We arrive at our destination, and lo and behold! no one is there. Phillips and I confer. I decide to go on with Smith, Q.M. of the Hants, to find H.Q. We take an orderly each from the armed guard. I take an Essex man. We follow the white road, and arriving at the front-line trenches are pulled up short by the “’Alt, who are you?” “Supply Officer.” “Advance to be recognized.” We advance. Smith asks where Battalion H.Q. are, and learns they are a hundred yards to our left. We find, a hundred yards along, a part of the trench dug back a bit to serve as Battalion H.Q. The trenches are deeper now; one can stand up in safety, but only just. Smith asks for Captain Reid, the Adjutant; he steps out to us. We express surprise at the quietness of things. There is absolutely no firing on our front, but we can hear desultory firing on our right from the French line. Reid offers us cigarettes and lights one himself. I remark to him that it is unwise to light a cigarette standing in the open, to which he replies that the enemy are a long way away. He directs me to Brigade H.Q., further along the line. I wish him “Good-night,” and with my orderly proceed cautiously in the direction he had pointed, for it is now pitch dark. I am challenged again and again, and find myself after a bit among the Royal Scots, and one of their officers kindly lends me an orderly, who takes me to Brigade H.Q., dug in a dry brook, some two hundred yards behind the front line. Thomson is asleep, and it is with regret that I have to wake him. He tells me to dump rations in the same place as the last night’s. I start to go back, steer my way by the front line once more and in the dark miss the direction, and find myself about to walk across a track which runs through our front line towards the enemy’s and an alert sentry bringing me to the halt with a sharp challenge, I find my mistake. I then leave myself in my orderly’s hands, who takes the lead and guides me back to the Brigade dump, when I find that Phillips had met Q.M.S. Leslie and had nearly finished the unloading of the pack-mules. I really believe that if I had not been challenged and had passed through our lines towards the enemy’s, my orderly, one of the “doesn’t reason why” breed, would have calmly followed me. Some one taps me on the shoulder, and a Tommy asks me, “Where’s your rifle, mate?” I reply that I haven’t one. He then says, “Ain’t you one of the ’Ants?” and wonderingly I reply that I am the Supply Officer, and the man brings himself erect with a sharp click, begging my pardon. The reason of his mistake then dawned on me; I have on a private’s tunic.
Our goods delivered, we trek back, and on arrival at Sed-el-Bahr the sound of heavy rifle fire breaks out, but by the sound it is from our own rifles. We wonder what is happening, and think ourselves fortunate that we had finished our job before this activity started. I am in rear of the column, walking with my orderly about fifty yards behind the last mule, when I have a bad nerve shock. I have had many during the past week, but this one takes the biscuit. Out of a hole in the side of a broken-down house there leaps a French soldier. He shouts something to me in French and points a rifle, with gleaming bayonet fixed, at my chest. In days long gone past, it has sometimes happened that one of my young sisters or a brother with a warped sense of humour would leap round from the corner of the landing in our early home, just as I might be passing along, and shout “Boo-h!” I used to go hot and cold with fright, and appeared to cause intense amusement by my state of nerves. When this boy sentry, who by his looks could not have been more than nineteen, jumps out from his hole in the wall, my heart seems to stand still, until it feels that it is never going to start its job again, and then with a bound it carries on its job at about ten times its normal speed. My mouth feels like dry blotting-paper, and all I say is, “Oh, hell!” at the same time throwing my hands well over my head. My orderly, who appears most unconcerned, comes to my rescue and says with a Cockney accent “Ongley,” and our gallant ally brings his rifle to the order and allows us to pass.
Previous to this incident I had been chatting to my orderly about his life in the Army in peace days, but now walk on in silence until we have overtaken the convoy, finding the mules halted. Suddenly the French battery that we had passed earlier in the evening opens a terrible fire. I go along to its position and find that half our convoy had passed earlier, but that, the battery being suddenly called into action, the rear half of our column had been ordered to stop. In the excitement two of the mules get adrift, and with good instinct trot off to their own lines, ignoring the cries in Russian from their drivers and the angry bark of the little “75’s.” A halt of ten minutes, and, again with polite apologies, the pleasant French gunner officers, wishing us “Bon soir,” allow us to proceed. Home to bed and a good night’s rest.
May 2nd.
A Taube flies over and drops one bomb on our new aerodrome to the left of Hill 138. One of our machines which is up swings round, heading straight for it, and quickly drives it back. A couple of aircraft guns from one of the ships put in some good practice, little white puffs of shrapnel bursting perilously near. A few wounded come in from a little show last night, and amongst them are wounded Turkish prisoners.
We are issuing stores now from one depot for the whole Division, and to all others who come. Way and Carver are running it. I simply hold a watching brief for my Brigade, but give a hand when I can in helping the business to run smoothly. Foley is up the coast a short way at “X” Beach, running his own depot for the 87th Brigade, and wires constantly come in from him indenting on us for stores he has not in stock. It is just like a business store, and we are running short of supplies, but a Supply ship has come in to replenish our stock and form a large reserve depot. Our depot is the hot-bed of rumours and news, and we feel the pulse of the Division through the news that the Quartermasters and ration parties bring. Bad news has arrived this morning. Captain Reid, to whom I was talking last night, has been killed, and Major Lee, his C.O., with him. I inquired as to what time it happened, and learn that it was at eleven o’clock. I was talking to him at ten. It appears that shortly after I had left him, word was passed down the trench for C.O.’s and Adjutants to go to the end of the trench to meet the Staff. Major Lee, accompanied by Captain Reid, immediately went, and met two officers dressed in khaki with Staff tabs. One of these officers fires a revolver in Major Lee’s face, killing him instantly, while the other murders Captain Reid. In their turn they were quickly bayoneted by Lee’s and Reid’s orderlies. The line is attacked by some two hundred Turks, who are met in the open by our men and quickly retire, getting hell from the French “75’s” in doing so. The two officers dressed in our Staff uniform proved to be Germans, and their action was an attempt to break our line.
I hear also that Godfrey Faussett, Colonel of the Essex, has been killed. This upsets me far more than danger, and I have the nightmare question running in my head sometimes now, when talking to my friends or seniors whom I knew so well in England, “I wonder if I shall see you alive again.”
