THERE
It was with eleven hundred eager spirits that I lined up on a Sunday
evening early in August, 1915, on the deck of a troopship, in Mudros
Harbor, which is the center of the historic island of Lemnos, about
fifty miles from Gallipoli. Around us lay all sorts of ships, from
ocean leviathans to tiny launches and rowboats. There were gray and
black-painted troopers, their rails lined with soldiers, immense
four-funneled men-o'-war, and brightly lighted, white hospital ships,
with their red crosses outlined in electric lights. The landing
officer left us in a little motor boat. We watched him glide slowly
shoreward, where we could faintly discern through the dusk the white
of the tents that were the headquarters for the army at Lemnos. To the
right of the tents, we could see the hospital for wounded Australians
and New Zealanders. A French battleship dipped its flag as it passed,
and our boys sang the Marseillaise.
A mail that had come that day was being sorted. While we waited, each
man was served with his "iron ration." This consisted of a one-pound
tin of pressed corn beef--the much-hated and much-maligned "bully
beef"--a bag of biscuits, and a small tin that held two tubes of
"Oxo," with tea and sugar in specially constructed air-and-damp-proof
envelopes. This was an emergency ration, to be kept in case of direst
need, and to be used only to ward off actual starvation. After that,
we were given our ammunition, two hundred and fifty rounds to each
man.
But what brought home to me most the seriousness of our venture was
the solitary sheet of letter paper with its envelope, that was given
to every man, to be used for a parting letter home. For some poor
chaps it was indeed the last letter. Then we went over the side, and
aboard the destroyer that was to take us to Suvla Bay.
The night had been well chosen for a surprise landing. There was no
moon, but after a little while the stars came out. Away on the port
bow we could see the dusky outline of land; and once, when we were
about half way, an airship soared phantom-like out of the night,
poised over us a short time, then ducked out of sight. At first the
word ran along the line that it was a hostile airship, but a few
inquiries soon reassured us.
Suddenly we changed our direction. We were near Cape Hellas, which is
the lowest point of the Peninsula of Gallipoli. Under Sir Ian
Hamilton's scheme, it was here that a decoy party was to land to draw
the Turks from Anzac. Simultaneously, an overwhelming force was to
land at Suvla Bay and at Anzac, to make a surprise attack on the
Turks' right flank. Presently, we were going up shore past the wrecked
steamer _River Clyde_, the famous "Ship of Troy," from the side of
which the Australians had issued after the ship had been beached; past
the shore hitherto nameless, but now known as Anzac. Australian, New
Zealand, Army Corps, those five letters stand for; but to those of us
who have been on Gallipoli, they stand for a great deal more: they
represent the achievement of the impossible. They are a glorious
record of sacrifice, reckless devotion, and unselfish courage. To put
each letter there cost the men from Australasia ten thousand of their
best soldiers.
And so we edged our way along, fearing mines, or, even more
disastrous than mines, discovery by the enemy. From the Australasians
over at Anzac, we could hear desultory rifle fire. Once we heard the
boom of some big guns that seemed almost alongside the ship. Four
hours it took us to go fifty miles, in a destroyer that could make
thirty-two knots easily. By one o'clock, the stars had disappeared,
and for perhaps three quarters of an hour we edged our way through
pitch darkness. We gradually slowed down, until we had almost stopped.
Something scraped along our side. Somebody said it was a floating
mine, but it turned out to be a buoy that had been put there by the
navy to mark the channel. Out of the gloom directly in front some one
hailed, and our people answered.
"Who have you on board?" we heard the casual English voice say. Then
came the reply from our colonel:
"Newfoundlanders."
There was to me something reassuring about that cool, self-contained
voice out of the night. It made me feel that we were being expected
and looked after.
"Move up those boats," I heard the English voice say, and from right
under our bow a naval launch, with a middy in charge, swerved
alongside. In a little while it, with its string of boats, was
securely fastened.
[Illustration: Underwood & Underwood, N.Y.
