrambled pursuer and pursued in one loosely strung mob of panting, war-drunken men.
Source: Gutenberg

Anzac On the Anzac trail: Being extracts from the diary of a New Zealand sapper (1916)

But it is a noble old river, and it slides placidly along as if well aware of the fact that Egypt exists on its good-natured benevolence. Its average breadth near Cairo would work out at about 300 yards, I should say. There is no sign of hustle or flurry about the Nile, and if you live near it for a spell you'll have a tough job keeping in the collar, for its spirit is apt to get into your blood some, and you'll find yourself dropping into as big a slow-go as the slowest of the natives who pray to it.
Source: Gutenberg

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