Then there were the shrapnel bursting behind "W" beach, and the little shells which sometimes burst there, but, more often than not, only buried themselves with a little spurt of dust. He would wonder whether Bubbles or the Lamp-post had been hit, and hoped they had not, because they had promised to send him off a shell, or anything interesting, as a curio. And, later on, there were the high-explosive shells, which sometimes burst in the air over that beach, and at other times burst on the ground with a horrid noise which frightened him, even where he was, in the ship, and made him rather alter his mind about going ashore to see the fun.
The Turkish aeroplanes, or German most probably--the "Taubes" he had heard so much of--they came often; and at the first news of "hostile aeroplane approaching from the north-east" he would dash on deck, and try to spot them as they appeared over the top of Achi Baba--little moving spots which he lost sight of, if he was not very careful, until they came nearer and nearer, and the sun made their wings glisten like silver. He knew that each carried bombs, and often he could actually see these little things at the moment they were released from the body of the aeroplane, to burst somewhere near "W" beach, raising a cloud of dust and smoke, or drop in the sea among the ships, sending up a rather silly splash--such a waste of energy. And it was so "ripping" to hear guns firing at the aeroplane and see the shrapnel bursting. He did so long to see one crumple up and come tumbling down, but he was always being disappointed; and when that particular aeroplane had seen what it wanted, dropped all its bombs--seldom where it wanted--and turned back up the Straits, the China Doll felt rather miserable.
Sometimes British and French aeroplanes went up after the Taube, and chased him to his home up above the Narrows, whilst the Turkish shrapnel burst round them just as they had done at Smyrna, only making better shooting as the days went on and their practice improved.
At first the British and French aeroplanes had their home at Tenedos; and if they rested, slid down on the open ground close to Helles lighthouse, flighting back to their island before dark to spend the night. That, too, was always "pretty to watch", as Uncle Podger would have said.