A few snipers have been caught, and they present a weird and uncanny appearance. They wear uniforms of green cloth, to which in some cases are attached or sewn sprigs of gorse-bush and small branches of trees. Their rifles, hands, and faces are painted green, and they can be passed unnoticed at but a few yards’ distance. Most of them have been found in holes and dugouts underneath clusters of bushes, with two or three boxes of ammunition, and enough bread and water to ration them a fortnight.
This morning the Fleet and the few guns which are on shore are bombarding the Turkish positions heavily, and the slopes of Achi Baba are alive with bursting shrapnel and spouts of earth and smoke shooting skywards, but through it all Achi Baba looks calm, dignified, and formidable, like a great giant saying “Thus far and no further.” Verily it looks the fortress gate of the Peninsula, and we are but on the threshold, or rather on the footpath leading to the threshold. Turkish artillery replies but feebly with shrapnel, but the shooting appears good.
I hear the crackle of rifle fire and learn that we are again attacking. Good luck to the 29th!
Afternoon.
Guns of the Fleet and shore batteries steadily boom away. Rifle fire has died down. Wounded are beginning steadily to come in, and as fast as possible are evacuated on to hospital ships. I go up to Headquarters and find site for dump for rations retired somewhat. I passed many wounded and stretcher-bearers coming back. I saw Colonel Williams, our new Brigadier, calmly walking about in the most exposed positions. A regiment of Gurkhas are on the right of our line, and those in support have dug themselves each a little dugout, just room enough for a man to lie in, rolled up. These little dugouts are in regular lines, and each one being occupied with a little Gurkha makes a most quaint scene. I take snaps of one or two, to their intense delight. They look very workmanlike in their shirts, wide hats, and shorts.
It is now dusk and we hear that we advanced, but soon after had to return to our former positions. We are now badly outnumbered. The enemy have lately received many reinforcements, and are receiving them daily. We want several more Divisions to carry this business through. We have dinner, and I go to bed rather depressed. Heavy rifle fire bursts out at night, and in the middle of the night our Adjutant has to get up and organize a convoy of pack-mules to take up ammunition.
May 3rd.
It is a perfect morning, but it is getting very hot. I ride up about 10 a.m. with the company sergeant-major to as far as the furthest of the white pillars, and there we tether our horses to a tree and walk the rest of the way up the white road. All is absolutely quiet on the front—not a shell, not a rifle shot.
All firing from the Fleet has ceased, and the gunners on shore are busy cleaning their guns and digging gun-pits and dugouts. It is quiet and peaceful. At the front line I cannot see any signs of the enemy. I chat with Major Barlow of the Essex, who was at Warwick with me. He is now O.C. Essex. It is strange being without the roar of the guns once more.
The Fleet has been treated to rather a hot reception, and finds it advisable to lie a little further down the entrance to the Straits, which it accordingly does. The mouth of the Straits looks glorious: the intense blue of the sea, with the warships and transports with their motley collection of lighters, picket boats, etc., all stand out strongly against the steely blue of the sky. Further off, the lovely Isle of Imbros shimmers like a perfect gem set in a sapphire sea. One can just make out the lovely violet tints of her glorious vales, tempered by the pearly grey mists that lightly swathe her mountain crests, as she stands out sharp against the sky. A beautiful sight and not easily forgotten. Looking landward, the trees are all bursting into leaf, the country is wrapped about in a cloak of flowers and flowering grasses, with Achi Baba as a grim and rugged sentry, its sides sloping away to the sea on either hand. Truly a grim and forbidding sentinel, but one which most certainly has to be passed if we are to do any good at all.
To-day an enterprising Greek landed in a small sailing vessel with a cargo of oranges, chocolate, and cigarettes, and in a very short time was quite sold out. We shall be having a Pierrot troupe on the beach next.
At night as the moon rises to the full the picture is perfect. The coast of Asia—that land of mystery and romance, with the plains of Troy in the background, immortalized for ever by the sweet singers of ancient Greece. One can almost picture those god-like heroes of the past halting in those titanic fights which their shades perhaps wage nightly in the old battlefields of Troy, halting to gaze in wonder and amazement on the strange spectacle unfolded before them—modern war, that is, and all its attendant horrors. Hector, Achilles, and Agamemnon in their golden harness—their old enmities forgotten—must surely gaze in astonishment on the warlike deeds and methods of another age than theirs. The soft, shimmering sea merges into liquid silver where in the dim distance the little wavelets lap around the silent sleeping isles. There is Tenedos, standing like a sugarloaf in a silver bowl, silent as the night itself, and filled with mystery. Further off Imbros, that queen of the isles, sleeps like a goddess wrapt about in a garment of violet and silver, all unheeding apparently of war’s alarms—surely on such a night as this the mythology of the ancients becomes a living thing, and it does not tax the intellect much to imagine Diana, queen and huntress, surrounded by her attendant maidens, pursuing the quarry through the violet vales of the isles. Again, one can almost hear the splashing of Leander as he swims the Hellespont to keep his tryst with the lovely Hero.
Most of those living on the beach have dugouts now, but I still live in a little house made of biscuit-boxes. The Royal Scots came into action the first time last night. The Munsters were taken by surprise and had their trench rushed, and the Royal Scots were given the job to retake it, and cleared the trench of the enemy with two platoons at the point of the bayonet in twenty minutes. Greek civilian labour has now been landed, and we use them for unloading the lighters. A Turkish spy could with ease pass himself off as a Greek labourer of one of the gangs. Personally, I think we are making a mistake in employing them.
Carver tells me that the other day he noticed one sitting half-way down the cliff in full view of Yen-i-Shehr, waving to and fro a fly-whisk with a metal band fastened round the handle which clasped the ends of the horsehair; he feels confident that by the way he was waving the whisk, with the rays of the sun reflecting from the metal band, he was signalling by code to the Turkish observation post on Asia. I think it was quite possible for him to do so, for a bright piece of metal reflecting the strong rays of the sun in the clear atmosphere of this part of the world can be seen a long way off, and I should say quite easily as far off as Yen-i-Shehr is from “W” Beach. To a casual passer-by the Greek would appear to be waving flies away from his face with the whisk. Flies are daily becoming numerous here. One of the Greek foremen, who spoke English, assured me that it was only a matter of weeks now before Greece would come in on our side, and that he looked forward to the day when he would take his place in the ranks.
