I turn to my left and trip down the rocky hillock leading to the C.R.E. camp, in the place where D.H.Q. was to be after the Chocolate Hill battle, and where the bombs from the Barrier have to go.
I come back along the lower road which leads to our D.H.Q., and which is now called the Gibraltar road, as it leads to the small hill we have called Gibraltar, which lies between our first line and 86th H.Q. On the way I meet the 88th Chaplain, and we walk back together. Behind us we hear three tremendous explosions over to the left of Chocolate Hill, and looking back, see columns of smoke and dust. They are caused by Turkish aerial torpedoes bursting in our front line, equivalent to a hundred-pound shell, and terribly effective. Fortunately, they appear to have very few of them, but we have none at all. There have been sixty-three casualties on the beach to-day through Turkish gun fire and shrapnel. At night a great gale springs up, and we have heavy rain, many men being washed out of their dugouts, having to spend the night in their wet clothes on the hills.
A navvy’s battalion has arrived.
October 13th.
A fine day, but a very strong, cold wind blowing down the Peninsula. Arthur McDougall has now rejoined his regiment in the trenches. We have now a black cat in our establishment. It walked in, and we do not know where it came from. Probably off one of the boats.
We were shelled with the 5·9 at eight this morning, and had about six casualties in this valley. They were, however, very quiet for the rest of the morning. Just as Way, Cox, Baxter, and I were leaving for Brigade, they started to shell, and we were glad to get off the open space of the beaches. Now they have three guns firing 5·9 shrapnel at us, and they come over in threes, usually bagging somebody. The Turks seem to be getting very cocky lately. They actually cleared away all the barbed wire that one of our battalions in the 88th had put in front of our trenches, only fifteen yards in front. Also their bombing parties are getting very daring, creeping up each night to within throwing distance of our trenches.
Barbed-wire lines and trenches are now being constructed further back towards the coast—in case!
As we are up at Brigade H.Q., we notice one of our aeroplanes swoop down on to the Salt Lake, obviously having to make a forced landing. A short pause, during which we notice the pilot and observer climb out, when suddenly shrapnel bursts over the machine and very near. It is quickly followed by another and another, and later high explosive shells, when the pilot and the observer scurry away pretty quickly. They are wise, for the Turkish artillery are now well on to the machine, which is rapidly becoming a helpless wreck. I should think they put a hundred shells on that machine before they stopped.
October 14th.
Last night they tried to disturb our rest by putting one shell over to us every hour. One seemed to come very near our dugout, but we were too sleepy to bother. What’s the good?
At eight this morning they get very busy again with their shelling, and at nine three of the big deadly shrapnel come over at once, followed a few minutes after by three more, and then later still another three. It is evident that they cannot spare very many of these every day, but after each bout the cry of “Stretcher-bearers!” is shouted down the valley. Shortly after, the wounded are carried away to the hospital, and this scene has now become a painfully familiar one.
It is very cold to-day, and the gale still continues, hampering the Navy’s work of landing stores.
The afternoon was quiet. A great gale sprang up at dark and blew hard all night. It is now very cold. One consolation, flies are dying off.
October 15th.
To-day has been cold and cloudy, with a strong wind. Artillery duels all day, with ships joining in. We were shelled this afternoon, but fortunately to-day had no 5·9 shrapnel. Cox and Gennison came to tea, and Walker and myself walked back with them. Called in at Brigade H.Q. Hear that now we are at war with Bulgaria.
October 16th.
At five this morning (dawn) the Turks began a general bombardment, chiefly on our right (Chocolate Hill) and at Anzac, but the subsequent attack on their part seemed to die away quickly. No news as to results.
At 11 a.m. an enemy aeroplane sails over. Our two anti-aircraft guns on shore start firing, and make such good practice that the machine quickly gets out of range and sails over towards Anzac, disappearing suddenly into the clouds. Many thought that she had been brought down, and a great cheer goes up and clapping of hands. Shortly after, however, she is seen coming back over the bay once more, flying low. H.M.S. Glory and Canopus fire with their anti-aircraft guns, but wide of the mark. She turns and sails up inland once more, perilously close to our shore anti-aircraft guns, which make excellent practice. One shell bursts dangerously near the machine, whereupon she dives, swings to the right, and climbing again, sails over Chocolate Hill. When over our trenches heavy rifle and machine gun fire break out at her, but she sails calmly on over Sari Bair to her base behind in safety. Result, honours with the enemy pilot, a damned cool customer, but a very nasty trip for him. It lasts under ten minutes, so that he has not much time for observing, but no doubt time enough for his purpose. The rest of the day we have the usual artillery duels, rather heavier than usual, and at 3.20 p.m., and again at five, we have our usual shelling by our old friend “Whistling Rufus.”
