Transcriber’s Note
In the following transcription, italic text is denoted by _underscores_.
Small capitals in the original text have been transcribed as ALL
CAPITALS.
See end of this document for details of corrections and other changes.
————————————— Start of Book —————————————
GALLIPOLI DIARY
BY
MAJOR JOHN GRAHAM GILLAM
D.S.O.
[Illustration: Colophon]
LONDON: GEORGE ALLEN & UNWIN LTD.
RUSKIN HOUSE 40 MUSEUM STREET, W.C. 1
_First published in 1918_
(_All rights reserved_)
PREFACE
In the kind and courteous letter which you will read on p. 15 General
Sir Aylmer Hunter-Weston says that it is not possible for him to write
a Preface to this book. That is my own and the reader’s great loss, for
General Hunter-Weston, as is well known, commanded the 29th Division at
the landing on the Gallipoli Peninsula on April 25, 1915, and during
those early months of desperate fighting, until to the universal
regret of all who served under him he became one of the victims of
the sickness that began to ravage our ranks; and as one of the chief
players of the great game that was there enacted, his comments would
have been of supreme interest and would have added immeasurably to
such small value as there may be in this Diary of one of the pawns in
that same game. But since the player cannot, the pawn may perhaps be
allowed to say a few words by way of comment on and explanation of the
following pages.
Towards the completion of the mobilization of the 29th Division in the
Leamington area in early 1915, I heard secretly that the Division was
bound for the Dardanelles at an early date, instead of for France as
we had at first expected. By this I knew that in all probability the
Division was destined to play a most romantic part in the Great War.
I had visions of trekking up the Gallipoli Peninsula with the Navy
bombarding a way for us up the Straits and along the coast-line of the
Sea of Marmora, until after a brief campaign we entered triumphantly
Constantinople, there to meet the Russian Army, which would link up
with ourselves to form part of a great chain encircling and throttling
the Central Empires. I sailed from England on March 20, 1915, firmly
convinced that my vision would actually come true and that some time
in 1915 the paper-boys would be singing out in the streets of London:
“Fall of Constantinople—British link hands with the Russians”; and I
am sure that all who knew the secret of our destination were as firmly
convinced as I was that we should meet with complete success. We little
appreciated the difficulties of our task.
For these reasons, and perhaps because the very names—Gallipoli,
Dardanelles, Constantinople—sounded so romantic and full of adventure,
I determined to revive an old, if egotistic, hobby of mine—the keeping
of a diary. Throughout the Gallipoli campaign, therefore, almost
religiously every day and with very few exceptions I recorded, as
I have done in the past, the daily happenings of my life and the
impressions such happenings made on me, and the thoughts that they
created. The diary was written by me to myself, as most diaries are, to
be read possibly by myself and my nearest relations after the war, but
with no thought of publication.
But when the Division was in Egypt, after the evacuation, and just
prior to its embarking for France, a Supply Officer joined us whom I
had met and talked to on the Peninsula, as one meets hundreds of men,
without knowing, or caring to know, anything more about them than that
they are trying to do their job as one tries to do one’s own. His name
is Launcelot Cayley Shadwell, and we became firm friends. We talked
often of Gallipoli, and one day, in France, I showed him my diary.
He read it, and then told me that I should try to get it published.
I laughed at the idea, but he assured me that these first-hand
impressions might interest a wider circle than that for which they were
primarily intended, but that beforehand the diary should be pruned
and edited, for of course there was much in it which was too personal
to be of interest to anybody but myself. I asked him if he would edit
it for me. He consented, and very kindly undertook the necessary blue
pencilling, and in addition to his labour of excision was good enough
to insert a few passages describing, so far as words can, the exquisite
loveliness of the Peninsula. For these, which far surpass the powers
of my own pen, I am deeply indebted to him. They will be found under
dates:—_May 2nd, Moonlight at Helles; May 13th, The sensations one
experiences when a shell is addressed to you; May 26th, Moonlight
scenes; May 30th, Colouring of Imbros; July 15th, Alexandria; September
16th and 17th, The bathing cove_.
I am also indebted to the kindness of Captain Jocelyn Bray, the A.P.M.
of the 29th Division on the Peninsula, for many excellent photographs.
The diary next had to be submitted to the Censor, who naturally refused
to pass it until the Dardanelles Commission had finished its sittings,
and it was nearly a year before it came back into my hands, passed
for publication, but with a few further blue pencillings, this time
not personal, but official. And in this form—hastily scribbled by
me from day to day, with a stumpy indelible pencil on odd sheets of
paper, pruned, edited and improved by Shadwell, and extra-edited, if
not notably improved, by the Censor—my diary is now presented for the
consideration of an all-indulgent public.
Enough has been said to show, if internal evidence did not shout it
aloud, that my diary has no literary pretensions whatsoever. I am no
John Masefield, and do not seek to compete with my betters. Those who
desire to survey the whole amazing Gallipoli campaign in perspective
must look elsewhere than in these pages. Their sole object was to
record the personal impressions, feeling, and doings from day to day
of one supply officer to a Division whose gallantry in that campaign
well earned for it the epithet “Immortal.” If in spite of its many
deficiencies my diary should succeed in interesting the reader, and
if, in particular, I have been able to place in the proper light the
services of that indispensable but underrated arm, the A.S.C., I am
more than content.
