AUGUST
August 1st.
Artillery duels go on again to-day, and several high explosive shells come over while I am on duty at the Main Supply depot. This afternoon I am drawing forage for to-morrow’s issue to the Division. We draw men’s rations for the same day’s issue at six o’clock in the morning, and forage at four in the afternoon before.
Greek labour loads the wagons with the oats, maize, and hay, which carry the forage three hundred yards away to our depot of four dumps. When shelling is on the gang of thirty to forty Greeks melts away, and often, when at work checking each wagon, one finds when one looks round but ten Greeks left. Then it is necessary to hunt round behind and in amongst the large high and wide stacks of grain and hay, where the missing Greeks are to be found quietly hiding here and there in twos and threes. Some are very good at sticking to the work, more so the boys (as young as fifteen) and the elderly men, some of whom are quite benevolent-looking.
This afternoon, one or two shells coming close to us, it was necessary for me to stop work for fifteen minutes to make sure that no more were coming, and to place the mules with their wagons behind the stacks of hay, which afford perfect protection. I have never yet seen a shell penetrate a wide stack of trusses of compressed hay. A pause—no shells—and out we pop from our hiding-places like rabbits, and load busily away once more. It is really funny. Like a game of hide and seek.
Panton dines with us to-night, but I have to leave immediately after dinner, for I am again on duty at the depot drawing extra supplies. These are now being drawn nightly, to form a reserve depot in the gully, but a little way up from Gully Beach, to be ready for us in case we advance.
As I walk across the high ground on the left of “W” Beach looking towards Achi, I hear the booming of a Turkish gun, and instinctively I know that the shell is addressed either to me or in my direction, and accordingly fling myself to the ground in a manner to rival the best stage fall. The usual sound of the sky being rent in two is followed by a deafening explosion, and dust and stones fall on top of me. The smoke blown my way makes me cough.
I arrive at my depot; a man runs up and reports that the shell has hit a dugout in which three of our supply loaders live. I send a man back for Panton, and start to run across to the dugout. I hear the heavens torn asunder again. I fall flat behind boxes. The beastly thing bursts in the hay. I wonder if the farmers at home ever realized how we would bless their compressed trusses of hay, as protection from shell fire. I run to the dugout. Two men are lying dead. One man, wounded, is being carried away by his comrades. Panton, who has arrived, takes their identity discs. One cannot be recognized but for his identity disc. I go over to depot and continue my job of seeing the wagons loaded. I go to mount my horse. As I am about to put my foot in the stirrup I hear again the boom of a gun. I feel jumpy and duck. I hear a laugh. It is from a driver. It is dark and he can’t see who I am—or my blushes—for the boom I heard was from a friendly heavy French gun over by Morto Bay. I ride round the top road with Cooke, who is waiting for me behind the dugout a little way up the West Coast.
We speculate upon the reason why the advanced depot is being formed in the gully. If the landing further up is successful, then the Turks are bound to retire from before Achi, and the hill will at last be ours. At last! We must therefore be prepared for an immediate advance. Hence the advanced depot.
We arrive at the gully, riding on to the beach down the winding road. It is a beautiful starlight night. The gully and its slopes are illuminated by a host of little lights from the dugouts of various H.Q. signal stations, dressing stations, etc., all unseen by the enemy; but from the sea they look like the lights of a small fishing town nestling in the shelter of gorse-covered irregular cliffs. I call at Brigade H.Q. and then at a dressing station, where some cheery R.A.M.C. fellows give me a whisky and soda. Afterwards I accompany Cooke, who is in charge of a convoy to fetch ammunition, up to Pink Farm. We ride up the high road on to the high land, and after being stopped now and again by the “’Alt, ’oo are you?” of a sentry, arrive at the ammunition depot near Pink Farm, in Trafalgar Square. There we load up with ammunition, which we cart along Artillery Road, meeting the gully half-way, dip down, and, our loads disposed of, we ride back home, arriving there at 2 a.m. Cooke persuades me to stop at his dugout and have a “nightcap,” which I do.
He has built for himself a nice cosy room, dug in on the cliff-side. Sitting there in the early hours of the morning, I am reminded of that whisky and soda most men enjoy at 2 o’clock in the morning when arriving home from a dance. He has made a dug-out stable for his horse, and invites me to leave mine there for the night, to save me the fag of taking him back to his lines, and to enable me to take the shortcut back to the dugout, which is but a little way along the cliff towards “W” Beach. I therefore tie up my horse, water him, and give him a little hay, and go back along the cliff to bed.