October 17th.
At nine this morning the Turks very heavily bombarded our reserve lines and our batteries on our left. They were very prodigal of ammunition, showing that their supply had been replenished, probably from Bulgaria. They put in some very large stuff, 9-inch at least, and at very long range. Our batteries and ships were active in reply. It is cold and windy and raining.
Went up to Brigade with Way, and later to 86th, where the Padre was holding Sunday service. Beach shelled a little while we were away.
To-morrow is the great Mohammedan feast-day, and we expect a general attack on the part of the Turks.
October 18th.
Rainy morning. Bit of shelling in morning and early afternoon, but not very damaging shells.
At four they started dropping large shells, about 11-inch, which whistled over with a tremendous shriek and burst with a thunderous crack. They must have come a long way, as we could not hear the report of the gun. They were bursting too near for our liking, and we were glad when they stopped. Some say they came from the Goeben. They finished up their bout with 5·9 shrapnel. So far no attack by the Turks.
News that Sir Ian Hamilton is going and that General Munro is taking his place reaches us.
October 19th.
A quiet morning, but at four we were shelled as usual. Not much damage.
October 20th, 2 p.m.
Quiet so far to-day, except for a bit of shelling this morning. News reaches us that the 10th Division, who were here in August, are at Salonika, whether interned or not we do not know. Turkish festival still on, and I believe it ends to-morrow. They make a row in their trenches at odd times of the day by the shouting of “Allah” and the ringing of bells. Sometimes our men, for a joke, throw jam-tins full of jam into the Turkish trenches. This happening to-day, the Turks thought that we were throwing bombs, instead of four harmless tins of jam, and they promptly threw back two bombs. Whereupon we have to throw six bombs back. This quietened them. Later, however, they threw the four jam-tins back—empty—having eaten their contents.
October 21st.
A very heavy gale blowing all day from the north-west. Sky heavy with rain, but wind too high to allow rain to fall. Heavy shelling all morning for three hours without stopping, and again in afternoon. None near our patch. We get the shrapnel, however, from “Whistling Rufus,” which is more comprehensive.
Enemy aeroplane, in spite of gale, is over this morning. Anti-aircraft guns fire—and miss!
October 22nd.
A great gale blew all night, and is still blowing. Cold and cloudy. Artillery duels going on as usual. Not much shelling on this beach. At four, we have three of the 5·9 shrapnel over our little corner. One could not hear them coming, because of the gale.
October 23rd.
Beaches shelled a bit this morning. Gale continues all day, and it is very cold. Soon after four we are shrapnelled once more, having about ten large ones over in a period of half an hour, causing casualties. The gale prevents anybody hearing them coming. Go up to Brigade H.Q., and it is hard work walking against the wind. Country looking bleak and miserable. Come back on motor-ambulance. At night I am up at the C.R.E. nullah forming a forward dump of reserve rations. We have to work in a cold, driving rain.
October 24th.
Gale still continues. Flights of birds, which had collected in great numbers some few days ago, now seem all to have left. Has been raining all morning. Very little shelling from Turks.
Go up to Brigade H.Q. and have tea. Gale dies down towards evening. Beautiful colouring of sky over the sea. A background of grey rain clouds, golden-buff coloured strips of sky, grey sea, against which are silhouetted sepia-coloured trees and gorse-bushes. Imbros, now grey as the sea, is always in the picture—the eternal picture in which is painted our monotonous life on Gallipoli. We are waiting, waiting, with no news, and some of us are saying with no hope. These latter, however, suffer from “tummy” troubles.
October 25th.
Six months ago to-day I landed at Helles—it seems like six years. To-day we are still an hour’s walk from the sea to the front trenches, at all three landings. This morning is a cool, beautiful summer morning. Flies seem to come again from somewhere, but not so bad as before, yet sufficient to be called a pest in England. Usual artillery duels all day, and we are shrapnelled again in the afternoon. At 6 p.m. go up to C.R.E. dump about the reserve rations we are putting there. Cloudy evening.