I have now seen the A.S.C. at work in England, Egypt, France and
Flanders, as well as in Gallipoli, and the result is always just the
same. Tommy is hungry three times a day without distinction of place,
and without distinction of place three times a day, as regularly as
the sun rises and sets, food is forthcoming for him, food in abundance
with no queues or meat cards. The A.S.C. must never fail, and it never
does fail, for its organization is one of the most brilliant the Army
knows. But few, other than those in the A.S.C. itself or on the staffs
of armies, can appreciate its vastness and its infallibility. To do
so one should watch the supply ships dodging the enemy submarines and
arriving at the bases, the supply hangars at the base supply depots
receiving and disgorging the supplies to the pack trains, the arrival
of the trains at the regulating stations on the lines of communication,
whence they are dispatched to the railheads just behind the line, the
staff of the deputy directors of supplies and transport of armies at
work, following carefully the movements of formations and the rise
and fall of strengths, to ensure that not only shall sufficient food
arrive regularly each day at the railheads, but that there shall be no
surpluses to choke the railheads. It is hardly less important that
there should not be too much than that there should not be too little.
The slightest miscalculation may easily lead to chaos—to the blocking
of trains carrying wounded back and ammunition forward, or the
deprivation of a few thousand men of their food at a critical moment.
One should watch the arrival of the supply pack trains at the railheads
where the supply columns of motor lorries or the divisional trains
of horse transport unload the pack trains and load their vehicles,
regularly each day at scheduled times, under all conditions, even those
caused by a 14-inch enemy shell bursting at intervals of five minutes
in the railhead yard, causing all and sundry to get to cover, except
the A.S.C., who must never fail to clear the train at the scheduled
time. One should watch the divisional train H.Q. at work, following
its division and arranging for the daily correct distribution and the
delivery of the rations to units. Often horse transport, by careful
managing on the part of train H.Q., is released for other duties than
those of drawing and delivering supplies to units. Then one may watch
the A.S.C. driver delivering R.E. material, etc., to the line, along
roads swept by high-explosive shell and shrapnel and machine guns,
where all but the A.S.C. driver can get to ground, while he must stand
by his horses and get cover for them and himself as best he can. Then,
although one has only seen the skeleton framework of this vast service,
and has had no opportunity to go into the technicalities of the system
or to investigate the many safety valves of base supply depots, field
supply depots, reserve parks and emergency ration dumps in the line,
all of which are ready to come to the rescue should a pack train be
blown up or a convoy scuppered, nor to study the wonderfully efficient
organization of transport, covering mechanical transport, horse
transport, Foden lorries and tractors which ply from the base to the
line, carrying, as well as supplies, ammunition, R.E. material, and
every imaginable necessity of war, and moving heavy guns in and out of
position, at times under the very noses of the enemy, yet one cannot
fail to have gained a great respect for that vast and wonderfully
silent organization, the Army Service Corps.
J. G. G.
FRANCE,
_May 1918_.
CONTENTS
PAGE
PREFACE 5
INTRODUCTION 15
THE CLIMATE AT THE DARDANELLES 17
PROLOGUE—MARCH 1915 23
APRIL 25
MAY 62
JUNE 114
JULY 156
AUGUST 180
SEPTEMBER 218
OCTOBER 237
NOVEMBER 256
DECEMBER 282
JANUARY 1916 310
EPILOGUE 325
INDEX 326
ILLUSTRATIONS
FACING PAGE
THE GANGWAY OF THE _RIVER CLYDE_, OUT OF WHICH TROOPS
POURED AS SOON AS THE SHIP GROUNDED ON APRIL 25,
1915. CAPE HELLES 32
BATHING OFF GULLY BEACH, HELLES 64
“Y” BEACH, CAPE HELLES, WHERE THE K.O.S.B.’S LANDED
ON APRIL 25, 1915, HAVING TO EVACUATE THEREFROM
ON THE FOLLOWING DAY 64
29TH DIVISIONAL HEADQUARTERS, GULLY BEACH, AT THE
FOOT OF THE GULLY, HELLES 92
VIEW OF “V” BEACH, CAPE HELLES, TAKEN FROM THE
_RIVER CLYDE_ 92
COAST LINE, CAPE HELLES 176
A VIEW OF THE GULLY, CAPE HELLES, LOOKING TOWARDS
THE ENEMY LINES 176
A VIEW OF THE PROMONTORY, SUVLA BAY, TAKEN FROM 29TH
DIVISIONAL HEADQUARTERS 200
A CAPTURED TURKISH TRENCH, SUVLA BAY 216
A VIEW OF SUVLA BAY 216
GENERAL DE LISLE’S HEADQUARTERS, SUVLA BAY 224
4·5 HOWITZER IN ACTION, SUVLA BAY 244
29TH DIVISIONAL HEADQUARTERS, SUVLA BAY, HIDDEN FROM
THE ENEMY BY THE SLOPE OF THE HILL 244
INTRODUCTION
LETTER FROM LIEUT.-GENERAL SIR AYLMER HUNTER-WESTON, K.C.B., C.B.,
D.S.O., M.P., D.L., WHO COMMANDED THE DIVISION AT THE LANDING,
APRIL 25, 1915.
DEAR GILLAM,
The Diary of a man who, like yourself, took part in the historic
landing at Gallipoli, and was present on the Peninsula during the
subsequent fighting, will, I know, be of interest to many besides
myself. There are but few of us who, in those strenuous days, were able
to keep diaries, and even fewer were those who had the gift of making
of their daily entries a narrative that would be of interest to others.