It is strange how very silent everything is to-day—not a gun nor a rifle shot—and we stroll about the beach chatting with the Naval officers.
Afternoon.
I hear that there was an armistice declared for the purpose of burying the dead of both sides. It lasted about two hours, during which both Turks and our men sat on their respective parapets watching each other with interest while parties were out in front, mixing freely with each other, clearing away their own dead. It was an extraordinary situation. One of the Turks picked up two of our live bombs which had fallen short and had failed to explode, and was making back to his trench with them, when his officer, spotting him, called him back and made him hand the bombs back to our men, and apparently gave him a good cursing in strong Turkish. A short time after, both sides are back in their trenches, and if a head should appear over the parapet of either side it is in danger of being promptly blown off.
At dinner I express the thought that I wished Turkey would throw over the Germans and become our allies. Our Tommies and theirs were so near this morning, and, by God! they would fight well side by side. I say that Turkey is the most valuable asset to have on either side. If she were our ally the Dardanelles would be open to the Allies, and the Central Empires would be utterly defeated in a year. As an enemy she will cause the war to drag on Lord knows how long, providing we are unsuccessful in forcing the Straits. I am “howled down,” and am told that Achi Baba will be ours in a month’s time, and once ours, Turkey is finished. But strolling up to the top of the cliff after dinner, I take a long look at Achi. Ours in a month? I wonder. I turn, depressed and pessimistic, into my house of biscuit-boxes, and bless the man who invented sleep.
May 4th, 5th, 6th.
Nothing much to record. Have been very busy these last few days forming a Supply depot of my own for the 88th Brigade. I go up to Brigade each day, riding as far as the white pillars, but go bang across country now and not through Sed-el-Bahr. Our line is quite deep and well dug in now. Firing going on steadily at night. Quite heavy rifle fire, but it is mostly Turkish. I learn that at night he gets the “wind up” and blazes away at nothing. One or two parties have made sorties, but our machine guns have made short work of them. The Division is like one big family party; we all know each other so well now, and one can go through the trying vicissitudes of war with greater vigour if with men who have become intimate friends. The horrible part is losing friends; much worse, I think, than having to go oneself. Good friends leave such a large gap. Tommies seem pretty cheerful at night on the beach. After dinner we sit outside our biscuit-box houses and have coffee (not a word! I got some coffee by exchanging jam with a Frenchman the other day—strictly against rules), and looking out to sea, enjoy some excellent cigars of the C.O.’s. “Any more for the Arcadian?” is constantly shouted out by a Naval officer on the beach, calling those who live at G.H.Q. who are billeted on the Arcadian to the pinnace. I often wish I could say “Yes” one night, and go on board and have a good bath and a whisky and soda. Tommies play on mouth-organs and sing Tommy’s tunes. At Lemnos, Tommy was marching round the decks of the transports singing “Who’s your Lady Friend?” A few days after he goes through one of the most sanguinary fights of the war; a week after he is on the beach with a mouth-organ making a horrible execution of “A Little Grey Home in the West.” A unique creation, the British Tommy. If he ever does think of death or getting wounded, he always thinks it will be his pal and not he who will get hit, and goes on with his mouth-organ, washing his shirt, or writing to his latest girl at the last town he was billeted in. Those with girls are the cheeriest.
May 7th.
To-day we are bombarding Turkish positions heavily and the village of Krithia preparatory to advancing our lines to the slopes of Achi Baba in the hope of my Brigade taking the hill. In the morning I issue at my dump, and after lunch ride with Carver and Sergeant Evans to find our respective Brigades. We ride up the west coast across grass and gorse, and arriving at a gully, encounter shell fire, which is now getting more frequent. We leave our horses with an orderly at this gully and proceed on foot, skirting the edge of the coast. Shells are bursting furiously over Krithia, which is again on fire. We reach a very deep and beautiful gully, which appears to run inland some long way, and we climb down its slopes to the shore. There we find an advanced dressing station, to which wounded are continually being brought by stretcher-bearers, or helped along by R.A.M.C. men. Several of the wounded are R.A.M.C. also.
I inquire at a tent, which is a signal station, of the Signal Officer in charge, as to the location of 88th Brigade H.Q., and learn that they are inland. We chat awhile to this officer, who appears strangely familiar to me, and at last I place him. I find that I dined with him four years ago in Edgbaston, and his name is Mowatt, a Birmingham Territorial in business on his own, which through the war has gone to the winds. He tells me he has been here for four days and is often troubled by snipers. They had caught one four days previously in a dugout which, facing the gully, allowed his head and shoulders to appear, giving sufficient room for him to take aim through a screen made by a bush growing in front. The entrance to his dugout was from the cliff side facing the sea, along a passage ten yards in length. He gave himself up, though he had food and water for some days more. As we talk, two wounded limp down the gully through the water, for the bottom of the gully is in parts a foot deep in water, and I question them as to how they were wounded. They reply, “Either spent bullets or snipers,” and that they were hit about a mile further up the gully.
We go back, climbing up the cliff, and walk along the cliff’s edge to where we had left our horses. A detachment of New Zealanders, I should say about a thousand, are moving slowly in several single files across the gorse to take their place on the left of our line to relieve some Gurkhas, and I have a good opportunity of studying them at close quarters. I am struck by the wonderful physique of the men, all of them in splendid condition. I am rather surprised to see them, for I thought that they were up country with the Australians. I leave Carver at this point, and Sergeant Evans and I cut across country, and trotting up the track which is now called the West Krithia road, reach Pink Farm. We go beyond there, find H.Q. in a trench, and learn that rations are to be dumped at Pink Farm. We are warned that we should not be riding about there, as we might draw shell fire. Krithia is getting it terribly hot from our shells, and is well on fire now. We learn that the French have had a check, and that we in consequence have been unable to advance. We come back and have a delightful canter all the way back to “W” Beach. I have a meal, and then, with Williams, at dusk escort rations, this time in limber-wagons as well as on pack-mules, up the West Krithia road to Pink Farm, where I find Leslie waiting, and we come back on a limber, I squatting on the rear half and Williams in front; quite an enjoyable ride. Star shells are now in use, and they go up at odd intervals, poising in the air for a second and then sailing gracefully to earth, illuminating the immediate vicinity. It was fairly quiet all night; just an odd shell or two fired by our Fleet at intervals.