August 2nd.
I am up at 6 a.m. on duty at the depot, drawing men’s rations from the main supply for to-day’s issue. I pass our lines and find my horse, which I had left at Cooke’s stable last night, standing in his proper place again. He had disagreed with my leaving him in a strange stable and had found his way back to his own lines and into his proper place by some means only known to horses. A horse is not such a fool as some people imagine.
On account of shelling, I have lately managed to get my issuing of rations to units all finished by 9.30 a.m., and to-day, no sooner had I finished than over the brutes came. There is a lot of artillery work about to-day, and we have pushed a little in a very small part of our centre, just to straighten a bulge in our line. Three cruisers have been in action up off the coast above “Y” Beach, bombarding the Turkish right part of line, and right over the Peninsula on to Asia. It is nice to hear the sound of the guns of battleships again, but I do not think that their guns do the damage against positions on land that I imagined they would do before this campaign. The trajectory of their shells is too low, especially considering the geographical formations on this Peninsula, which provides good cover everywhere for the enemy. There is great anticipation in the air about this coming landing, but nobody knows when and where it is to take place.
August 3rd.
Aviatik aeroplane comes over this morning and drops a few bombs. Later in the day high explosive howitzer shells come over from Asia. Heavy artillery duels now going on. Everything the same, but shelling a bit heavier on “W” Beach.
We hope each day that the great fight will come soon and end this show, but each day seems the same as yesterday, and we can only anticipate that to-morrow will be the same as to-day.
Two officers buried in dugout at Supply depot by shell this morning. Both rescued and carried off to hospital. Shells over all the time we are issuing, and it is terribly trying, as there is absolutely no cover for us, and we, of course, have to stick it.
Our S.S.O., Major Shorto, just managed to get behind stack of hay in time, out of the way of an “Asiatic Annie.” Two cruisers come up in the afternoon and heavily shell left of Achi Baba with broadside after broadside, and it is encouraging to hear their welcome boom.
After dinner I ride over to Gully Beach with Cooke and Petro, via top road. Not much fun riding by day now.
Very quiet in front, but at 10 p.m. firing begins, and we can distinctly hear the explosions of those terrible weapons—bombs. It dies down after a while.
August 4th.
Perfect, calm sea; hot day. The big gun at Achi Baba left us alone while issuing this morning, but in its place a howitzer on Asiatic side kept us alive and steadily dropped shells around us. Phew! I am glad when that morning issuing is over, for every morning regularly now we are shelled.
Later in morning, she tried dropping them on edge of cliff, and reached once or twice. Not much damage, and a howitzer gives plenty of warning. But one cannot so easily gauge where their shells are going to drop as with the other guns.
2 o’clock.
Shelling by big guns from Achi has now started, and they are dropping on the beach, and everybody is taking cover for dear life. Now howitzer from Asia is joining in. Nothing much happened to-day, except heavy artillery duels, and with the anniversary of the war we find ourselves not much further forward than we were two months ago.
August 5th.
Another hot, depressing, monotonous and nervy day. Was officer of the day at the Supply depot, and, as usual, shells came over. A fuse whizzed near our heads with a most weird singing noise. French battleship at entrance bombarded Asia, and two British cruisers on West Coast bombarded Achi.
Something big is going to happen soon. I may add that this sentence has been passed from mouth to mouth for the last week, and if that something does not happen soon we shall all be in a devil of a fix on this tiny little tip of the Peninsula.
So dangerous has it now become to walk about in the open that a communication trench has been dug from “X” Beach right to the firing-line, and so troops landing on “W” Beach can walk round the road at the foot of cliffs and straight up this trench to fire-trenches. Most of the transport by day goes by this road, only venturing in the open on high land by night.
Our depot, however, still remains in the same place, exposed to and ranged on by enemy’s guns, with the result that we get shelled regularly every day, and the sigh of relief that will go up to heaven when we have orders to move will echo from Asia to the Ægean.
Ride up to Gully Beach with Cooke and Farquhar and see Brigade, and after, ride up the gully and across to Pink Farm. Nothing doing on front. We enjoy the ride and exercise. Devilish difficult getting a decent ride nowadays. At Pink Farm, bullets as usual chanting their pinging song.