I should like to have time to write a Preface for this book of yours,
giving the salient points of our great adventure and the effect it had
both on us and on the enemy. I should also have liked to have shown
the influence that you and the Army Service Corps generally had on our
operations by the successful manner in which you were able to keep the
troops fed and supplied under circumstances of apparently insuperable
difficulty.
But being, as I am, in command of a big Army Corps on one of the most
difficult parts of the Front, it is impossible for me to find any time
for writing such a Preface.
I can but wish your book the greatest success, and hope that it will be
widely read.
Yours sincerely,
AYLMER HUNTER-WESTON.
HEADQUARTERS, VIII CORPS, B.E.F.,
_February 18, 1918_.
THE CLIMATE AT THE DARDANELLES
By HENRY E. PEARS
[After the evacuation of the Peninsula, the following article, which
appeared in the _Westminster Gazette_ early in September 1915,
was shown to me. After reading it through, I compared the weather
forecasts that the author sets forth, and was interested to find that
they agreed very closely with the notes on the weather that I had
made in my Diary. The article is therefore republished here, as it
may be of interest to the reader.—J. G. G.]
The dispatch of August 31st of Reuter’s Special Correspondent with
the Mediterranean Forces, of which a summary was published in the
_Westminster Gazette_ of the 18th inst., speaks of the weather at the
Dardanelles and as to there being two months of fine autumn weather in
which to pile up stores, etc. It would be more correct to say three
months rather than two.
It may be interesting to some of your readers to have a few remarks
on the weather in the Marmora. Such remarks are based on the results
of observations made by a close observer of nature during a period
of over thirty years. The fact that particular interest was taken
in weather conditions at such a place arose from a cause other
than a meteorological interest in the weather, the object being an
endeavour to throw light on the migration of birds. Bird naturalists
in general, and especially Frenchmen, have fully recognized that the
two stretches of land, namely the shores of the Bosphorus and that of
the Dardanelles, being the closest points of junction between Europe
and Asia, as also the European coast between these points, are the
concentrated passage way or route for the huge migratory flocks of
birds proceeding from the western half of Europe into Asia. Three
results stand out in respect to this migration. First, the absolute
regularity of the autumn migration or passage; secondly, certain
conditions of weather at almost fixed dates; thirdly, the result of the
weather conditions as affecting the density of the flights, the resting
and stopping of various birds at certain places. The subject is a very
wide one, and is somewhat foreign to the real purpose of my remarks.
Taking the month of September to begin with, the weather is very fine,
a continuation of summer; cloudless skies day after day, with perhaps
a rain and thunder storm or two, only—one generally in the first
week, and another about September 17th, but always brought on by a
north to north-west wind. As a rule the constant summer land breezes
(north-east about) are of less intensity in September than in August,
which allows for a keeping up of an average day temperature, as the
Marmora, Bosphorus, and Dardanelles owe their moderate day temperature
to these daily breezes (called “Meltem”) from the north to north-east
during the summer. The wind generally dies away at sunset, which fact,
however, rather tends to make the night temperature higher during the
summer; the result being that, as between day and night temperature,
when the north wind blows during the day, there is but little drop in
the temperature and the nights are hot.
About September 21st to 24th there is, however, a marked period in
the weather. It is either a calm as regards winds, and consequently
very hot, or such period is marked by southerly winds, but not of any
great intensity or strength—very dry, hot winds. These are the first
southerly winds of autumn, but as a general rule such period is in
nautical terms “calm and fine, with southerly airs.”
From such time up to the end of September the north or north-easterly
winds set in again, but later on, generally about the first week of
October, the winds get more to the north and north-west, and there is a
heavy thunderstorm or so, and as a result a drop in temperature.
From October 10th to 14th there is a period of uncertainty; sometimes
a south-westerly wind, which veers round to the north-west, and a good
rain-storm. The first distinct drop in temperature now takes place
(about the 10th to the 14th), one feels autumn in the air, the nights
continue fairly warm; and this period continues fine and generally calm
up to about the 20th—sometimes the 18th or 19th—when a well defined and
almost absolutely regular period is entered upon.
This spell begins with three or four days of very heavy northerly or
north-westerly wind, sometimes a gale, generally accompanied by rain
for several days, and it is this period—from October 20th to 25th—which
is intensely interesting to naturalists owing to the big passage of
all kinds of birds, the arrival of the first woodcock, the clockwork
precision of the passage of the stock-doves (pigeons); in fact, it is
the moment of the big migration, when the air night and day is full
of birds on the move. Towards the end of October, and in the way of a
counter-coup or reaction to the northerly gales, there is generally
experienced a fierce three or four days of southerly winds, sometimes
gales.
It is to be noted that these gales or changes in the weather are
usually of three or seven days’ duration, the first day generally being
the strongest, and for some of these regular winds the natives have
special names.
November almost always comes in fine, with a lovely first ten days
or so. It, however, becomes rather sharp at night, and a very marked
period now of cold weather is to be expected—a cold snap, in fact.