Allies landing reinforcements under heavy fire of Turks in
Dardanelles]
Just before we went into the boats, the adjutant passed me.
"Well," he said, "you've got your wish. In a few minutes you'll be
ashore. Let me know how you like it when you're there a little while."
"Yes, sir," I said. But I never had a chance to tell him. The first
shrapnel shell fired at the Newfoundlanders burst near him, and he had
scarcely landed when he was taken off the Peninsula, seriously
wounded.
In a short time we had all filed into the boats. There was no noise,
no excitement; just now and then a whispered command. I was in a tug
with about twenty others who formed the rear guard. The wind had
freshened considerably, and was now blowing so hard that our unwieldy
tug dared not risk a landing. We came in near enough to watch the
other boats. About twenty yards from shore they grounded. We could see
the boys jump over the side and wade ashore. Through the half darkness
we could barely distinguish them forming up on the beach. Soon they
were lost to sight.
During the Turkish summer, dawn comes early. We transhipped from our
tug to a lighter. When it grounded on the beach, day was just
breaking. Daylight disclosed a steeply sloping beach, scarred with
ravines. The place where we landed ran between sheer cliffs. A short
distance up the hill we could see our battalion digging themselves in.
To the left I could see the boats of another battalion. Even as I
watched, the enemy's artillery located them. It was the first shell I
had ever heard. It came over the hill close to me, screeching through
the air like an express train going over a bridge at night. Just over
the boat I was watching it exploded. A few of the soldiers slipped
quietly from their seats to the bottom of the boat. At first I did not
realize that anybody had been hit. There was no sign of anything
having happened out of the ordinary, no confusion. As soon as the boat
touched the beach, the wounded men were carried by their mates up the
hill to a temporary dressing station. The first shell was the
beginning of a bombardment. "Beachy Bill," a battery that we were to
become better acquainted with, was in excellent shape. Every few
minutes a shell burst close to us. Shrapnel bullets and fragments of
shell casing forced us to huddle under the baggage for protection. A
little to the left, some Australians were severely punished. Shell
after shell burst among them. A regiment of Sikh troops, mule drivers,
and transport men were caught half way up the beach. Above the din of
falling shrapnel and the shriek of flying shells rose the piercing
scream of wounded mules. The Newfoundlanders did not escape. That
morning "Beachy Bill's" gunners played no favorites. On all sides the
shrapnel came in a shower. Less often a cloud of thick black smoke,
and a hole twenty feet deep showed the landing place of a high
explosive shell. The most amazing thing was the coolness of the men.
The Newfoundlanders might have been practising trench digging in camp
in Scotland. When a man was hit, some one gave him first aid, directed
the stretcher bearers where to find him, and resumed digging.
About nine, I was told off to go to the beach with one man to guard
the baggage. We picked our way carefully, taking advantage of every
bit of cover. About half way down, we heard the warning shriek of a
shell, and threw ourselves on our faces. Almost instantly we were in
the center of a perfect whirlwind of shells. "Beachy Bill" had just
located a lot of Australians, digging themselves in about fifty yards
away from us. The first few shells fell short, but only the first few.
After that, the Turkish gunners got the range, and the Australians had
to move, followed by the shells. As soon as we were sure that the
danger was over, we continued to the beach, and aboard the lighter
that contained our baggage. We had not had a chance to get any
breakfast before we started, but the sergeant of our platoon had
promised to send a corporal and another man to relieve us in two
hours. About twelve o'clock the sergeant appeared, to tell me to wait
until one o'clock, when I should be relieved. He brought the news that
the adjutant had been wounded seriously in the arm and leg. At the
very beginning of the bombardment, a shell had hit him. About forty of
our men had been hit, the sergeant said, and the regiment was
preparing to change its position. He showed us the new position, and
told us to rejoin there as soon as relieved.