May 8th.
Before breakfast this morning I am ordered to take two hundred rations up to some Lancashire Fusiliers (Territorials) who have found themselves in our part of the line. Arriving at Pink Farm, shrapnel begins to come over, and I get the mules under cover of the farm as best I can and go on to H.Q. I continue to walk along the road, and then cut across the open country to the trench where the Brigade are. They are sitting in the trench having breakfast, and tell me that the Lancashire Fusiliers have now gone to the beach. Festin, of the Border Regiment, is now our Brigade Major, and he asks me to take a message to the Field Company of Engineers attached to the Brigade, just behind Pink Farm, off the road. As we talk, shrapnel bursts over Pink Farm and to its left, probably trying to get at a battery which is in position there. I take my leave, and on getting back to Pink Farm I find that one of the Syrian mule-drivers has been hit in the stomach by a shrapnel bullet. He is lying on the ground behind the walls of the farm groaning, and on seeing me cries piteously to me in Russian. I send over to an Indian Field Ambulance close by, and in a few minutes two native orderlies come running over noiselessly with a stretcher. They stoop down, and with the tenderness of women lift the wounded boy on to the stretcher and carry him away. We trek back, and on the way I deliver the message to the Field Company.
For transport we now have little A.T. two-wheeled carts, known in the Indian Army as ammunition transport, drawn by two little Indian mules. These are in camp near the lighthouse, between “W” Beach and “V” Beach. Delightful place this, and most interesting. The orderliness of everything is astonishing; the quaint little tents—oblong, with sloping sides—are arranged in neat rows. The inhabitants are surely the most cleanly people on earth. Here I see groups of them, stripped except for a loin-cloth, busy washing their shining, dusky bodies. After this, little brass jars are produced, from which oil is poured over them and rubbed in. Others, having finished this, are industriously combing their long black locks and bushy beards. Others, again, are making chupatty, a species of pancake, in broad, shallow metal bowls—I taste one and find it excellent. Other groups of these dark warriors are sitting outside their little tents smoking hookahs; all the men we meet salute punctiliously. Near by are the white officers’ tents, quite luxurious affairs. The whole place is delightful and looks almost like a riverside picnic, only everything is very orderly. As to the carts before mentioned, these are most ingenious. They are little two-wheeled affairs with a pole, like the old-fashioned curricle; each is drawn by two small mules, not larger than ponies. Wonderful little fellows they are, bred in Northern India—Kashmere and Thibet, I believe. Lord! how they work—they can pull almost anything, and they are so surefooted and the little carts so evenly balanced that they can go about anywhere. It is a very interesting sight to see a convoy of these carts on the move, with their dusky, turbaned drivers sitting crouched up like monkeys on them, chanting some weird Oriental ballad as they go, to the accompaniment of jingling harness. They are well looked after, too, these little mules—the drivers have had the care of them for years, perhaps—and their training is perfect. They look as fat as butter, and their coats shine like satin—very different from the hulking, ugly brutes that we have brought—American. They appear to be quite docile, and it is not necessary to have eyes in the back of your head when walking through their lines.
I hear to-day that Major Barlow, to whom I was talking a few days ago in the trenches, has been badly wounded.
One aeroplane has been very busy going out and coming back after short trips over the enemy’s positions, followed by little puffs of bursting shrapnel when over their lines. The weather is perfect.
Swiftsure and Queen Bess are now up the coast off the gully, and are giving the left slope of Achi Baba and Krithia something to write home about. Torpedo destroyers are also joining in, and later the shore batteries take up the tune, and a bombardment similar to yesterday’s starts, preparatory to another battle.
French “75’s” are barking away incessantly, and the bombardment is increasing in ferocity.
New Zealanders are on the extreme left, then the 87th Brigade, next the 88th and 86th, or what is left of it, with the new Territorial Lancashire Fusiliers. Next come Australians, up on the hill by the White House; and on the extreme right down to the edge of the Straits, the French. The line forms the shape of a , the extremes resting on ground on either side of the Peninsula.
Through glasses at six o’clock I can see little figures running here and there on the high ground to the extreme right beyond the White House—now taking cover, now running forward, now disappearing on the other side; ugly black shells rain amongst them and make a sickening sight. Turkish artillery appears to have increased considerably. Their shells rain all along our line, but none come on the beaches. All their artillery seems concentrated on our trenches. Again and again I see shells fall right in the middle of men who seem to be running. It is difficult to discern whether they are Turks or our men.
I watch till the sight sickens me, and then I come away and arrange the rations to go up to-night, seeing the boxes roped up on to the pack-mules or loaded on to the A.T. carts. Two shells come near the beach, bursting with a black explosion in the air. Rifle fire goes on all night, but artillery dies down to fitful shelling. I hear that the net result of to-day’s work is a gain of five hundred yards, but that we have had great casualties.
May 10th.
Another most perfect day. All day yesterday wounded were being evacuated as fast as possible. I now have to feed a Brigade of Australians as well as my own Brigade. I go up in the morning to their positions, and for the first time get amongst them at close quarters. They have honeycombed the land near the white pillars with dugouts and have their H.Q. at the White House on the hill. I see Captain Milne, their Supply Officer, and arrange matters with him.
Our Vet. (Hyslop) and Sergeant Evans ride to-day with me and we call at our Brigade H.Q., now moved some few hundred yards behind their former position of a week ago, dug in a dry nook surrounded by trees, in a spot similar to a park of some large house in England. Their mess is simply a table of earth dug out by digging a square trench in which they sit, the centre of the square being the table. There I find Colonel Williams, Thomson and our new Brigade Major. I find that Festin was wounded yesterday whilst standing up in the trench in which I was talking to him the day before. Troops have found little springs and an ancient well, and so there is now a plentiful supply of water—and beautiful water too. In addition to Australians and the Punjabis in camp by the white pillars, there are now Lancashire Fusiliers and Manchesters, the whole making one large camp of dugouts and trenches in orderly rows.