On the way back a Monitor up the coast starts firing heavily, making a huge flash, lighting up for a big distance the sky and land, a roar like a crash of thunder immediately following.
August 6th.
On duty at 6 a.m. at Supply depot. Several shells come over at the shipping, but none into our depot, shrieking overhead like lost spirits.
Distant sounds of heavy bombardment going on up north, and one man said that he saw through glasses shrapnel bursting up the coast ten miles away. If so, a landing probably is being attempted at Suvla Bay.
Ammunition ship with an evidently damned fool of a captain comes in at two o’clock in broad daylight, and of course gets shelled. Pretty good shooting on part of Mr. Turk, and ship gets several narrow shaves. The vessel then backs out towards two hospital ships, and these of course get nearly hit, one shell going right over one of them. The ship finally gets away after being clumsily handled; but it is bad form to back near a hospital ship. The hospital ships lie off here night and day, well within range of the Turkish batteries, which never fire on them unless a supply or ammunition ship goes near.
2 o’clock.
A heavy bombardment on our part has started. We have again begun to hammer at the doors of the Dardanelles. The sound is not unlike thousands of men beating big drums, with thousands of trains running through tunnels. The bombardment is heavier than anything previous, and is concentrated on our left centre in front of Krithia. A few French batteries are joining in, and all the British and two Monitors, the Raglan and the Abercrombie, and a light cruiser, with several destroyers, open fire as well.
The 14-inch guns of the Monitors make an ear-splitting row when they fire, and the bursting shell throws up a column of smoke and dust quite 300 feet into the air. One was plumping them in and about Krithia, and the other on the west ridge of Achi Baba.
A field battery of the Turks opens fire on one of the Monitors just off where we are sitting, and we are rather amused at their efforts; yet imagine our surprise when one of their shells actually hits the Monitor, the Raglan, without doing any more damage than denting her a little, at least as far as we can see. We hear the sound of the shell hitting her armour.
An accident which might have proved serious occurs shortly after. The Monitor fired one of her guns, and almost simultaneously the other gun, which is depressed, fires, and the shell strikes the water, then ricochets off on to Gully Beach, exploding, killing one man and wounding six.
The bombardment died down somewhat at four, and increased its range, and then there burst out the undertone of rifle fire, sounding like hundreds of carts rolling over cobbled stones, with the spasmodic pop-pops of the machine guns. Later we catch glimpses of little khaki figures charging towards Turkish trenches in front of Krithia. All this time Krithia is getting fair hell from our guns. At six, firing dies down to spasmodic gun and rifle fire.
At the time of writing I hear that my Brigade, the 88th, have distinguished themselves, especially the Essex, and that two lines of trenches have been captured.
At dusk the destroyers, Monitors and the cruisers have gone home, and the aeroplanes to roost.
During the fight I notice lots of shrapnel shells bursting behind Anzac, so no doubt the Australians and New Zealanders are fighting as well. And in the distance, though it is difficult to see, I saw several white puffs of shrapnel bursting.
It is now a cool evening, with a bit of a wind, and spasmodic firing is going on inland.
Saw Finlay in evening and then turned in.
August 7th.
Up at six a.m. and ride out towards Brigade H.Q., but the Turks have started to heavily bombard our lines, and we are replying, so I postpone my visit, for Pink Farm and the Krithia road are getting it badly.
At 9 a.m., Monitors, destroyers, and cruisers come and join in the bombardment, which continues all the morning.
At 2 p.m. I ride up with Phillips to Pink Farm, and leaving our horses, we walk up the communication trench to Brigade H.Q. Bullets very free overhead, and we keep our heads low. R.M.L.I. going up to the trenches. Some of them look quite young boys, and all look hot and tired and serious.
I find the Brigade have gone back to Gully Beach. We were badly cut up in yesterday’s battle. Day and Black have gone, good pals of mine, both killed. This is the most horrible side of war. They were so merry and bright along the beach a few days ago. It seems that all the best go.
Come back to Pink Farm, passing Jennings going up. Turkish attack starts, and our artillery gets on to them, but they still come on determinedly, and seem very cocksure of themselves.
Ride over to Gully Beach and see remnants of the Brigade along cliffs again. What a change to two days ago! Tommies cooking their meals, talking over yesterday’s battle and pals that have been killed. I look for Day and Black instinctively, but of course in vain. The beach looks blank and depressing. Algy Wood is still there, however; wonderful man, been through everything and not been hit, and thank God for it. Poor old 88th!
