On the afternoon of the final day the Divisions had only four battalions apiece remaining upon the Peninsula. They came away in three groups or trips, the first withdrawing soon after 7 p.m. and getting off in destroyers and “beetles” without difficulty. But at sunset the breeze freshened, and it began to blow hard from the south-west, the quarter to which W Beach was most exposed. The connecting platform between the shore and the hulks which served as wharves there was washed away by heavy seas. Still, the second group, and even guns, were safely taken off about midnight. On V Beach, while the second group was waiting at eleven o’clock, the Asiatic guns began to bombard, but fortunately all but two shells fell short into the sea, and only one man was wounded. Hardly, however, had fifty of the R.N.D. put off to the Prince George in a “beetle” at 11.30 and got under way for Mudros with 1500 others, when they felt the dull thud of a torpedo against the vessel’s side. The torpedo did not explode, but the presence of the submarine, known to the navy all the evening, added to the anxiety of the final hours. Starting from Gully Beach, a lighter also went aground after all had left, and the 160 men had to be landed again and marched over to W Beach for embarkation.

At 11.30 the final party or rearguard—about sixty men from each Division—withdrew from the front lines. With bombs and rifle-fire they had kept up as much noise as they could to conceal the movement of the rest. Now, leaving lights and devices by which dropping water filled tins and discharged rifles when the tins were full, they crept away under cover of officers’ patrols, who maintained a desultory fire, barred the gates, and connected the mines. About 2.30 all arrived at the beaches, to find a heavy surf dashing upon the shore. Nevertheless, though under great stress and peril, by 3.30 the beaches were cleared. The Military Transport Officer, coming off the River Clyde, was the last man to leave. Time fuses lighted the heaps of abandoned stores, and exploded masses of ammunition. In all, fourteen of our well-worn old 15-pounders, a 6-inch gun, and the six old French “heavies” were abandoned and destroyed. Far worse was the fate of 508 horses and mules, most of which were killed. All animals and stores might have been embarked, had it been safe to wait. But the rising storm of that night was a warning, and, as at Suvla, only by the barest luck in weather was disaster avoided. The Turks began shelling the beaches at the first sight of the fires, and continued that unprofitable expenditure till 6.30 a.m. of January 9. At Helles, as at Suvla and Anzac, those incalculable Orientals remained ignorant of our departure, though here expecting it. No doubt they were glad at our going; naturally, they were glad. And so, by the evacuation, our authorities, whether political or military, were acting contrary to Napoleon’s maxim of war: “Never do what you know your enemy wants you to do.”

So the episode of the Dardanelles Expedition, equal in splendour of conception, heroism, and tragedy, came to an end. During the eight and a half months of its continuance upon the Peninsula itself, the land forces, including the Royal Naval Division, but not counting the Navy or the French (whose losses are not published), suffered the following loss:

A large proportion of the missing must be counted as killed. The number of sick admitted to hospital between April 25 and December 11, 1915, was 96,683, of whom also a considerable proportion died. If we may take about one-quarter of the missing as killed, and about one-twentieth of the sick as having died, the total of lives lost amounts to about 36,000. The total losses of the Turks have been variously estimated between 400,000 and 500,000, but those estimates are conjectural.

The causes of our failure have been, as I hope, reasonably signified in the preceding account of the campaign. They may be summarised in relation either to the movements on the spot, or to the attitude of the home Government. On the spot, we failed chiefly owing to the premature naval attacks, which gave the enemy warning of our intention, and owing to the design of forcing the Straits with the Navy alone, which might indeed have been temporarily successful if persisted in, but in the end would have given us only a dubious advantage; for a fleet penetrating to the Sea of Marmora would have remained dangerously isolated so long as both sides of the Straits were strongly held by the enemy. The second initial error was the delay in concentrating the military forces for the land attack—a delay chiefly due to the retention of the 29th Division in England, and to the necessity of returning the transports from Mudros to Alexandria for the rearrangement of the military stores and munitions. As to the actual operations on land, it might be argued, in the light of wisdom after the event, that the first landing had better have been made by a combined force at Suvla Bay and on the Ocean Beach at Anzac, though, in that case, larger numbers than those allotted to the Expedition at the beginning must have been demanded. Again, with regard to the failure of the August operations, it might now be maintained that the forces at Anzac were dissipated by the assaults at Lone Pine and the Nek, and by the over-elaborate subdivision of the attacking forces upon our left. Even in spite of the natural intricacy of the ground, a concentration of all available troops into one main body (or at most into two) for a grand assault upon the Sari Bair range from Chunuk Bair to Koja Chemen Tepe might have given better results. As to the “inertia” which prevailed at Suvla on the critical day of August 8, and the confusion, delay, and fatal mistakes of the preceding and following days, thus precluding the support to the Anzac movement upon which the Commander-in-Chief had fairly calculated, no more need be said. Owing partly to the temperament of Generals, partly to the inexperience of their Staffs, and perhaps chiefly to the want of confidence between the poorly trained troops and their senior officers, the instrument to which he trusted broke in his hand.

