'What sort of landing places are they?' asked Dave.

'Just beaches--little bays with cliffs behind them. And the cliffs are
covered with scrub, and so are the hills inland. Ideal ground for the
defence, and rotten to attack.'

'You talk as if you'd been there?'

The speaker was a big, good-looking young New Zealander, with a face burnt
almost saddle colour by wind and sun. His dark blue eyes gleamed with a
merry, devil-may-care expression which took Ken's fancy at once.

'Yes, I've been there,' Ken answered modestly, and was at once surrounded
by a crowd all eager for any information he could give. Luckily for him,
at that very minute some one shouted.

'We're off, boys. There's the signal to weigh anchor.'

Instantly all was excitement; the cable began to clank home, smoke poured
from the funnels, and in a very short time the whole fleet of transports
was moving in a long line out of the harbour, escorted by a bevy of busy,
black destroyers.

As the 'Charnwood' passed into her place, the men lined the sides and
cheered for all they were worth.

'What day is this?' said Ken to Dave, as the big transport passed out of
the mouth of the bay.

'Friday, the twenty-third,' was the answer.