Come back to “W” Beach and find them shelling us, just to show us they are still very much alive.
Hear that another landing has taken place, and was successful, at Suvla Bay.
Artillery duels and rifle fire still continue. Destroyers make a dash up Straits as far as just above De Tott’s Battery, and have a bit of a duel with land batteries. Shrapnel playing all over them.
I think fighting will go on steadily here now with no more delay, for it is vital to the Allies that the Dardanelles be forced, and when they are forced, good-bye to Turk, and Germany look out! We have got to get all our own back—and more.
8 p.m.
Very heavy rifle fire opens, and Turkish attack takes place. Just what we want; they might just as well run their heads against a brick wall, but no doubt they think that they will eventually break through our line and round us up, or drive us into the sea.
August 8th.
Rather a stormy day. Not much shelling on “W” Beach.
One can see plainly through glasses where the new landing has taken place; hospital ships, transports, destroyers, and three battleships are off there. Rumour hath it that the landing was successful, and that they are advancing across the Peninsula. Heavy firing goes on all day from batteries on shore and warships on sea, answered but feebly by Turkish batteries, which, however, do not fail to pay their usual unwelcome attention to “W” Beach.
A Turkish battleship, on the way down here to support land forces, was sunk to-day by one of our submarines, which is a great event.
Heavy artillery fire goes on to-night on our left.
August 9th.
Usual shelling, and some nasty ones amongst them.
Ride up the gully and have a good gallop on a new little horse with Williams.
Afternoon.
Can see new landing through glasses. Gorse there seems on fire. Transports very busy going to and fro on horizon.
Ride up the gully along the top road at night with Cooke, and have a chat with a few Irish R.A.M.C. pals.
Artillery duels on our front all day. Hear that in addition to Turkish battleship being sunk, also Turkish gunboat and empty transport. Submarine also opened fire on Turkish battalions marching on shore. Our submarine commanders are “some” lads.
Heavy firing from battleships goes on all night up north. Good rumours come in from time to time that the new landing forces have captured the hills in front of them and Anafarta, and are overlooking the Straits the other side. If this is so, then this show will be over in a few weeks.
August 10th.
Very quiet on this front, but a little shelling as usual on to “W” Beach. Went up the gully in the afternoon. Brigade still in rest there. Shells come over to Gully Beach.
Cruiser firing up coast again. Turks attack at 8 p.m., and again at 11.30 p.m.
August 11th.
Slight intermittent shelling on beaches and roads from Turks all day.
Afternoon.
French battleship Saint-Louis takes up position off our part of the coast, but before she fires, Turkish batteries open fire on her and one shell hits her, and through glasses I see something catching fire and men running. Fire extinguished. Battleship manœuvres for fresh position, and having taken it up, fires with all her 6-inch guns on west of Achi Baba. All the while heavy fighting is going on, on our right, by French.
New landing has now linked hands with Anzac, and is three and a half miles inland.
Our troops at the new landing are not moving as fast as was at first expected, but reports are that Kitchener’s Army are fighting magnificently.
The Indian Brigade unfortunately had to give ground last night, but not of much consequence.
I semaphore a message from the beach to McArthur on a submarine, and submarine smartly picks it up and acknowledges. It is from a lady friend, from whom I have just received a letter, to a friend of McArthur’s.
On the way back a shell comes near; goes right through the roof of D.A.Q.M.G.’s office as I was passing, and penetrates the earth wall on far side while D.A.Q.M.G. is writing at his desk. It did not explode, and he was most fortunately unhurt. Afterwards, he said that he dropped his pencil with surprise.
August 12th.
A fairly quiet day. Rode with Hyslop to the gully. Hardly any shelling on “W” Beach, and what shells did come over were only “poop-squeaks,” the majority not bursting. I suppose the Turks are taking the artillery away from here to positions against our men at Suvla. Aeroplanes buzzing about as usual this end, and one of the “E” type submarines comes down from the Straits. But the Navy keeps things dark, and since the last submarine stunt we have heard nothing.
Destroyers off “W” coast find a target on west ridge of the hill. Findlay-Smith comes to dinner.
August 13th.
Very hot, and a calm sea. Not much shelling, but a few “poop-squeaks” fall in Supply depot; one man wounded. Shelling seems to be dying away.
Rode to the gully to Cregan. On duty at depot in the afternoon.