This snap is generally in the second or third week of the month, and
only lasts a few days, the weather going back to fine, warm, and calm
till the end of the month. Barring such cold snap the month is marked
by fine weather and absence of wind, and many people consider it the
most glorious month of the year, the sunsets being especially fine. The
cold snap is rather a peculiar one. Snow has been seen on November 4th,
and, if I remember rightly, the battle of Lule Bourgas three years ago
was fought on November 5th, 6th, and 7th, and during such time there
raged a storm of rain and sleet, succeeded by two or three nights of
hard frost, which caused the death of many a poor fellow who had been
wounded and was lying out.
Another year there was a very heavy snow-storm on November 16th and
17th. Although the weather may be of this nature for several days, it
recovers and drops back into calm, warm weather.
In the last days of November or the first days of December another
period is entered upon. There is generally a heavy south wind lasting
from three to seven days, which is succeeded by a lovely spell of fine
weather, generally perfectly calm and warm, which brings one well
through December. From a little before Christmas or just after, the
weather varies greatly. The marked periods are passed—the weather may
be anything, sometimes calm and mild, sometimes varied by rains, with
strong north winds, but no seriously bad weather; in one word, no real
winter weather need be looked for until, as the natives put it, the old
New Year—otherwise the New Year, old style, which is January 14th, our
style—comes in.
After January 14th, or a few days later, the weather is almost
invariably bad; there is always a snow blizzard or two, generally
between January 20th and 25th. These are real bad blizzards, which
sometimes last from three to seven days; and anything in the way of
weather may happen for the next six weeks or two months. The snow has
been known to lie for six weeks. Strong southerly gales succeed, as a
rule, the northerly gales, but one thing is to be noted: that the south
and west winds no longer bring rain; it is the north and north-east
which bring snow and rain.
This winter period is difficult to speak of with anything like
precision; nothing appears to be regular. Some years the weather is
severe, other years snow is only seen once or twice. Winter is said to
have finished on April 15th. The only point about a severe winter is
that a period of cold is generally followed by a period of calm warm
weather of ten days or so. It has often been noted that a very cold
winter in England and France, etc., generally gives the south-east
corner of Europe about which we are speaking a mild winter with a
prevalence of southerly airs, whereas a mild winter in England and
France marks the south-east corner of Europe for a severe winter,
with a prevalence of northerly winds. No doubt experts will be able
to explain this. Of late years no great cold has visited the Marmora.
In 1893 the Golden Horn from the Inner Bridge at Constantinople was
frozen over sufficiently for people to walk over the ice, and the inner
harbour had floes knocking about for some weeks. That winter, however,
was an exceptional one, but even then the winter only began about
January 18th, lasting into March. The great point about the climate
is that, however hot or cold a spell may be, it is always succeeded
by calm weather, a blue sky, and a warm sun, quite a different state
of things from winter weather under English conditions. To those who
have relations or friends at the Dardanelles (and I quote from a letter
from a friend), let them send good strong warm stockings for the
men, besides the usual waistcoats and mufflers; and as for creature
comforts, sweets, chocolate, and tobacco, especially cigarettes. It is
the Turks who will suffer from the cold; they cannot stand it long, and
being fed generally mainly on bread, they have no stamina to meet cold
weather. Most of their troops come from warm climes.
PROLOGUE—MARCH 1915
On March 20th, 1915, I embarked on the S.S. _Arcadian_ for the seat
of war. My destination, I learned, was to be the Dardanelles, and the
campaign, I surmised, was likely to be more romantic than any other
military undertaking of modern times. Our ship carried, besides various
small units, part of the General Staff of the Expedition. The voyage
was not to be as monotonous as I first thought, for I found many old
friends on board. After the usual orderly panic consequent on the
loading of a troopship we glided from the quay, our only send-off being
supplied by a musical Tommy on shore, who performed with great delicacy
and feeling “The Girl I left Behind Me” on a tin whistle. The night
was calm and beautiful, and the new crescent moon swung above in the
velvet sky—a symbol, as I thought, of the land we were bound for. As we
passed the last point a voice sang out, “Are we downhearted?” and the
usual “No!” bawled by enthusiastic soldiers on board, vibrated through
the ship, and so with our escort of six destroyers we left the coast of
Old England behind us. Nothing of interest happened during the passage
across the Bay. On arrival at Gibraltar searchlights at once picked us
up, and a small boat from a gunboat near by came alongside—we dropped
two bags of mails into her and in return received our orders. As we
sailed through the Mediterranean, hugging the African coast, the view
of the purple mountains cut sharp against the emerald sky was very
beautiful.
Our next stop was Malta, which struck me as very picturesque. The
island showed up buff colour against the blue sky, and the creamy
colour of the flat-roofed houses made a curious colour scheme. As we
went slowly up the fair way of Valetta Harbour, we passed several
French warships, on one of which the band played “God Save the King,”
followed by “Tipperary,” our men cheering by way of answering the
compliment. The grand harbour was very interesting, swarming with
shipping of all kinds, the small native boats darting over the blue
water interesting me greatly. The buff background of the hills, dotted
with the creamy-coloured buildings and a few forts, the pale-blue sky
and deeper tint of the water, the wheeling gulls, all went to make up
a charming picture. We went ashore for a short time and found the town
full of interest. We visited the Club, a fine old building, once one of
the _auberges_ of the Knights of Malta, where we were made guests for
the day. Afterwards we strolled round the town; the flat-roofed houses
made the view quite Eastern, and the curious mixture of fashionable
and native clothing at once struck me. The women wore a head-dress not
unlike that of a nun—black, and kept away from the face by a stiffening
of wire. We passed many fine buildings, for Malta is full of them, and
one particularly we noticed, namely the Governor’s Palace, with its
charming gardens. As to the country itself, what I saw of it was all
arranged in stone terraces, no hedges, except a few clumps of cactus
being visible. In the evening we returned to the ship, and before very
long set sail once more. I found that two foreign officers had joined
us; one was a Russian and the other French, but both belonged to the
French Army and both spoke English perfectly.
