that he was hit in the heart on the hopper shortly after General
Napier was laid low. His last words were, “Oh, Lord! I am done for
now.” I notice also that a bullet has torn the toes of his left foot
away; probably this happened after he was dead. I hear that General
Napier was hit whilst in the pinnace, on his way to the _River Clyde_,
by a machine gun bullet in the stomach. Just before he died he said
to Sinclair-Thomson, our Staff Captain, “Get on the _Clyde_ and tell
Carrington-Smith to take over.” A little while later he apologized
for groaning. Good heavens! I can’t realize it, for it was such a
short while ago that we were all such a merry party at the “Warwick
Arms,” Warwick. I report to Captain Stoney, of the K.O.S.B.’s, who
is the M.L.O., and he hands over supplies to me. I clear the beach,
make a small Supply depot and take stock, and start to issue to all
and sundry as on “W” Beach the previous day. All day the French are
arriving from the Asiatic side. No shelling. Evidently the Turks have
no artillery. Davidson, an R.N.D. officer, tells me that he is quite
used to handling the dead now. He has been told off to identify them on
this beach and to take charge. I have a good look at the _River Clyde_.
She managed to get within two hundred yards of shore, and now she is
linked to the beach by hoppers. Two gangways are down at either side
at a gentle slope from holes half-way up her sides, and very flimsy
arrangements they are. It is difficult for the troops to pass each
other on them. Men poured out from these holes in the ship at a given
signal early on Sunday morning, and were quickly caught by machine
gun fire, dropping like flies into the sea, a drop of 20 feet. Some
of those who fell wounded from the hopper in the shallow water close
inshore drowned through being borne down by the weight of their packs.
Colonel Carrington-Smith, who took over command of the Brigade when
General Napier was killed, was looking round the corner of the shelter
of the bridge through glasses at the Turkish position on shore when
he was caught by a bullet clean in the forehead and died instantly.
Sunday night on the _Clyde_ was hell. One or two shells, luckily small
ones from Asia, burst right through the side of the ship. Doctors did
splendid work for the wounded all night on board. A sigh of relief
came from all on board when the signal was given next day to land and
take the beach, which was taken after much hand-to-hand fighting, the
enemy putting up a gallant resistance, encouraged as they were by their
success in preventing us from landing on this beach on Sunday.
Addison, of the Hants, is gone; he met his end in the village of
Sed-el-Bahr. He was leading his men, firing right and left with his
revolver. He met a Turk coming round the corner of a street; he pulled
the trigger of his revolver: nothing happened. He opened it, found it
empty, threw it to the ground with a curse, went for the Turk with his
fist, but was met by a well-aimed bomb, which exploded in his face,
killing him instantly.
It sounds horrible, but it is war these days. Perhaps I am
over-sensitive, but a lump comes to my throat as I write this, for just
over a month ago Addison and I used to talk about books at the “Warwick
Arms,” Warwick, and the sight of him reading with glasses, smoking his
pipe before the fire of an evening, is still fresh in my memory. It
would have been hard to believe then that such a quiet, reserved soul
would meet his end fighting like a raging lion in the bloody streets of
Sed-el-Bahr a few weeks later. But that has now actually happened, and
similar ends will meet like brave men again and again before this war
is over.
A little amusing diversion is caused in the afternoon of to-day by a
hare running across the beach, chased by French “poilus,” and being
very nearly rounded up.
At 5 p.m. while making up my accounts for the day, I hear from the
Asiatic side the boom of a gun, followed by a sound not unlike the
tearing of linen, ending in a scream and explosion. Not very big
shells, and the first, so far, that I have experienced on shore. I look
towards Asia and see a flash in the blue haze of the landscape there,
and over comes another, dropping in the sea near the _Clyde_. They
follow quickly in succession, and each time I see the flash, I duck
with my three stalwart henchmen behind our little redoubt of supplies,
proof only against splinters. The nearest falls but twenty yards away,
and does not explode. I see through my glasses two destroyers creep up
towards the enemy’s shores and fire rapid broadsides. After a few of
these we are left in peace.
I am once or twice called up on the telephone—a telephone worked by
a signaller lying on the ground, the instrument being in a portable
case. It is strange saying “Are you there?” under these conditions
and with these surroundings. The signal arrangements are excellent.