Fighting last night in centre and again this morning. Noticed very big explosions in Turkish trenches on their right, throwing earth and smoke quite 300 feet. On inquiry found that they were our trench mortars at work, throwing 100 lb. shells. That will shake things up a bit.
Very quiet night.
August 14th.
On duty at depot at 6 a.m. Very quiet, no shelling. Wonderfully quiet altogether now: hardly a rifleshot.
Rode up to the Gully Beach, and then rode out with Mathias to Pink Farm and walked up the trench to Brigade H.Q. Hardly a shell, and only a few bullets. What is happening? Anyway, it is nice for us, and it is a relief to be able to ride about in safety.
Found Way at H.Q., and also saw Thomson once more. Was very glad to see him. Rode with Way back to the gully, passing old Butler asleep under a tree. Told him that a shell would soon pitch on his “tummy”; to which he replied, “It is all right: the Turks think I’m a mule.”
Call on Munster Fusiliers beyond Gully Beach in dugouts on cliff, half way to Shrapnel Point, and have tea with Geddes and Nightingale. We passed General de Lisle superintending the building of a new pier off Gully Beach.
Have a nice canter home. After dinner a Turkish four-gun battery on Asiatic side fires over a salvo of high explosives, followed by another and another in quick succession. It was a surprise to us, but did not last long, as our friends the Monitors got on to them, on which I suppose they limbered up and bolted. I hope they will not do it in the middle of the night. The shells burst in the Arabs’ camp beyond the aerodrome, causing them to clear, making a row like a panic-stricken poultry yard.
No news from the north.
10.30 p.m.
Turkish battery at Yen-i-Shehr again starts firing salvos, very rapidly, and shells, four at a time, come over in succession. Shells almost reach “W” Beach, and, anticipating their arrival near us, Phillips and I curse, and have to get up and leave our tent and go to dugout. Suddenly a great flash over the sky behind Rabbit Island is noticed, and shortly afterwards a great bursting flame behind Yen-i-Shehr. A very awe-inspiring sight. After quite a pause, there follows a great peal of thunder—rumbling on—which ends with a great crash. This happens once or twice, when the Turkish battery shuts up.
It is the Monitor behind Rabbit Island firing its great gun. The whole incident was like a few naughty boys throwing stones at a house, the owner of which telephones to the police (the Monitor behind Rabbit Island), who without delay take effective measures to stop the nuisance. It was really nothing more than a nuisance, and gained no military advantage for the Turk.
August 15th.
A very windy day, almost a Gallipoli gale blowing down land, and in consequence dust-storms start as usual.
Two guns on Achi start firing towards our tents. Why? Lord knows, for there is nothing here to fire at but our tents, and those can’t be seen by them. They do no harm, but are a beastly nuisance, as we keep on having to duck. The wind is so strong that we do not hear them coming till they are right on to us.
After lunch I ride along the top road with Carver, and dipping down on to Gully Beach, ride up the gully a little way, and turn off to the left into a ravine, where we leave our horses. Climbing up the cliffs, we call at the mess of Major Gibbon’s battery, where tea is awaiting in a delightful summer-house surrounded with rocks and shrubbery. Duff is there, and Monro too. The battery is in position a few yards away in an artfully hidden spot, never as yet having been discovered by the enemy. Out to sea a small cruiser is in action, firing on a target on the left of Achi Baba. A Turkish battery on the extreme right is in action against her, recording a few hits, without causing much damage, but making it necessary for the cruiser to manœuvre constantly for a fresh position.
Heavy firing occurs in the night, and the enemy strongly attack the Anzacs, with no success.
August 16th.
Having been invited to breakfast with the Hampshires, who are up the line, I ride up to the nullah in front of Pink Farm and leave my horse there, where he is given his breakfast. On arrival at the Brigade H.Q. at the end of the long trench—or the mule-track, as we now call it—I am given a guide of the Royal Scots, who, however, has difficulty in finding the battalion H.Q. We wander about awhile before we reach our destination, reminding me of an endeavour to thread a way through Hampton Court maze. Up one long winding trench my guide puzzles me somewhat by the remark, “‘B’ trench, sir, but not a bee-line.” At first I am puzzled as to what he is driving at, but gradually it dawns on me that he is cracking with difficulty an obtuse Scottish joke, occasioned by the long winding walk up the trench, which I notice is called “B” Communication Trench.