It is fortunate that there is very little rain, otherwise the place would be a quagmire in five minutes.
The Punjabis have built walls of mud and stone shell-proof shelters, and are much handier at making themselves comfortable than our white troops. In the battle of the 8th the Australians showed marvellous dash and individual pluck—not a straggler among them. Many deeds of great heroism were performed, and if a man gets an honour in their ranks it will be one worth having.
It is difficult to pick up exactly our front-line trench, and the Q.M. of the Worcesters the other day, finding a trench containing Munsters, inquired as to the whereabouts of his regiment, and was told that they were on in front; he walked on, and finding nothing, came back. He was told that if he walked much further “he wouldn’t ’arf get Worcesters.” He was walking bang into the enemy’s lines.
Two aeroplanes are up to-day, circling energetically around the slopes of Achi Baba.
Our batteries are busy, steadily plugging shells into the enemy’s lines.
An aeroplane is up and the Turks are trying to pot it. Aeroplane sails up and down Turkish lines unconcerned.
The curious thing about being under shell fire is that when a shell comes near you, you duck down and take cover, and immediately after resume your conversation.
This morning at the white pillars I said to the Australian officer, “What is your strength?” He said, “Look out!” Down we bobbed. A sound like tearing linen, ending in a shriek and a bang. Up we jump, and he calmly continues the conversation.
Met Duff, my H.A.C. pal, again; so funny seeing him; both of us ride together. Last time we rode together was at Goring, side by side in B Sub., A Battery. Never thought that we should both be officers riding side by side on the Gallipoli Peninsula. Have a delightful bathe off “W” Beach to-day; the water crowded with bathers, French and English. By far the best bathing I have ever had in my life.
May 11th.
Rather cloudy to-day, and much cooler. Rode up to Brigade H.Q. with Hyslop, to the same place as yesterday. Saw Australian Supply Officer. As I was talking to him a few shells came over our way—not singly, but by twos and threes. I have got used to the sound of them passing through the air now, and know by the sound whether they are coming my way or not. Again, as yesterday, the Australian officer gave me the warning “Look out!” and we dived for a dugout. The Australians get awfully amused when they see people doing these dives out of the way of shells, and it certainly does look humorous.
My Brigade is moving back to the reserve trenches for a rest, and they need it. The reserve trenches are those by the white pillars, occupied at present by the Lancashires and Manchesters (Territorials). I meet General D’Amade and his Staff, including the officer that I knew on the Arcadian. They are all riding. He stops me, asking if I have seen General Parish, the Australian General. I express regret that I have not, at which he appears annoyed. One of his Staff asks me to point out 29th D.H.Q., and I direct him to Hill 138, in rear of us. I point out the Australian camp to the General, who goes off then to inquire for General Parish.
I leave Hyslop, who has another job on, and start to ride back across country, having a few jumps over the new rest trenches. I am overtaken by an officer who is the Adjutant of one of the Lancashire Fusiliers (Territorial) Battalions, the 6th, I think. Lord Rochdale is in command. He tells me that they have been in Egypt training for a long time, and cursing their luck at being seemingly sidetracked, with not much opportunity of seeing any active service. Suddenly they were wired for, and in twenty-four hours left Egypt for here. On arrival they marched straight up to the trenches, and at 5.30 p.m. the next day went into action and lost heavily. As I was being told all this I heard a most weird noise, as if the whole of the sky were being rent in two, ending in a deafening explosion, and looking over my shoulder in surprise, I see twenty-five yards to my left, over a little mound, a spout of smoke and earth and stones flung into the air. I say to my companion, “I think we had better trot,” which we do. It is strange, but my old horse did not seem to worry much when the shell burst. It must have been a 6-inch, and is the first big one that I have had near me so far, and may it be the last. Its sound is unlike that of any shell I have heard up to now, and far noisier in its flight; I think that if they chuck these sort about on the beach I shall be jumpy in a very short time. I only hope the beaches are out of range, or will be before very long. Evidently they have a new gun. At times I feel very optimistic, looking forward confidently to our trip over Achi Baba; at other times Achi Baba looks so forbidding that I feel we shall all spend the rest of our lives hanging on to this tiny bit of land. I can canter to Brigade H.Q. from the beach in fifteen minutes, and walk from there to the front line in another fifteen, and that gives an idea of how far we are on. I ride over to the aerodrome—we are fortunate in finding such a perfect one—and over to “V” Beach, which the French have got into a much more shipshape order than ours. I count seven battleships and seven destroyers up the entrance as far as Morto Bay; the “packet of Woodbines” is still off the Asiatic coast and touches up Yen-i-Shehr and Kum Kale with 10-inch shells. From the high ground overlooking “V” Beach the Fleet at the entrance makes an imposing spectacle, waiting for the Army to open the gates of the Straits before they dash through to the Marmora. The Goliath and Prince George fire odd shots now and again at Chanak. Late in the afternoon we get a few light shells over on “W” Beach and a few men are slightly hit. In a little gully between “W” Beach and “X” Beach preparations are being made to start a field bakery, and we are promised real bread in a few days. One of our mares has given birth to a foal; my mare, much to the mother’s annoyance, is much interested.
Our train is in camp now on the high ground on the left of “W” Beach looking inland, and have made very good lines. All the men have built little shelters out of wagon-covers, sail-cloths, and tarpaulins, in rows opposite their horse lines, the whole looking like a well ordered gipsy encampment. I made myself very unpopular there to-day by saying, “You won’t ’arf cop it in a day or so when John Turk finds you out.”