October 26th.
A cool, fine morning, rather cloudy. Birds again flying in large coveys overhead—wild geese and crane, etc.; men fire at them, though it is strictly against orders. Hardly any artillery duels in morning. Go up to C.R.E. dump with Major Fraser, and later, leaving him, go on to Brigade and have tea. Adjutant of Worcesters, who was wounded in the landing in April, and who has been back in England, was there. We who have been out here all the time look upon those who have been back in England with great interest.
After tea, Morris, the Machine Gun Officer, takes me out to see his machine gun emplacements on Gun Hill, which is a little hill lying some two hundred yards behind our front-line trenches, the ground on its left rising steeply to the high ridge overlooking the sea, and on its right sloping gently down to the low land.
We pass the Worcester Regiment in the reserve trenches dug in an open space on the left of Brigade H.Q. looking inshore; then we pass down a communication trench, coming out into an open space behind a small mound called Gibraltar, round which we pass down a slope leading to a rocky ravine filled with large boulders, a few trees, and patches of thick gorse-bush. There the Hampshire Regiment are dug in.
To the left of the ravine are a few graves, and now and again a bullet kicks up the dust close by them. Smith, the Hampshire Quartermaster, jokingly informs me of a certain way of getting a cushy Blighty wound. If I want one, all I have to do is to stand by these graves after dark, and wait. In under two hours, most probably in five minutes of waiting, I shall get one in the leg. The bullets come from a Turkish trench high up on the cliff-side on our left front. To the right of the ravine one is safe, protected by a rise in the ground. On the left of the ravine one is in constant danger of a smack from a bullet, and more so at night.
We continue our way, passing down another trench, and shortly after come out into the open in a lovely glade of grass and trees situated in dead ground, protected by a little hill in front called Gun Hill. On its slopes we once more enter a trench, which encircles the hill, very similar to the ramparts of an ancient castle. It is a little fortress on its own, standing aloof from the system of trenches situated behind our front line, but in front of our support line, yet blending in with the uneven lie of the land, thereby not making a conspicuous target. At intervals are machine gun emplacements, with machine guns in position, pointing through apertures in the sand-bagged breastwork. At the first that we come to we find the sentry not looking out. I shall never forget the frightened look on his face as it meets Morris’s suddenly appearing around the corner of the sand-bagged wall a few inches from him. He gets a stiff “strafing.” We continue our way, and at the next emplacement come upon a sentry who presents a unique object. For his head is covered by a sand-bag, through which are holes made for his eyes and mouth. To this headgear are fixed sprigs of gorse-bush, and as he stands stock-still, with his head and shoulders filling the gap in the breastwork, it must be impossible for an enemy observer to detect his presence from the background of gorse and trees. Yet if he is detected a sniper has him for a dead certainty. It is so far safe for such sentries, however, for up to now no casualties have occurred amongst them from a sniper’s rifle.
Morris asks, “Is everything O.K.?” and the sentry, without looking round, replies, “All’s well, sir.”
I stand beside the sentry and look at the view in front of me—a beautiful view of sloping hills up to the heights of the cliffs which overlook the sea; and on their slopes I see distinctly the irregular light-brown lines of thrown-up earth, denoting the Turks’ front-line trenches and ours, running opposite each other to the summit of the cliffs, about three hundred yards apart.
We are six hundred yards from the enemy line, and can be certain victims for a Turkish sniper should he be aware of our presence.
From this position at night sometimes the Turk receives the contents of belt after belt of machine gun ammunition poured on to his second and third line and communication trenches by indirect fire, ranged by day, causing him great inconvenience and to wonder from where the bullets come.
Our front line is always warned when any such stunt is on, so that they may not arrange for their working parties or patrols to be out in front. Looking at the country in front of me, I can see that here on these rugged slopes the Turk would have but short shrift if he attacked us—as of course would we if we attacked. Result, deadlock, like two cats spitting and sparring at each other. Morris says he is always pleased to show people round his pet hobby. I was immensely interested, and Morris might have been showing me round a farm.