Battalion H.Q. found at last. I have an excellent breakfast of hot cocoa, sardines, bread and jam, and at the end of the meal I am taken up to do a tour of the line. First we make a visit to the battalion H.Q. of the Essex, where I see Algy Wood and Colonel Rice; then I am shown the cookhouse of the Hampshires. Owing to a curiously small and deep ravine, it has not been found necessary to dig trenches here. Instead, communication trenches lead off from the small nullah, only a hundred and fifty yards away from our front line, in five different directions, like streets leading off from a circus. We pass up that part of the communication trench leading to the line which the Hampshires are holding. On arrival here I am greeted with a wave of sickening odour, a blend of decaying bodies and chloride of lime. The scene in the first-line trench is alive with interest; there officers and men are on the alert. Every four yards men are standing on the fire-steps looking out through periscopes, held in their hands or fixed to rifles. Others are cleaning up the floors or sides of the trench, as the parlour-maid would the room of a house. Others are improving parapets, levelling the sides and floors of the trench. A few are still at breakfast—one I noticed consisting of two fried eggs, a piece of steak, bread and honey, and hot tea.
I am taken up a sap by one of the officers on duty in the front line, a cheery young man named Moore, who has recently won the V.C. At the sap-head, looking through a periscope, I see not fifty yards away in front a sap-head jutting out from a Turkish trench. Turning the periscope round from left to right, I see a sight which fills me with sorrow. I see lying in all postures—some alone, some in groups of three to six—the dead bodies of brave British Tommies, who a fortnight ago were alive and well, merry and bright, enjoying the bathing off Gully Beach. They had lost their lives in the battle of August 6th, and had never even had the satisfaction of reaching Turkish territory. After the battle our positions in the “H” trenches (as this part of the line is termed) remained unchanged from what they were before; but hundreds of brave men had gone forth from there never to return, and I am afraid few became prisoners.
The end of the sap in which I am standing is protected from enemy bombs by a roof of wire-netting. A drain pipe penetrates the earth at the end of the sap, with its mouth filled by a rolled up empty sand-bag. For my benefit this is taken out, and looking through, I see quite close to me the corpse of one of our brave fellows, blackened by exposure. Efforts will be made to recover some of these bodies as soon as opportunity allows. Looking further ahead through the pipe, I have a good view of the Turkish front line. A sentry is sitting beside the pipe, and at intervals he removes the sand-bag from the mouth, carefully looking out for any activity on the part of the Turk. I prefer to look through a periscope, and take it up once more. Not being used to them, I raise it too high, my arms appearing above the parapet. A thoughtful Tommy alongside of me gently pulls my arms down behind the cover of the sand-bags. The Turkish sniper is always on the lookout for the careless, who expose themselves even a few inches, and is often clever in getting a bull’s-eye at the first shot. However, one through the arm would be luck. What could be better than the pleasure of lunching at Ciro’s with an arm in a sling from a wound? I take a careful survey of the Turkish line, running along a gentle rise in front of me, and after a while, I notice a shovel lifted over the parapet and a spray of earth thrown over, and this happens several times. A Turk at work, probably improving his fire-step.
As I go back into the front line, I notice that at intervals we have fixed into the sand-bagged parapet iron plates, with little holes punctured in them, protected by a small shield hanging on a hinge like the shield to a keyhole. Through these holes, when necessary, our men place their rifles, firing with good protection to themselves. I am shown our catapults for throwing bombs, almost the same as the ancient weapons of Rome. Also trench mortars, funny squat cannons with short, wide, gaping mouths. Occasionally during the tour bullets come over. They “zip” over up here, and “ping” with a long ring further back over the roads behind our line. Now and again they strike our parapet, sounding like the blow of a great brick thrown with a great force. The trenches are full of flies, hot and stuffy, with ever that sickly smell of the dead and chloride of lime, but fortunately quite dry and very clean. And the men are merry and keen, and delighted to show round one who seldom enters a trench and is ignorant of the life spent there.
Evening.
It has been very quiet during the day, but a few shells came over to “W” Beach; most of them did not explode.
August 17th.
It is a wonderfully clear day and we can see the Asiatic side and the plains of Troy in vivid detail. Some 6-inch shells come over from Asia to “W” Beach this morning, and after lunch we receive a few more, one, very close to our bivouac, falling into the sea and throwing up a large waterspout.
August 18th.