About a hundred yards to the right of us rose a cliff that prevented
our boat being seen by the enemy. The Turks were devoting their
attention to some boats landing well to the left of us. The officer in
charge of landing was taking advantage of this and had a gang near us
working on dugouts for stores and supplies. Right under the cliffs a
detachment of engineers were building a landing as coolly as if they
were at home. Every fifteen or twenty minutes, to show us that he was
still doing business, "Beachy Bill" sent over a few shells in our
direction. The gunners could not see us, but they wanted to warn us
not to presume too much. As soon as the first shell landed near us,
the officer in charge shouted nonchalantly, "Take cover, everybody."
He waited until he was certain every man had found a hiding place,
then effaced himself. The courage of the officers of the English army
amounts almost to foolhardiness. The men to relieve us did not arrive
at once, as promised. The hot afternoon passed slowly. Each hour was a
repetition of the preceding one. "Beachy Bill" was surpassing himself.
From far out in the bay our warships replied.
About five o'clock I espied one of the Newfoundland lieutenants a
little way up the beach in charge of a party of twenty men. I
signaled to him and he came down to our boat. The party had come to
unload the baggage. When I asked the lieutenant about being relieved,
he told me that he had sent a corporal and one man down about one
o'clock, and ordered me back to the regiment to report to Lieutenant
Steele. Half way up the beach we found Lieutenant Steele. The corporal
sent down to relieve me, he told me, had been hit by a shell just
after he left his dugout. The man with him had not been heard from. I
went back to the beach, and found the man perched up on top of the
cliff to the right of the lighter. He had been waiting there all the
afternoon for the corporal to join him.
Having solved the mystery of the failure of the relief party, I
returned to my platoon. Their first stopping place had proved
untenable. All day they had been subjected to a merciless and
devastating shelling, and their first day of war had cost them
sixty-five men. They were now dug in in a new and safer position. They
were only waiting for darkness to advance to reinforce the firing line
that was now about four miles ahead. Since to get to our firing line
we had to cross the dried-up bed of a salt lake, no move could be
made in daylight. That evening we received our ration of rum, and
formed up silently in a long line two deep, beside our dugouts. I fell
in with my section, beside Art Pratt, the sandy-haired chap I had met
in Aldershot. He had been cleaning his rifle that afternoon when a
shell landed right in his dugout, wounded the man next him, knocked
the bolt of the rifle out of his hand, but left him unhurt. He
accepted it as an omen that he would come out all right, and was
grinning delightedly while he confided to me his narrow escape, and
was as happy as a schoolboy at the thought of getting into action.
Under cover of darkness we moved away silently, until we came to the
border of the Salt Lake. Here we extended, and crossed it in open
order, then through three miles of knee high, prickly underbrush, to
where our division was entrenched. Our orders were to reinforce the
Irish. The Irish sadly needed reinforcing. Some of them had been on
the Peninsula for months. Many of them are still there. From the beach
to the firing line is not over four miles, but it is a ghastly four
miles of graveyard. Everywhere along the route are small wooden
crosses, mute record of advances. Where the crosses are thickest,
there the fighting was fiercest; and where the fighting was fiercest,
there were the Irish. On every cross, besides a man's name and the
date of his death, is the name of his regiment. No other regiments
have so many crosses as the Dublins and the Munsters. And where the
shrapnel flew so fast that bodies mangled beyond hope of identity were
buried in a common grave, there also are the Dublins and the Munsters;
and the cross over them reads, "In Memory of Unknown Comrades."
The line on the left was held by the Twenty-ninth Division; the
Dublins, the Munsters, the King's Own Scottish Borderers, and the
Newfoundlanders made up the Eighty-eighth Brigade. The Newfoundlanders
were reinforcements. From the very first day of the Gallipoli
campaign, the other three regiments had formed part of what General
Sir Ian Hamilton in his report calls "The incomparable Twenty-ninth
Division." When the first landing was made, this division, with the
New Zealanders, penetrated to the top of Achi Baba, the hill that
commanded the Narrows. For forty-eight hours the result was in doubt.