On April 1st, after an uneventful trip from Malta, we arrived at
Alexandria, our Base, and from this date the Diary proper begins.
GALLIPOLI DIARY
APRIL
_April 1st to 17th._
We arrived at Alexandria on April 1st. The harbour is very fine, about
three miles wide, and protected from the open sea by a boom. The
docks are very extensive, and, just now, are of course seething with
industry. All the transports have arrived safely. The harbour itself
is full of shipping, and anchored in a long row I am delighted to see
a number of German liners which have been either captured on the high
seas or captured in port at the beginning of hostilities and interned.
All the Division disembarks and goes to four camps on the outskirts of
the town. My destination was bare desert, and reminded me irresistibly
of the wilderness as mentioned in the Bible. There was a salt-water
lake near by, with a big salt-works quite near it.
In the centre of Alexandria is a fine square flanked by splendid
up-to-date hotels and picturesque boulevards; but the native quarter
is most depressing, consisting of mud hovels sheltering grimy women
and still grimier children. The huts themselves are without windows
and only partially roofed. Flies abound upon the filthy interstices;
a noxious smell of cooking, tainted with the scent of onions, greets
the nose of the passer-by at all hours. I find my work at the docks
rather arduous, as, after the troops have disembarked, we have to
take stock of what supplies remain on board, and then make up all
shortages. I sleep and have my meals on a different ship almost every
day—which is interesting. About the fifth of the month the troops
return to re-embark—I have to work very hard on the ships with gangs
of Arabs. These folk are just like children, and have to be treated
as such—watched and urged on every moment; if one leaves them to
themselves for an instant they start jabbering like a lot of monkeys. I
finally find myself on a fine Red Star boat, the S.S. _Southland_.
There are a lot of our Staff on board—also French Staff, including
General D’Amade, the French G.O.C., who did such good work in France
in the retreat. He is a distinguished-looking old man with white hair,
moustache, and imperial. I hear that Way and myself are to be the first
Supply Officers ashore at the landing. Half the A.S.C. have been left
behind in Alexandria, and there are only five of my people with me.
_Sunday, April 18th._
We are now steaming through crowds of little islands, some as small
as a cottage garden, others as large as Hyde Park. Sea beautifully
calm, and troops just had their Church Parade. We have the King’s Own
Scottish Borderers on board, and it is very nice having their pipers
instead of the bugle.
On account of drifting mines we are keeping off the usual route.
_2 o’clock._
Arrive at our _rendez-vous_, Lemnos, a big island, with a fine harbour.
Seven battleships in, and all our transport fleet as well as some
of the French and Australian. We remain in the outer harbour awhile
opposite a battleship that had been in the wars, one funnel being
nearly blown away. All battleships painted a curious mottled colour,
and look weird. One of our cargo-boats has been converted into a dummy
battleship to act as a decoy, very cleverly done too. Later, we go into
the inner harbour and moor alongside another transport, the _Aragon_,
on which is my Brigade Staff and the Hampshires, who were at Stratford
with me. The Staff Captain hands over to me a box, which I find is my
long-lost torch and batteries from Gamage.
French Headquarter Staff and General D’Amade leave and go on board
_Arcadian_. The transport _Manitou_, one of the boats on which I ate
and slept, and which left Alexandria two in front of our transport,
was stopped by a Turkish destroyer off Rhodes and three torpedoes were
discharged at her. The first two torpedoes missed and the troops rushed
to the boats. Owing to some muddle, two boats fell into the sea and
a ship’s officer and fifty soldiers were drowned. The third torpedo
struck, but did not explode, as the percussion pin had not been pulled
out. Two cruisers arrived on the scene and chased the destroyer off,
which ran ashore, the crew being captured.
After dinner go on board _Aragon_ with Hampshire officers and see
Panton. Also talk to Brigade-Major and Captain Reid, of Hampshires.
_Monday morning, April 19th._
Lovely morning. Fleet left. Troops, with full kit on, marching round
deck to the tune of piano. Most thrilling. Piano plays “Who’s your Lady
Friend?” soldiers singing. What men! Splendid! What luck to be with the
29th!
_April 22nd._
This is a fine harbour, very broad, and there are quite a hundred ships
here, including the Fleet and transports, amongst which are some of
our best liners. I had to go to a horse-boat lying in the mouth of the
harbour two mornings ago and took two non-commissioned officers and a
crew of twelve men. We got there all right, a row of two and a half
miles, but the sea was so heavy that it was impossible to row back. I
had to return, and fortunately managed to get taken back in a pinnace
that happened to call; but the rest had to remain on board till the
next day, and then took three hours to row back. This gives us an idea
of the difficult task our landing will be at Gallipoli. For a time we
were moored alongside the boat on which was the Headquarters of the
88th Brigade, and it was cheering to be able to walk to and fro between
the two ships and to see all my pals of the Hampshires.