Saw General Hunter-Weston making a tour of the beaches to-day. He appeared in very good spirits. Our trenches in the front line are now getting quite deep, and sand-bagged parapets are being rapidly built. The Gurkhas do not like trench warfare at all, and cause much anxiety to their white officers by continually popping their heads over to have a look round. The Turkish line has crept much nearer to ours since the last battle, and they are also rapidly digging in. A party of Gurkhas were ordered out to capture a machine gun in an emplacement on an advanced knoll in front of the Turkish right and our left. The gun was captured, and one little Gurkha brought back a Turk’s head, and it was difficult to make him part with it. Heavy firing broke out at eleven o’clock to-night and lasted an hour or two.
May 12th.
It is raining hard this morning, and very cold as well. I visit the Senegalese camp at “V” Beach. They are physically very well built men, well up to the average of 6 feet in height. They are as black as coal, with shiny faces, like niggers on Brighton beach, and very amusing in their manners. At the last battle they charged magnificently with horrible yelling, frightening the poor Turk out of his wits. They are equipped with wide, square-bladed knives about 14 inches long.
Wireless news is now typed and published nearly every day. To-day we hear that the Lusitania has been sunk and that Greece and Italy are likely to come in. An extract from a Turkish paper says that we have been pushed into the sea, and almost in the same paragraph that “the foolish British will persist in attacking.”
We have quite a comfortable little house now at our Supply depot on the beach, made out of boxes with a sail-cloth overhead.
Hardly any firing to-day. Shore batteries remarkably quiet, but Fleet firing intermittently.
Afternoon.
Go to Brigade H.Q. in the afternoon and find the rest camp at the white pillars an absolute quagmire of mud, many of the dugouts being half full of water. Two 60-pounder guns are now in position on the cliff to the west of “W” Beach, and this afternoon I go up to have a look at them firing. Their target is at a range of 9,600 yards, well up on the left shoulder of Achi Baba, and an aeroplane is up observing for them. The flame of the explosion shoots out some feet from the muzzle and from the breach also, and makes a terrific roar, which echoes all round the ships lying off, the sound playing ducks and drakes from one ship to another. One can see with the naked eye the shell hitting its target on Achi Baba. Our Fleet gets busy again, and later the batteries on shore join in, and a bombardment starts. At 6.45 p.m. the Gurkhas come into action on the left, and quite a big battle develops. We can just see the men through glasses. Crowds from the beach flock up on to the high ground to have a look, getting into direct line with the 60-pounders, much to the Gunner Officer’s annoyance, and police finally are posted to keep them out of the way. A shell exploding with a black burst over our heads, but very high, causes the watching crowd to scatter in a somewhat amusing fashion. Gregory and I move forward to a trench in front and look at the battle through glasses. All I can see now is a host of bursting shells on the left and intermittent shelling on the right and centre. Suddenly another of these black devils of shells bursts over our heads and covers me with small hot cinders which sting. We go back to dinner whilst the battle is still going on.
May 13th.
At two o’clock this morning I was awakened by a most curious noise. It sounded like thousands of men off “V” Beach crying and shouting loudly. Shortly after I see searchlights, about eight of them, flashing from the battleships at the entrance to the Straits. The noise goes on for about half an hour and then suddenly ceases. I stand for a few minutes puzzling what it is, and watching the searchlights still wielding their beams of light around, and then turn in again.
At 6 a.m. I am told that the Goliath has been torpedoed and sunk. A Turkish destroyer came down the Straits and got her clean amidships, and she sank in half an hour. I hear that half the crew is lost. The destroyer, if seen at all, disappeared in the darkness. Poor old Goliath! and it was only the other day that I was watching her in action.
We now move our depot upon the high land on the left of “W” Beach and further inshore, and divide it into four, one for Divisional troops and one for each Brigade. While on this job at 7 a.m. I hear the sound of bagpipes coming nearer and nearer. It is the first time that I have heard bagpipes since I was on the Southland with the K.O.S.B.’s. Sure enough it is the K.O.S.B.’s, “all that are left of them,” some three hundred strong out of the strength of eleven hundred that they landed with from the Southland. They come swinging down to the beach with one officer at their head, and to see them marching well behind the inspiring skirl of bagpipes almost brings tears to my eyes. Three hundred left out of a crack Scottish battalion, average service of each man five years. I ride up to Brigade again this morning and find all very quiet on the front. I hear that we were successful in yesterday’s and in last night’s battle, and that the Gurkhas have taken a large important bluff on our extreme left on the other side of the gully.
I bathe in the afternoon, and while enjoying the pleasure of doing side-strokes with the sea having a slight swell on, I hear that terrible rending noise of a 6-inch shell, similar to those that dropped near me the other morning, which “bursts with a bang at the back of the beach.” My bathing is promptly brought to an end, and I go back to my “bivvy.” I feel safer there, somehow, but why I should I cannot explain. But all who have been under shell fire will bear me out in the statement that even if one is in a tent one feels more confident under shell fire than if in the bare open, with the exception, of course, of when one is caught under it going to some definite place or finishing some urgent definite work. Then one’s mind is concentrated on getting to that place or finishing that job. But sitting down on the beach hearing the heavens being torn asunder by an unseen hand, as it were—the noise of the tearing developing into a mighty hiss and shriek, ending in a great explosion which shakes the earth under your feet and echoes far away into the distance, followed by the whine of flying pieces of hot metal, sometimes very near your head—is a most disconcerting and unnerving position in which to find oneself.
For the benefit of those who have been so fortunate as to never have heard a shell burst in anger, a slight description of it may prove interesting. The first thing one hears is a noise like the rending of linen, or perhaps the rush of steam describes it better. This gets louder and louder, and then, as the projectile nears the end of its journey, one hears a whine, half whistle, half scream, and then the explosion. If it is very near there is an acrid smell in the air. One’s feelings are difficult to describe. You duck your head instinctively—you feel absolutely helpless, wondering where the thing will burst, and as you hear the explosion a quick wave of feeling sweeps over you as you murmur, “Thank Heaven, not this time!”
Unfortunately, they have got the range of our beach accurately now, and are beginning to do real damage. The little shells that we had earlier did not frighten us much, but these beastly things make us all jumpy.
Several men have been hit to-day, and about a dozen horses and half a dozen mules killed. All are taking cover as best they can. If one hits this bivouac where I am now writing, this Diary comes to an untimely end.
