There wasn't much to be seen of the country, for after we left the Bosporus we ran into scuds of snow, and except that we seemed to be climbing on to a big plateau I had no notion of the landscape.

It was a marvel that we made such good time, for that line was congested beyond anything I have ever seen.

The place was crawling with the Gallipoli troops, and every siding was packed with supply trucks.

When we stopped--which we did on an average about once an hour--you could see vast camps on both sides of the line, and often we struck regiments on the march along the railway track.
They looked a fine, hardy lot of ruffians, but many were deplorably ragged, and I didn't think much of their boots.

I wondered how they would do the five hundred miles of road to Erzerum.
Blenkiron played Patience, and Peter and I took a hand at picquet, but mostly we smoked and yarned.