The British attacked with bayonet and bombs, were driven back, and
repeatedly reattacked. The New Zealanders finally succeeded in
reaching the top, followed by the Eighty-eighth Brigade. The Irish
fought on the tracks of a railroad that leads into Constantinople. At
the end of forty-eight hours of attacks and counter attacks, the
position was considered secure. The worn-out soldiers were relieved
and went into dugouts. Then the relieving troops were attacked by an
overwhelming hostile force, and the hill was lost. A battery placed on
that hill could have shelled the Narrows and opened to our ships the
way to Constantinople. The hill was never retaken. When reinforcements
came up it was too late. The reinforcements lost their way. In his
report, General Hamilton attributes our defeat to "fatal inertia."
Just how fatal was that inertia was known only to those who formed
some of the burial parties.
[Illustration: Troops at the Dardanelles leaving for the landing
beach]
After the first forty-eight hours we settled down to regular trench
warfare. The routine was four days in the trenches, eight days in rest
dugouts, four days in the trenches again, and so forth, although three
or four months later our ranks were so depleted that we stayed in
eight days and rested only four. We had expected four days' rest
after our first trip to the firing line, but at the end of two days
came word of a determined advance of the enemy. We arrived just in
time to beat it off. Our trenches instead of being at the top were at
the foot of the hill that meant so much to us.
The ground here was a series of four or five hog-back ridges, about a
hundred yards apart. Behind these towered the hill that was our
objective. From the nearest ridge, about seven hundred yards in front
of us, the Turks had all that day constantly issued in mass formation.
During that attack we were repaid for the havoc wrought by Beachy
Bill. As soon as the Turks topped the crest, they were subjected to a
demoralizing rain of shell from the navy and from our artillery.
Against the hazy blue of the skyline we could see the dark mass
clearly silhouetted. Every few seconds, when a shell landed in the
middle of the approaching columns, the sides of the column would bulge
outward for an instant, then close in again. Meanwhile, every man in
our trenches stood on the firing platform, head and shoulders above
the parapet, with fixed bayonet and loaded rifle, waiting for the
order to begin firing. Still the Turks came on, big, black,
bewhiskered six footers, reforming ranks and filling up their gaps
with fresh men. Now they were only six hundred yards away. But still
there was no order to open fire. It was uncanny. At five hundred yards
our fire was still withheld. When the order came, "At four hundred
yards, rapid fire," everybody was tingling with excitement. Still the
Turks came on, magnificently determined, but it was too desperate a
venture. The chances against them were too great, our artillery and
machine gun fire too destructively accurate. Some few Turks reached
almost to our trenches, only to be stopped by rifle bullets. "Allah!
Allah!" yelled the Turks, as they came on. A sweating, grimly happy
machine gun sergeant was shouting to the Turkish army in general,
"It's not a damn bit of good to yell to Allah now." Our artillery
opened huge gaps in their lines, our machine guns piled them dead in
the ranks where they stood. Our own casualties were very slight; but
of the waves of Turks that surged over the crest all that day, only a
mere shattered remnant ever straggled back to their own lines.
That was the last big attack the Turks made. From that time on, it
was virtually two armies in a state of siege. That was the first night
the Newfoundlanders went into the trenches as a unit. A and B
Companies held the firing line, C and D were in the support trenches.
Before that, they filled up gaps in the Dublins or in the Munsters, or
in the King's Own Scottish Borderers. These regiments were our tutors.
Mostly they were composed of veterans who had put in years of training
in Egypt or in India. The Irish were jolly, laughing men with a soft
brogue, and an amazing sense of humor. The Scotch were dour, silent
men, who wasted few words. Some of the Scotchmen were young fellows
who had been recruited in Scotland after war broke out. One of these
chaps shared my watch with me the first night. At dark, sentry groups
were formed, three reliefs of two men each; these two men stood with
their heads over the parapet watching for any movement in the no man's
land between the lines; that accounts for the surprisingly large
number of men one sees wounded in the head. The Scottie and I stood
close enough together to carry on a conversation in whispers. It
turned out that he had been training in Scotland at the same camp
where the Newfoundlanders were. He had been on the Peninsula since
April, and was all in from dysentery and lack of food. "Nae meat," was
the laconic way he expressed it. Like every Scotchman since the world
began, he answered to the name of "Mac." He pointed out to me the
position of the enemy trenches.