We come back in the gloaming, Morris now and again stopping to order paper and litter to be picked up, for General de Lisle is around here frequently, and has the eye of a hawk.
October 27th.
A fine morning, with a very warm and strong wind, almost a gale, blowing from the sea. Smith, of Hampshires, pays us a visit, and as we sit in our dugout we hear “Whistling Rufus” coming over from Sari Bair. One corner of the roof over our dugout is only of tarpaulin, for corrugated iron is scarce. Rumour says that a ship which set out from England loaded with corrugated iron has been torpedoed and sunk. An officer, newly arrived, who is sitting with us, appears to rather scorn my advice to move from where he is sitting under the tarpaulin, which is of no protection to him from shrapnel bullets, when, “Crash” from “Whistling Rufus” is heard overhead, and the sound of bullets spattering on our roof follows immediately after, just as if an unseen hand with a bowl of pebbles had taken a handful and thrown them with violence down on to our abode. A shirt hanging outside on a line to dry receives two bullets through its tail, causing large rents. The new officer immediately gets up from where he is sitting and comes round to our side of the table, where we sit under a roof of corrugated iron with a layer of sand-bags on top, safe from everything but a direct hit.
This 5·9 shrapnel is followed by others, and in the distance we hear the roar of Turkish artillery and bursting shrapnel. “Whistling Rufus” ceases worrying us after a while, and we go up to behind our dugout and look inland at the Turkish shelling. All along our line and behind, Turkish shrapnel is bursting thickly, being more concentrated over Chocolate Hill and on Hill 10, which is situated on the left of the Salt Lake and half a mile from “B” Beach.
About half an hour after, we hear rifle fire, which dies down quickly, and all is quiet. What it was all about I do not know. Probably the end of the Turkish festival, or probably Enver Pasha has paid a visit, and, sitting on top of Sari Bair, has asked for a show to be demonstrated to him. I must say such a show, viewed from the top of Sari Bair, must appear a wonderful sight.
October 28th.
A hot, sultry day, and the flies a pest. A very quiet morning. No news. Hardly any shelling on the part of the Turk, but our artillery and ships’ guns fairly active. I go up to Brigade H.Q. to tea, and after, on the way back, call in at the 88th Field Ambulance, situated in a tent encampment on a plateau lying between Karakol Dagh and the Turkish positions. Here the situation is most interesting. The white tents and marquees are in full view of the Turks, and not a shot comes near, for John Turk plays the game. It is almost like living in a garden city, with the open country all round, and the feeling one gets is very odd—so near to war and yet so far! Patients rest quite at their ease in their walls of canvas, while over their heads, singing their dread song, the Turkish shells pass on their way to the beaches.
October 29th.
A hot day, and flies very trying. Turks busy with artillery at Chocolate Hill and Anzac. Our artillery busily replying. Nothing our way. Heard firing off coast of Bulgaria last night. Our artillery have been very active all day, and are still firing, although it is dark. We have now several new batteries ashore, and for the past few days the Turk has been very quiet. We had only two shells over our way to-day. Our artillery seems to be getting well on top. Munro has arrived, all good luck to him. Now perhaps we shall get a move on. We feel now, either move on or off. But Heaven defend us from the inaction and waste of time of the last six months! Stewart has gone off, suffering very badly with dysentery. He was stubborn about it, and would not see the doctor, until at last he had to be carried off on a stretcher. I shall miss him very much, as he was good company.
October 30th.
A hot summer day, and flies a plague. The Division has sustained a sad loss to-day. Algy Wood, of the Essex, has gone West. He had been through everything since the landing, and at noon to-day was shot in the throat while in the support trench near his “orderly room.” He became a friend of mine, as he became a friend of all he met, and I have often referred to him in my Diary. He just had time to say to his sergeant-major, who went to him, “I’m finished, sergeant-major,” and then died. A name that will never be forgotten by the survivors of the 29th Division. Nearly all the best have gone now. Lord Howard de Walden comes into our dugout in the evening and has a chat; he is our D.A.A. and Q.M.G., and very popular. Munro is ashore to-day with Staff for a pow-wow at IX Corps H.Q. No news from Salonica.
October 31st.
Another summer day. Hardly any shelling on our part, and absolutely none on the part of the Turk. And so ends October, a monotonous, dreary month. Phew! how many more such months?