I wish our aeroplanes could find this gun; it appears so close up to us, and if it takes it into its head to fling these beastly things about all day long, this beach will be untenable. A damned fool near me has just said, “If they go on much longer they will hurt somebody.” I chuck a book at his head.
In France they do get a chance of rest behind the scenes now and again, but here it is one constant “Look out!” and down we bob. After a bout of shelling one imagines shells coming. For instance, when an aeroplane sails over, people duck their heads, as it sounds just like a shell; and then also there are so many ships in harbour that one is constantly hearing the noise of escaping steam, sounding just like a shell.
One of our men has just had the side of his boot torn away; fortunately, however, only the skin of his foot was grazed and bruised.
Fifty horses have now been killed, and three men killed and a few wounded.
Had to go on duty at depot at head of beach. Shelling stopped. Finished duty 6.45. Shell immediately came, and I fell flat behind some hay. After that a few more came over and then stopped.
May 14th.
Big gun started searching the beach with large high explosive shells at four, for two hours. Every one had to take cover. Aeroplane reconnaissance cannot locate gun, which is a damned nuisance. They come with a terrific scream and burst with a deafening explosion, most upsetting to one’s nerves. We all take cover behind the cliff. Not a soul can be seen on the beaches. All animals are removed to down under the cliff.
Casualties, twenty-three mules and three men wounded.
One piece of shell fell at my feet, and I picked it up, only to drop it quickly, as it was so hot.
After being under fire of such awful shells one laughs at mild shrapnel.
Getting very hot, but perfect weather.
Saw Laird for a few minutes and had a chat with him.
Not much time for writing to-day. Go up to Laird’s “bivvy” and have a long talk with him over old times. He landed on that first Sunday on “S” Beach, and though in the Engineers, had the experience of taking part in three bayonet charges. He was in a neat little dugout when I went up, and was busy looking for a scorpion. I helped him look for it, and it seemed so strange that after all these years we should meet on the Gallipoli Peninsula, and before sitting down to talk of old times should be looking for a scorpion that had got into his dugout.
Scorpions and snakes about three feet long are becoming more numerous here, but I believe they are harmless, except in self-defence.
May 15th.
All was quiet on the front last night, but to-day there has been one long artillery duel.
I go up to Brigade H.Q. this afternoon, and go round by the road through Sed-el-Bahr this time, because “I don’t like them shells; run as you may, you can’t get away from them.” On the way I passed Ashmead Bartlett riding with a Naval officer. The latter came and had tea with us later, and said he was on the Implacable, and Ashmead Bartlett was “bivvying” there as well. He is a correspondent for several papers.
Several battleships which were moored at the entrance move off at nightfall now, after that feat by the Turkish destroyer which sank the Goliath.
There is to be a general attack to-morrow night, Sunday. Some of the Tommies do not like attacking at night; they say, “Let us get them in the open, by day.”
The knocking out of a sniper by some of the South Wales Borderers was described to me to-day by one of their officers. Two officers were standing up in their trench by a machine gun, one holding a periscope, when a bullet went through the sleeve of his coat, wounding the officer to whom he was talking. The first officer spotted a sniper bob down immediately after. He then got down in the trench beside the man working the machine gun, and pointed out to him the bush behind which the sniper had crouched. The machine gun was laid on to it. Then the man on the machine gun and the officer took cover, the man holding his hand up to the machine gun ready to pop off. The officer then cautiously raised the periscope over the trench and looked carefully at the lower mirror. He saw in the mirror a head slowly appear above the bush eight hundred yards away, then a rifle lifted. He said to the machine gun man “Fire.” Pop-pop, and the sniper rolled over dead on his side beside the bush.
5.30.
Two Taubes have just come overhead flying at a great height. Anti-aircraft guns are firing and there is some good shooting, but the Taubes have turned and are going back to the Turkish lines. One of our aeroplanes has gone up.
A beautiful clear day, and one can see in detail the Asiatic side and the Isle of Imbros. No heavy shells to-day so far on this beach.
Invitations to lunch and dinner, etc., go on every day here, and it is a regular custom for men in the firing-line to invite men from the base (only four miles back) to a meal and vice versa. This campaign is quite unique in many ways.
May 16th.
Perfect day again. Saw Brigade H.Q. and hear they are moving further to the left up in the firing-line, about half a mile beyond Pink Farm.
Hear that our wounded, and French and Australian, have been arriving in great numbers at Cairo and Alexandria. The British are now being sent to Malta. Hear that 20,000 Turkish wounded have arrived at Smyrna, and 12,000 at Constantinople. Put in divisional orders to cheer us up. Fancy a civilized nation sending round statistics of the result of their slaughter to cheer and exhort! Yet it cheered me. Strange how quickly one becomes bloodthirsty and savage.
Fighting proceeding on our right by French. No general attack being made to-day, idea being to strengthen line, push forward steadily by sapping, and then, when in strong position with three or four lines of supports, to make a rush. This will probably happen in a few days now.
Big gun has not been knocked out after all, for we had a dozen of the best over to-day, but I was up in front and so missed it.
Gurkhas on left have pushed forward well up to left of Krithia. Still a few snipers behind our lines on left of Krithia.
We had divine service this morning behind 88th Brigade lines. A service under such circumstances is most impressive, every soul there being within easy distance of a horrible death. It is a lovely morning, and as the soldiers sing the hymns with lusty voices, an accompaniment is provided by the screaming of shells overhead. But the singing continues unabated. Here one hears the same dear old tunes of our childhood, but under what different circumstances! At home, the breeze softly whispering in the trees outside the ancient church, with the shaded light glimmering through the stained glass and men and women mingling their voices in praise to God; and then, out here, the breeze murmurs as at home, the birds are singing and the sun is shining—but over the congregation, the bareheaded rows of khaki figures, even while they sing the same old hymns as of old, the Angel of Death hovers with naked sword. Then the benediction in level tones from the Padre and the service is ended. Surely the most impressive I have witnessed. For here in a double sense one stands face to face with one’s Maker.
May 18th.