The Hampshires and the Worcesters spend the day marching, with full
kit on, round the deck to the cheery strains of popular airs played
by a talented Tommy. The effect, with the regular tramp, is very
exhilarating.
Later, I am ordered to join another ship, the _Dongola_, in which are
the Essex and the Royal Scots, the other regiments of my Brigade. Two
Essex officers were staying in the “Warwick Arms” with me, and it was
good seeing them again. The harbour at night is a fine sight. A moon is
shining and not a cloud in the sky, and the temperature about 50°.
The last few days, however, have been wet and drizzling, just like a
typical day in June in England when one has been invited to a garden
party.
One can see the outline of the low irregular hills on shore, and the
ships are constantly signalling to one another, silently sending
orders, planning and arranging for the great adventure.
Have to go up to the signalling deck above the bridge to take a message
flashed from a tiny little “Tinker Bell” light away on our starboard.
The sight is wonderful. Busy little dot-dash flashes all around the
harbour. How the signallers find out which is which beats me.
The view of the hills in the background contrasts strangely with the
scenes of modern science and ingenuity afloat.
I saw the _Queen Elizabeth_ at close quarters two days ago, and I
hope to go over her to-morrow. Also the _Askold_, a Russian cruiser,
with five funnels. Tommies call her “The packet of Woodbines.” It is
interesting to note the confidence the Army and Navy have in each
other. While being rowed over here by some bluejackets, “stroke” told
me that he was in the _Irresistible_ when she was sunk. He looked
sullen, and then said, “However, they’ll catch it now the khaki boys
have arrived.” The prevailing opinion amongst the Tommies is that the
landing will be a soft job, with _Queen Bess_ and her sisters pounding
the land defences with shells. Then the confidence French, British, and
Russians have in one another is encouraging. The feeling prevails that
when once the landing is effected Turkey will cave in, and that will
have a great influence on the duration of the war. But a Scotsman said
to me to-day, “Remember, Kitchener said ‘A three years’ war.’”
Sir Ian Hamilton this evening sent round a brief exhortation beginning,
“Soldiers of France and of the King,” which bucked up everybody.
_April 23rd._
A bright day. Took estimate of stores on board to see if troops had
enough rations. Found shortage; signalled Headquarters, who send stores
to make up. Received orders where to land on Sunday. Have to go ashore
at “V” Beach with the first load of supplies and start depot on beach.
Naval officer on board with a party. Breezy, good-looking young man,
very keen on his job.
The first boat of the fleet leaves, named the _River Clyde_, an old
tramp steamer, painted khaki. She contains the Dublin and Munster
Fusiliers. Fore and aft on starboard and port the sides are cut
away, but fastened like doors. She will be beached at “V” Beach, and
immediately that is over, her sides will be opened and the troops
aboard will swarm out on to the shore. Good luck to those on board! She
slowly passes the battleships, and turning round the boom, is soon out
of sight.
The strains of the Russian National Anthem float over the harbour from
the _Askold_ and the first large transport leaves the harbour, a big
Cunarder, the _Aucania_, with some of the 86th Brigade on board. Great
cheering. What a drama, and how impressive the Russian National Anthem
is. Evening again. Little “Tinker Bell” flashes begin to get busy.
On lower deck the Tommies give a concert, with an orchestra composed of
a tin can, a few mouth-organs, and combs and paper—“Tipperary,” “Who’s
your Lady Friend?” etc.
Feel just a bit lonely and homesick. Longing for the time when I can
see my sisters again and punt up the river at dear old Guildford. But
what about the Tommies on board?—they have just the same feeling, and
yet keep playing their mouth-organs. Hear that Ian Hamilton feels
a bit anxious over this job, but that Hunter-Weston, our Divisional
General, is full of pluck and confidence. He says that he will not
“down” the man who makes mistakes yet tries to remedy them, but that
the man that he _will_ “down” will be the one who slacks and avoids
work.
_April 24th._
Another bright day. Some transports and battleships leaving harbour.
Issue extra days’ rations to troops on board, which makes four days’
that they will have to carry. Their packs and equipment now equal sixty
pounds. How they will fight to-morrow beats me. I tried a pack on and
was astonished at its weight. We have left harbour and are steaming for
the scene of the great adventure. Hope we shall not meet a submarine or
drifting mines. Have spent the evening with some young officers of the
Essex. They all seem a trifle nervous, yet brave and cheery. They play
a Naval game called “Priest of the Parish,” but it falls flat. I felt
nervous myself, but after cheering them up, felt better. Told them it
was going to be a soft job.
We arrive at five in the morning, and troops are to land at six. London
will be ringing with the news on Monday or Tuesday.
If successful, the war out here will soon be over, we think.
_April 25th._
Was awakened up at four by the noise of the distant rumbling of guns,
and coming to my senses, I realized that the great effort had started.
I dressed hastily and went on deck, and there found the Essex and
Royal Scots falling in on parade, with full packs on, two bags of iron
rations, and the unexpended portion of the day’s rations (for they had
breakfasted), entrenching tools, two hundred rounds of ammunition,
rifle and bayonet. I stood and watched—watched their faces, listened to
what they said to each other, and could trace no sign of fear in their
faces and no words of apprehension at forthcoming events in their
conversation.
It was a simple “fall in,” just as of old in the days of peace parades,
with the familiar faces of their N.C.O.’s and officers before them,
like one big family party.