"It's just aboot fower hundred yairds," he said, "but you'll no get a
chance to fire; there's wurrkin' pairties oot the nicht." Then as an
afterthought, he added gloomily, "There's no chance of your gettin'
hit either."
"Why," I asked him in astonishment, "you don't want to get hit, do
you?"
Mac looking at me pityingly. "Man," he burst out, "when ye're here as
long as I've been here, ye'll be prayin' fer a 'Blighty one.'"
Blighty is the Tommies' nickname for London, and a "Blighty one" is a
wound that's serious enough to cause your return to London.
For a few minutes Mac continued looking over the parapet. Without
turning his head, he said to me: "I'll gie ye five poond, if ye'll
shoot me through the airm or the fut." When a Scotchman who is getting
only a shilling a day offers you five pounds, it is for something
very desirable. Before I had a chance to take him up on this handsome
offer, my attention was attracted by the appearance of a light just a
little in front of where Mac had said the enemy trench was located. I
grabbed my gun excitedly.
"Dinna fire, lad," cautioned Mac. "We have a wurrkin' pairty oot just
in front. Ye would na hit anything if ye did. 'Tis only wastin'
bullets to fire at night."
For almost an hour I continued to watch the light as it moved about.
It was a party of Turks, Mac explained, seeking their dead for burial.
When I was relieved for a couple of hours' sleep they were still
there.
Just where I was posted, the trench was traversed; that is, from the
parapet there ran at right angles, for about six feet, a barricade of
sandbags, that formed the upright line of a figure T. The angle made
by this traverse gave some protection from the wind that swept through
the trench. Here I spread my blanket. The night was bitterly cold, and
I shivered for lack of an overcoat. In coming away hurriedly from
London, I did not take an overcoat with me. In Egypt, it had never
occurred to me that I should need one in Gallipoli; and the chance to
get one I had lost. But I was too weary to let even the cold keep me
awake. In a few minutes I was as sound asleep as if I had been far
from all thought of war or trenches.
It seemed to me that I had just got to sleep when I was awakened by a
hand shaking my shoulder roughly, and by a voice shouting, "Stand to,
laddie." It was Mac. I jumped to my feet, rubbing my eyes.
"What's the matter?" I asked.
"Nothing's the matter," said Mac. "Every morning at daybreak ye stand
to airms for an hour."
I looked along the trench. Every man stood on the firing platform with
his bayonet fixed. Daybreak and just about sunset are the times
attacks are most likely to take place. At those times the greatest
precautions are taken. Dawn was just purpling the range of hills
directly in front when word came, "Day duties commence." Periscopes
were served out, and placed about ten feet apart along the trench.
These are plain oblong tubes of tin, three by six inches, about two
feet high. They contain an arrangement of double mirrors, one at the
top, and one at the bottom. The top mirror slants backward, and
reflects objects in front of it. The one at the bottom slants forward,
and reflects the image caught by the top mirror. In the daytime, by
using a periscope, a sentry can keep his head below the top of the
parapet, while he watches the ground in front. Sometimes, however, a
bullet strikes one of the mirrors, and the splintered glass blinds the
sentry. It is not an uncommon thing to see a man go to the hospital
with his face badly lacerated by periscope glass.