Our Brigade has now moved up about three-quarters of a mile in front of Pink Farm, and I go up this morning to find them. I ride up to, and leave my horse at, Pink Farm, and walk the rest of the way down past a ruined house, on over a small nullah, along the road past a battery up to a white house called Church Farm, where I think it is about time to halt and inquire the way. A few Tommies encamped in this house tell me Brigade H.Q. is two hundred yards further on in the trenches, and I walk on. I notice a Tommy walking in the same direction with a biscuit tin on his shoulder, which he has rubbed over with mud to prevent the sun glittering on it. I continue on in the direction indicated, and hear a few “pings” past my head, but thinking they are the usual spent bullets, take no notice. Suddenly something “zips” past my head, making a row like a huge bee flying at high speed; the noise being unlike the usual “ping” of a bullet passing harmless overhead, I conclude that I am being deliberately fired at by a sniper, and so bend double, and steering a zigzag course, jog-trot across the remaining fifty yards to a nice deep trench. On arrival, I inquire where Brigade H.Q. is, and am directed to a communication trench, which I go along and find myself at length in a square dugout with no roof, in which are General Williams, busy at work with a spade, Thomson, Farmer, and Reave. Concluding my business, and being instructed that the little ruined house in front of Pink Farm is to be the dump for rations, I say good-bye. Thomson says, “Now, Gillam, run like a bunny,” but, those bullets being a bit free at present over the trenches, I follow my own route back and walk along the hindmost trench, which I am told leads to a nullah which goes back in the direction of Pink Farm.
I pass Worcesters and Royal Scots in the trenches, and finally the trench dips down to a wide open space under cover, with a small brook running its course, out of which two nullahs run. This, I am told, has been officially named “Clapham Junction.” Unfortunately, a few shrapnel then burst immediately over “Clapham Junction,” and I therefore go to look for a waiting-room, refreshment-room, or booking-office in which I can take cover until the rain has stopped. I find a “refreshment-room” in the shape of an advanced dressing station, and two officers there very kindly give me breakfast. After breakfast I walk along the nullah, which I learn is now to be called Krithia Nullah, back towards the rear, and when the sound of bullets pinging away overhead ceases, I step out on to a newly made road, which is still under construction by the Engineers, and then come across the Manchesters again in a newly dug trench forming reserve lines. Walking back to Pink Farm, I mount my mare and canter back to the beach. Last night the Turks made a raid on the part of the line held by the Lancashire Fusiliers, endeavouring to capture a machine gun, but very soon gave up the idea. They lost heavily and left six prisoners behind.
Supply depot for my Brigade alone now working smoothly. We draw rations for the whole Division, men and horses, at six o’clock each morning by G.S. wagons. This takes two hours, during which the rations are carted from the Main Supply depot some three hundred yards inland from our depots at the back of “W” Beach, and sorted out to each of the three Brigade depots and the Divisional artillery depot. Breakfast at eight, and at 9.30 I go to my depot again and issue the rations to my units, meeting the Q.M.’s who have arrived with their transport. Receipts for the rations are then given me by the Q.M.’s, who cart them away to their own lines, where their first-line transport is encamped only a distance of three to five hundred yards away on the other side of the beach. At night they are taken up to the various ration dumps, and from there taken the rest of the way to the trenches either by hand or on pack-mules. At the forward ration dumps the work of redistribution is carried on under a continual flight of spent and “over” bullets, and standing there one is in constant danger of stopping one. Up to now several casualties have been caused, but mostly slight wounds. After five minutes one becomes quite used to the singing of the bullets, which sound quite harmless. It is only when an extra burst of fire breaks out that it is necessary to get into a trench or behind some sheltering cover. I ride up in the afternoon to Brigade H.Q., who have now dug themselves into a dry watercourse just in front of Pink Farm. I see General Williams and Thomson. Afterwards I walk up to the trenches where the Worcesters are, up beyond Church Farm, and across that open space. At Church Farm I am told that at this side of the building I am out of aiming distance from a rifle, and can only be hit by an “over,” but that at the other side of the building I come under range, and that it is not wise to loiter in that neighbourhood.
I therefore get across the three hundred yards of open space as quickly as possible, and vaulting into the safety of the trench, I inquire where Battalion H.Q. is, and following the direction given, pass along nice deep trenches with sand-bagged parapets. Trench warfare in dead earnest has now begun, and for the first time I realize what it is like: an underground world, yet not an underground, for one can see grass, flowers, and trees growing, but only close to. Walking from Church Farm to the trenches, I see nothing but lovely country leading up to frowning Achi Baba, and near by, in front, rows and rows of thrown-up earth. No sign of animal life of any kind. Yet once in the trenches I found myself in a world alive with energy—men cleaning rifles, writing letters, washing clothes, making dugouts, laying cables. I pass dugouts, little rooms of earth dug out of the side of the trench; some are cookhouses, some officers’ bedrooms, some messes, and some orderly-rooms, with tables and chairs. All this world has been created underground, and unseen by the enemy, only a few hundred yards away, in the space of a few weeks; and this is trench warfare, materialized by spade and shovel, by hundreds of strong arms, night and day. I come at last to H.Q. Worcester Battalion, and am directed to the mess—a nice dugout roofed in by timber. Major Lang is sitting at a table reading letters from home. I ask for letters for Captain Bush; am told they have been sent down to the beach by an orderly; am offered a drink, talk about the heat, which is getting tiresome now, and hear that soon we are to be served out with pith helmets. I say good-bye and start back. I am in a maze, and have to be directed back to the trench that I jumped into. I vault out and, zigzagging, jog-trot, for I am told to go quickly back to Church Farm, and hear two bullets singing their faint song far away over my head. I come to a nullah, where I find horses and mules in dug-in stables in charge of Roberts, Brigade Transport Officer, just in front of the little ruined house in front of our Brigade H.Q., and arriving there, hear that Thomson has gone back to Hill 138 with the Brigadier. I go back to Pink Farm, mount my mare, and cantering along the West Krithia road, catch them up. On either side of the road are now dug rest trenches, organized as camps—the trenches not as deep as the front trenches, but sufficiently so to keep the men under cover. I trot along the road through one of these camps, and am soon pulled up by an M.P. with the sharp order, “No trotting, please.”