The ultimate burden of failure, however, lies on the authorities at home. The Allies were presented with the most brilliant and promising strategical conception of the war up to the present time (spring, 1918). Success would have given them advantages already repeatedly enumerated: a passage would have been opened for the supply of grain from Russia, and a supply of munitions to that country; the enemy’s hope of advancing either towards Egypt or the Persian Gulf would have been frustrated; the Balkan States would, at worst, have remained neutral, or, calculating on future favours, would have joined our Alliance in hurried gratitude; Venizelos would have remained in power, and King Constantine’s military and domestic predilections have been suppressed; the belated attempt to rescue Serbia after her destruction was assured would not have been required; Tsar Ferdinand would have scented his own advantage on the side of Bulgaria’s natural sympathies; Roumania, relieved from apprehension on her southern frontier, could have watched the Transylvanian passes or crossed them at pleasure; Russia might possibly have retained her front lines intact, and, at the worst, would have immobilised large armies of the enemy. The Central Powers would then indeed have been surrounded with an “iron ring,” and peace secured in the spring of 1916. The main disadvantages of such a peace to the world would have been the probable occupation of Constantinople by Russia, the fortification of the Straits in her interest, and the continuance in power of the autocratic Tsardom, surrounded by its attendant supporters in bureaucrats, secret police, provocative agents, censors of public opinion, and all the other instruments of political and religious tyranny.

At that time the future of Russia could not be foretold, any more than it can be foretold now. But the advantages here recapitulated should have been too obvious even for insular statesmen to overlook. Mr. Winston Churchill was justified in the protest already quoted, that “if there were any operations in the history of the world which, having been begun, it was worth while to carry through with the utmost vigour and fury,” it was those. Far from displaying vigour, let alone fury, the Government appears to have regarded the Expedition rather as an overburdened father regards an illegitimate child put out to nurse in a distant village. It was a “by-blow,” a “side-show,” something apart from the normal and recognised order of things. A certain allowance had, unfortunately, to be apportioned for it, but if the person who superintended its welfare clamoured for more, that person must be kept in the proper place, or palmed off with gifts that were no gifts. Every breath of suspicion or detraction must be listened to, every chance of abandonment welcomed, and the news of a peaceful ending accepted with a sigh of relief.

For myself, in coming to the conclusion of this account—faithful as far as I could make it, but so inadequate to the tragic splendour of the theme—I feel again a mingled admiration and poignant sorrow, as when for the last time I watched the scene from the battered deck of the River Clyde and, under the dying brilliance of sunset, looked across the purple current of the Dardanelles to those deserted plains which long ago also rang with tragic battle. The time is fast approaching when the deserted Peninsula of Gallipoli looking across to Troy will be haunted by kindred memories. There the many men so beautiful had their habitation. There they knew the finest human joy—the joy of active companionship in a cause which they accounted noble. There they faced the utmost suffering of hardship and pain, the utmost terrors of death, and there they endured separation from those whom they most loved. The crowded caverns in which they made their dwelling-place are already falling in, except where some shepherd uses a Headquarters as more weatherproof than his hut, or as a sheltered pen for sheep. The trenches which they dug and held to the death have crumbled into furrows, covered with grass and flowers, or with crops more fertile for so deep a ploughing. The graves are obliterated, and the scattered bones that cost so much in the breeding have returned to earth. But in our history the Peninsula of the Dardanelles, the Straits, the surrounding seas, and the islands set among them will always remain as memorials recording, it is true, the disastrous and tragic disabilities of our race, but, on the other hand, its versatility, its fortitude, and its happy though silent welcome to any free sacrifice involving great issues for mankind.