So far it has been a very quiet morning, not a single shell on the beach. The other day one of our machines dropped bombs on a Turkish transport in the Sea of Marmora, sinking her. One of our transports on the way to Suvla has been sunk, and nearly a thousand lives lost. Rumour now whispers that the Suvla Bay landing has not been as successful as was at first thought. But we learn that many more troops are being landed. We are still hoping for victory, which so far we have not tasted. Dismal news reaches us from Suvla. A Naval officer just returning from there informs us that we are digging in hard a line at the foot of the hills, and that the Turks are also doing likewise. Also, we must now face a winter campaign. No comment is necessary as to our feelings. We are shelled a little at night, but are too tired and bored to bother, and so go to sleep. I am still sleeping in a tent with Phillips, and if a shell does hit us clean while we are asleep it is of no consequence, for then we shan’t wake up the next morning with another awful day before us to live.
August 19th.
Before breakfast this morning I ride up the West Coast road, my mount being fresh and lively, enjoying to the full the canter I give him up to Artillery Road. The ride along that road beats so far any ride I have ever had for enjoyment. The soft going, though it may be rather dusty; the view—the sea on the left, Imbros shrouded at her feet by blue-grey mist, the sound of the waves gently lapping the shore on the road below; the view in front, of stately and formidable Achi Baba and of the mountains of Asia, with now and again a glimpse of the blue waters of the Dardanelles on the right. All is quiet; I might be miles from war, and yet I am in the centre of war on a large scale, concentrated in an area that would be lost on Salisbury Plain. To obtain an idea of on how large a scale the war on this little tip of land is, as far as fighting is concerned, one has only to compare our casualties here up to now with those of the South African War. And now we have Suvla Bay, where six Divisions are on shore.
Passing the road leading down to Gully Beach, my horse shies badly as two 60-pounders in action on the cliff overlooking the beach fire over our heads. These 60-pounders have moved forward from their original position on the cliff by the beach, much to our satisfaction, for they were too near our bivouac, and a 60-pounder is a noisy toy.
I ride down from Artillery Road, and turning to the right, ride up the foot of the beautiful gully, now more honeycombed than ever with dugouts and terraces and flights of steps. Leaving my horse at a small camp near Bruce’s Ravine—named after the gallant Colonel of the Gurkhas, who sailed on the same hospital ship in which I went to Alexandria in July, because of the gallant and victorious fight the Gurkhas made for the capture of Gurkha Bluff, in the early days—I walk up this ravine, used as a mule-track, to the trenches up on the high ground on the left of the gully, forming the extreme left of our line. And after a short walk through a series of trenches forming our support line, I turn down a communication trench, which after a while brings me out on to a long and wide terrace overlooking “Y” Beach. “Y” Beach was the scene of a terrible fight between the K.O.S.B.’s and the enemy on April 25th, in which the K.O.S.B.’s were successful in effecting a landing, only to evacuate a day after. But how they landed there at all is a feat to be marvelled at, for the beach can hardly be called a beach. It is a narrow ravine, widening slightly at the water’s edge to a width of not more than a hundred yards, and flanked by steep, almost precipitous gorse-covered slopes to a height of 150 feet. Troops attempting to land on such a beach from small open boats could not be expected to even reach the shore; yet by the night these Scotsmen had conquered the heights and penetrated inshore. But their position was too precarious, and it was a wise move to order them to evacuate.
At the end of the terrace on the north side of the top of the ravine, my Brigade H.Q. is comfortably dug in, and it is a pleasure sitting there talking, with such a picturesque view to enjoy from the position. It is far the prettiest site our Brigade has had up to now for their Headquarters, and also convenient, for they are situated but a few hundred yards behind the front line.
As I am about to take my leave, four shrapnel shells come over from a Turkish battery on our extreme left, which burst low on the opposite slopes of the ravine, with the trenches of two regiments in reserve for a target. They are followed steadily by several salvos, one or two of the shells bursting in the air near our H.Q., and one in particular throwing a few bullets onto the ground at my feet, as I stand at the door of the General’s mess. The General invites me to step inside, saying, “Unless you want to get shot,” and gives me a topping breakfast of scrambled eggs on toast.
After breakfast I go back with Mathias and Arnold to Gully Beach and see 86th Brigade H.Q. and Sinclair Thomson, and then ride with Arnold to “W” Beach. Mathias and Arnold came to lunch, as a parcel had arrived, and we enjoyed the luxuries thereof.