During the daytime, the men who were not watching worked at different
"fatigues." Parapets had to be fixed up, trenches deepened, drains and
dumps dug, and bomb-proof shelters had to be constructed for the
officers. Every few minutes the Turkish batteries opened fire on us,
but with very poor success. The navy and our land batteries replied,
with what effect we could not tell. Once or twice I put my head up
higher than the parapet. Each time I did, I heard the ping of a
bullet, as it whizzed past my ear. Once a sniper put five at me in
rapid succession. Every one was within a few inches of me, but
fortunately on the outside of the parapet. Just before landing in
Egypt, we had been served out with large white helmets to protect us
from the sun. It did not take us very long to discover that on the
Peninsula of Gallipoli these were veritable death traps. Against the
landscape they loomed as large as tents; they were simply invitations
to the enemy snipers. We soon discarded them for our service caps. The
hot sun of a Turkish summer bored down on us, adding to the torment of
parched throats and tongues. We were suffering very much from lack of
water. The first night we went into the firing line we were issued
about a pint of water for each man. It was a week before we got a
fresh supply. We had not yet had time to get properly organized, and
our only food was hard biscuits, apricot jam, and bully beef; a pretty
good ration under ordinary conditions, but, without water, most
unpalatable. The flies, too, bothered us incessantly. As soon as a man
spread some jam on his biscuits, the flies swarmed upon it, and before
he could get it to his mouth it was black with the pests.
[Illustration: A remarkable view of a landing party in the
Dardanelles]
These were not the only drawbacks. Directly in front of our trenches
lay a lot of corpses, Turks who had been killed in the last attack. In
front of the line of about two hundred yards held by B Company there
were six or seven hundred of them. We could not get out to bury them,
nor could we afford to allow the enemy to do so. There they stayed,
and some of the hordes of flies that continually hovered about them,
with every change of wind, swept down into our trenches, carrying to
our food the germs of dysentery, enteric, and all the foul diseases
that threaten men in the tropics.
After two days of this life, we were relieved and moved back about two
miles to the reserve dugouts for a rest, to get something to eat, and
depopulate our underwear; for the trenches where we slept harbored not
only rats but vermin and all manner of things foul.
The regiment that relieved us was an English regiment, the Essex. They
were some of "Kitchener's Army." We stood down off the parapet, and
the Englishmen took our places. Then with our entire equipment on our
backs we started our hegira. We had about four miles to go, two down
through the front line trenches, then two more through winding, narrow
communication trenches, almost to the edge of the Salt Lake. Here in
the partial shelter afforded by a small hill were our dugouts. In
Gallipoli there was no attempt at the ambitious dugout one hears of
on the Western front. Our dugouts resembled more nearly than anything
else newly made graves. Usually one sought a large rock and made a
dugout at the foot of it. The soil of the Peninsula lent itself
readily to dugout construction. It is a moist, spongy clay, of the
consistency of thick mortar. A pickax turns up large chunks of it;
these are placed around the sides. A few hours' sun dries out the
moisture, and leaves them as hard and solid as concrete.
While we had been in the firing line, another regiment had made some
dugouts. There were four rows of them, one for each company. B
Company's were nearest the beach. We filed slowly down the line, until
we came to the end. A dugout was assigned to every two men. I shared
one with a chap named Stenlake. We spread our blankets, put our packs
under our heads, and for the first time for a week, took off our
boots. Before going to sleep, Stenlake and I chatted for a while. When
war broke out, he told me, he had been a missionary in Newfoundland.
He offered as chaplain, and was accepted and given a commission as
captain. Later some difficulty arose. The regiment was made up of
three or four different denominations, about equally divided. Each one
wanted its own chaplain, which was expensive; so they decided to have
no chaplain. Stenlake immediately resigned his commission, and
enlisted as a private.
Our whisperings were interrupted by a voice from the next dugout. "You
had better get to sleep as soon as you can, boys; you have a hard day
before you, to-morrow." It was Mr. Nunns, the lieutenant in command of
our platoon. Casting aside all caste prejudice, he was sleeping in the
midst of his men, in the first dugout he had found empty. He could
have detailed some men to build him an elaborate dugout, but he
preferred to be with his "boys." The English officers of the old
school claim that this sort of thing hurts discipline. If they had
seen the prompt and cheerful way in which No. 8 platoon obeyed Mr.
Nunns' orders, they would have been enlightened.