They seemed to be rather weighed down with their packs, and I pity them
for the work that this parade is called for. The booming of the guns
grows louder. It is very misty, but on going forward I can just see
land, and the first officer points out to me the entrance through the
Dardanelles. How narrow it seems; like the Thames at Gravesend almost.
I can see the _Askold_ distinctly. A Tommy said, “There’s the old
packet of Woodbines giving them what-ho!” She is firing broadsides, and
columns of dust and smoke arise from shore. The din is getting louder.
I can’t quite make out which is the Asiatic side and which Gallipoli.
It is getting clearer and a lovely day is developing. Seagulls are
swooping over the calm sea above the din, and a thunderous roar bursts
out now and again from _Queen Bess_. Her 15-inch guns are at work, and
she is firing enormous shrapnel shells—terrible shells, which seem to
burst 30 feet from the ground.
_8 a.m._
The Essex are disembarking now, going down the rope ladders slowly
and with difficulty. One slips on stepping into a boat and twists his
ankle. An onlooking Tommy is heard to remark, “Somebody will get hurt
over this job soon.” Young Milward, the Naval Landing Officer, is
controlling the disembarkation. He has a typical sailor’s face—keen
blue eyes, straight nose and firm mouth, with a good chin. They are
landing in small open boats. A tug takes a string of them in tow, and
slowly they steam away for “W” Beach. We hear the Lancashires have
landed at “W” Beach, and are a hundred yards inshore fighting for dear
life. Tug after tug takes these strings of white open boats away from
our ship towards land, with their overladen khaki freight. Slowly they
wend their way towards the green shore in front of us, winding in and
out among transports, roaring battleships, and angry destroyers,
towards the land of the Great Adventure. Never, surely, was Navy and
Army so closely allied.
I go below to get breakfast, but hardly eat any. The breakfast-tables
are almost empty, except for a few Quartermasters and people like
myself who do not fight. I feel ashamed to be there, and a friend says
the same. The steward calmly hands the menu round, just as he might on
a peaceful voyage. What a contrast! Two boiled eggs, coffee, toast, and
marmalade.
Here we are sitting down to a good meal and men are fighting up the
cliffs a few hundred yards away. I get it over and go up on deck again.
_8.30 a.m._
It is quite clear now, and I can just see through my glasses the little
khaki figures on shore at “W” Beach and on the top of the cliff, while
at “V” Beach, where the _River Clyde_ is lying beached, all seems hell
and confusion. Some fool near me says, “Look, they are bathing at ‘V’
Beach.” I get my glasses on to it and see about a hundred khaki figures
crouching behind a sand dune close to the water’s edge. On a hopper
which somehow or other has been moored in between the _River Clyde_ and
the shore I see khaki figures lying, many apparently dead. I also see
the horrible sight of some little white boats drifting, with motionless
khaki freight, helplessly out to sea on the strong current that is
coming down the Straits. The battleships incessantly belch spurts of
flame, followed by clouds of buff-coloured smoke, and above it all a
deafening roar. It is ear-splitting. I shall get used to it in time,
I suppose. Some pinnace comes alongside our ship with orders, and the
midshipman in command says the Australians have landed, but with many
casualties, and have got John Turk on the run across the Peninsula. I
turn my glasses up the coast to see if I can see them, but they are too
far away. I can only see brown hills and bursting shells, a sea dead
calm, and a perfect day. The work of the Creator and the destroying
hand of man in close intimacy. A seaplane swoops from the pale blue of
the sky and settles like a beautiful bird on the dark blue of the
sea alongside a great battleship, while hellish destructive shells deal
out death and injury to God’s creatures on shore. This is war! and I am
watching as from a box at the theatre.
[Illustration: THE GANGWAY OF THE _RIVER CLYDE_, OUT OF WHICH TROOPS
POURED AS SOON AS THE SHIP GROUNDED ON APRIL 25, 1915. CAPE HELLES.]
_10.20 a.m._
Imbros is peaceful and beautiful, Gallipoli beautiful and awful. We
have moved closer in to the beach and they are trying to hit us from
the shore. Two shells have just dropped near us, twenty yards away;
the din is ear-splitting, especially from _Queen Bess_. I can hear
the crack-crack of the rifles on shore, which reminds me of Bulford.
I shall be glad when we land. This boat is getting on my nerves. We
are just off the “Horse of Troy,” as we call the _River Clyde_. Are we
going to land at “V” Beach? I can see no sign of life there. Nothing
but columns of earth thrown into the air and bits of the houses of
Sed-el-Bahr flying around, and always those crouching figures behind
the sand dunes. Only the Royal Scots left on board. Perhaps they are
going to land and make good. I get near Milward to see if he has any
orders. He goes up to the bridge to take a signal.
_11.30 a.m._
We are going out to sea again. A tug comes alongside with wounded,
and they are carefully hoisted on board by slings. They are the first
wounded that I have ever seen in my life, and I look over the side with
curiosity and study their faces. They are mostly Lancashire Fusiliers
from “W” Beach. Some look pale and stern, some are groaning now and
again, while others are smoking and joking with the crew of the tug.
I talk to one of the more slightly wounded, and he tells me that it
was “fun” when once they got ashore, but they “copped it” from machine
guns in getting out of the boats into shallow water, where they found
venomous barbed wire was thickly laid. He laid out four John Turks and
then “copped it” through the thigh, and three hours afterwards was
picked up by sailors.