After lunch I receive orders to go with 88th Brigade and 86th Brigade to the new landing. Way also under orders to go. So after nearly four months of hanging on to this tip of the Peninsula the poor old 29th Division is to leave and try its luck at the new landing, and Achi Baba still remains impregnable.
I look forward to the move with mixed feelings—relief at getting away from this end, and new feelings at the prospect of being more heavily shelled than we ever were here.
However, perhaps the move may be a successful one, and the end of the campaign in this area nearer than we think.
At 9 p.m. I go down to “W” Beach and make inquiries. As usual, nobody knows anything, and all is confusion. The piers are very congested with the baggage being shipped on to lighters, which are then towed out to trawlers. All such work, of course, has to be done after dark. At twelve, after making exhaustive inquiries and with no result, Way and I walk over to “V” Beach.
At the fort on the left of “V” Beach, looking shorewards, we find that a lot of Lancashire and Munster Fusiliers are taking shelter, as the Turks had been shelling the beach. We lie down just outside the fort on the stone floor and try to get some sleep. A perfect night, and as I look up at the stars I wonder what it was like here a year ago, when war had not devastated this land.
August 20th.
At 1.30 a.m. we get up and go down to the River Clyde. The River Clyde is now supporting a very fine pier that the French have constructed. The French are excellent people at organization. After waiting some time, an M.L.O. tells me that the 88th are not going till the following night, and so I say good-night to Way, who is going off with the 86th, and proceed to walk back the mile and a half to “W” Beach.
I take the wrong turning, inquire the way of a French soldier, who puts me wrong again, and I find myself in a perfect maze of French dugouts. Once in the maze, I have an awful job to get out, and after stumbling and falling about for some time, manage to find the road. Feeling very tired, I stumble along in and out of the shell holes, it being very dark, and at last I arrive at “W” Beach.
I find Major Blackburn, Camp Commandant, still at work in his office in a dugout on the side of the cliff, and he very kindly revives me with a whisky. It is now 3.30 a.m., and after chatting with him, he giving a most dismal and chilling outlook of Suvla Bay (20,000 casualties and only just hanging on to the low land), I go back to the tent. Have no bed, my kit having gone on. I lie down like a dog and sleep soundly till five o’clock, when I am awakened by the cold. I go out to try to get warm, and see the sun rise. The breath of the coming winter seems to be in the air. Phew! In winter we shall be washed off by rain, not driven off by the Turks.
I sleep again, and then have breakfast with Phillips. Heavy artillery duels all day and the Gully people get it badly—twelve men wounded.
I rest during the day, as I shall be up all night again to-night.
I wonder how many other people are keeping diaries on Gallipoli besides me. It would be interesting for me to read them, for they must all be told from far different points of view.
The impression the Gallipoli campaign has on the minds of the men in the trenches, by far the most important men in the machine of the Dardanelles Army, must be widely foreign to the impression made on the mind, for instance, of a lighterman. The man in the trenches, probably, if he has been to France, and many here have, sees no great difference from life in the trenches in the Ypres salient.
The A.S.C. baker views life here through quite differently coloured spectacles from the A.S.C. driver, the A.S.C. driver from the signal operator, the officer in the observation balloon from the M.O. of a regiment, the platoon commander from the M.L.O., the aviator to the gunner officer, the commander of a submarine from the veterinary officer; and yet each respective outlook on life, to each officer or man, is one of far more vital and of greater importance than all the views, opinions, thoughts, and actions of any of his comrades or neighbours, of any newspaper, or public opinion. It is for him his destiny. The carrying out of orders given to his particular self, though of seemingly little importance in comparison to the working of the large Army machine, is to him perhaps a matter of life or death. Death or grievous wounds may prevent him carrying out an order; in that event he will be excused, but while alive and effective, he must carry out that order to the letter.
The position that Destiny has placed him in, as part of the huge machine, controls his thoughts, actions, character and outlook on life. His daily work may bring him in a constant danger of sudden death, and he naturally views his life from the point of view of the probability of leaving it suddenly, and possibly in an awful manner. That constant thought usually makes a man braver than we would expect, for his will forces him to carry out to the letter his orders and rules his mind, which is fully aware of the danger he incurs in doing so. As well as making him braver, the thought decides his will to make the most of the pleasures of life that may pass his way, and as a result he is usually to be found of a cheery, optimistic nature, easily pleased and hard to depress. For optimists, go to the front-line trenches—or the Navy—and for pessimists, go to overworked administrative officers.