And then, “Any chance of Blighty, sir?” and I said, “I’m afraid not; it
will be Malta or Alex, and back here again,” to which he replied, “Yes;
I want to get back to the regiment.”
_12 noon._
We are going closer in again, and the Royal Scots are leaving. The
Quartermaster, Lieutenant Steel, remains behind with ration parties.
He is very impatient and wants to get off; a curious man: tells me he
doesn’t think he will come off Gallipoli alive.
_2.15 p.m._
I have a dismal lunch, just like the breakfast. I can see French troops
pouring out of small boats now on to the Asiatic side and forming up
in platoons and marching in open order inland, while shrapnel bursts
overhead. During lunch I find that we went out to sea, but are nearing
the land now. Oh! when shall I get off this ship? I wonder. Milward
tells me that the delay occurred because at first we were to land at
“V” Beach, but that it has become so hot there that landing to-day is
impossible. He says that I shall land at 4 p.m. I hear a cheer, a real
British one. Is that a charge? My imagination had conjured up a mass
of yelling and maddened men rushing forward helter-skelter. What I see
is crouching figures, some almost bent double, others jog-trotting
over the grass with bright sun-rays flashing on their bayonets. Now
and again a figure falls and lies still—very still in a crumpled heap;
while all the time the crack-crack of musketry and the pop-popping of
machine guns never ceases. That is what a charge looks like. I chat to
Milward, and he tells me that the Navy are doing their job well, and
he will be surprised if a single Turk is alive for three miles inshore
by nightfall, but he expresses surprise that we have only the 29th and
Australians; as he figures it we want six Divisions and the job over in
a month. This depresses me.
I have orders to leave, and I must get ready.
_4 p.m._
I give orders to my servant and to the corporal and private of the
advanced Supply Section, who are to accompany me, to get kit ready. I
am to land at once on “W” Beach with seven days’ rations and water, and
a quantity of S.A. ammunition for my Brigade. I superintend the loading
of the supplies from the forward hold to the lighter which has moored
alongside, my corporal on the lighter checking it, and doing his job
just as methodically as he used to at Bulford. While at work, a few
shells drop into the sea quite near, throwing up waterspouts as high as
the funnel of the ship. Two small boats are made fast to the lighter,
and my servant and I get into the lighter down the rope ladder. Beastly
things, rope ladders. We sit down on the boxes and wait. We wait a
devil of a time while others join us, among whom are the 88th Field
Ambulance and the Padre. Suddenly Padre gets a message that he is not
to go, and we find that he was trying to smuggle himself ashore. At
last up comes a small pinnace with a very baby of a midshipman at the
wheel, and a lot of orders are sung out in a shrill voice to men old
enough to be his father. We slowly steam for shore.
Passing across the bows of the _Implacable_, we nearly have our heads
blown off by the blast of her forward guns, and the funny thing is, I
can hardly see a man on board. Pinnaces, tugs, destroyers are rushing
in and out of the fleet of transports and warships. A tug passes close
to us on its way to the _Dongola_, the ship I have just left, loaded
with wounded, all slight cases, and they give us a cheer and shout
“Best of luck, boys!” We wave back. We approach close into “W” Beach,
where lighters are moored to more lighters beached high on the sand,
and then the “snotty,” making a sweep with his pinnace, swings us
round. He gives the order to cast adrift, and then shouts in a baby
voice: “I can’t do any more for you; you must get ashore the best you
can.”
We fortunately manage with difficulty to grab a rope from one of the
moored lighters and make fast while the two boats are rowed ashore.
There we stick. I _dare_ not leave those seven days’ rations and water
for four thousand men, and I shout to seamen on shore to try to push
us in and so beach us. The bombardment begins to ease off somewhat. The
sun begins to sink behind Imbros, and gradually it turns bitterly cold.
I sit and shiver, munching the unexpired portion of my day’s ration. I
want a coat badly, but by this time my kit is on shore with my servant.
We appear to have been forgotten altogether. On the cliffs in front of
us Tommies are limping back wounded. One comes perilously near the edge
of the cliff, stumbling and swaying like a drunken man. We shout loudly
to him as time after time he all but falls over the edge. Two R.A.M.C.
grabbed him eventually and led him safely down. I have a smoke, and
view the scenes on shore. Gradually the beach is becoming filled with
medical stores and supplies. It is gruesome seeing dozens of dead
lying about in all attitudes. It becomes eerie as it gets darker. At
this beach at dawn this morning there landed the Lancashire Fusiliers.
They were waited for until their boats were beached, when, as the
troops stepped out of the boats, they were fired on by the Turks, who
subjected them to heavy machine gun fire from two cliffs on either
side of the beach. The slaughter was terrible. On the right-hand side
of the beach the troops had a check, and terrible fighting took place.
Finally, one by one the machine guns were pulled from their positions
in the cliff, and the sections working them killed in hand-to-hand
struggles. On the left side of the beach the troops found no barbed
wire, and so were able to get on shore, and to the cry of “Lads, follow
me!” from an officer they swarmed up a 50-feet steep cliff, clearing
the upper ridge of Turks, but losing heavily. They fought their way
inland, and after a while were able to enfilade the Turks holding up
our men on the right of the beach, until at last, by 6 a.m., the whole
beach was won and John Turk was driven five hundred yards or more
inshore.