Calls come in constant succession from “W,” “X,” and “S” Beaches. A
wireless instrument is hard at work, run by a Douglas engine in a tent,
controlled by a detachment of Australians. One of the Australians, a
corporal, offers me a shakedown in his tent for the night, and lends my
men some blankets for their bivouac, which they have constructed out of
my little Supply depot. Owen, O.C. Signals, says that I shall not get
much sleep in the wireless tent, and that I had better share his tent,
which is in a little orchard behind a ruined house close handy. I have
my evening meal of bully, biscuit, and jam, and lighting my pipe, go
for a stroll in the village, but am stopped by sentries, for snipers
are still at large there, and several casualties have occurred to-day
there through their industry. I cannot help admiring the pluck of these
snipers, for their end is certain and not far off. Two mutilated bodies
of our men are lying in a garden of a ruined house, but this case so
far is isolated. We have seen the Turks dressing the wounds of some of
our men captured by them. The Turks appear to be a strange mixture.
_April 28th._
I awake feeling very fit and refreshed, and find a beautiful morning
awaiting me. Opposite our tent is a little “bivvy,” made of oil-sheets
and supported by rope to one of the walls of the house and a
lilac-tree. A head pokes out from under this “bivvy” with a not very
tidy beard growing on its chin, and the owner loudly calls for his
servant. While making his toilet he joins in a merry banter with Owen,
who is indulging in a cold douche obtained from a bucket of water.
Some of the French having invaded the sanctuary of our walled-in camp,
picking several of the iris growing in the wild grass, the officer with
the beard asks me to tell them to get off his lawn, which I do. I find
later that he is Josiah Wedgwood, M.P., and being interested, get into
conversation with him. He is a most entertaining man, and tells me that
he is O.C. Armoured Cars, but that as it is not possible for his cars
to come on shore, he had been instructed to use his intelligence and
make himself useful, which he was trying to do with a painful effort.
Finding that I was a Supply Officer, he begs for some tobacco, saying
that he would be my friend for life if I could get him some, which I
manage to do, for yesterday I issued tobacco and cigarettes with our
rations and had some over. I go down to my depot for a wash, shave, and
breakfast. Biscuit and bacon do not go well together. While washing,
shells begin to arrive, bursting on the crest of the hill at the back
of the beach. One or two come near to the beach and a splinter flies
towards us, hitting the boxes behind which we all crowd. The nearest,
so far, so I preserve the splinter. French troops are now in large
numbers on the beach, and I meet my friend the Russian officer who
was on the _Arcadian_. I see General D’Amade and his Staff. A French
officer takes some snaps for me with my camera, as he knows more about
photography than I do, including one of a French machine gun company,
who had then two guns in position screened by branches of lilac at
the entrance to the village. He made fun of them, telling them that
it would have been just as much sense if they had placed a rusty
sewing machine, which happened to be lying near, in position instead.
Looking rather foolish, the gunners pack up and go off somewhere. I
am wanted on the telephone, and hear O’Hara talking at the other end.
He says I am to hand over the remaining supplies to the R.N.D. beach
party, and come back to “W” Beach with the S.S.O., who is coming over.
S.S.O. arrives shortly after. I hand over to the senior officer of the
R.N.D.—a fine old boy with a crown and a star up—who tells me he landed
at “W” Beach on Sunday morning at six, and had joined in the scrapping
himself.
We go on the _River Clyde_, and from there I take photographs of the
beach and one of the mounds of earth that had proved shelter for those
men whom I had seen from the _Dongola_ crouching for cover on Sunday
morning. We get on to a trawler from the _River Clyde_, which takes
us round to “W” Beach, and I enjoy the brief sea-trip, and it is very
interesting viewing the scenes on shore from the sea.
Off “W” Beach we get on to a pinnace which takes us alongside a very
good pier, considering the short time the engineers have had to
construct one. On shore I find the K.O.S.B.’s arriving from “Y” Beach,
where they have had a rough handling. “Y” Beach appears to have been
evacuated. I find a lot of officers I know have gone, including Koe,
the Colonel, a very fine type of man. He really should never have come
out, for he was in indifferent health. He was shot in the arm, which
had to be amputated, and he died shortly afterwards. Our depot has
grown, for more supplies have come ashore. Our Colonel and a few more
of the train officers have arrived. We have quite a good lunch.
I find Phillips, our O.C. Company, has gone inland with some pack
mules. He comes back later with rather depressing news. I hear that
a battle has been started, but I do not pay much attention, for I am
quite accustomed now to the sound of rifle fire and the roar of the
ships’ guns. The battle develops in the afternoon to a general attack
on our part. We are well inshore now, I should say two and a half
miles. Anyway, no bullets are flying about the beach now. All snipers
have been rounded up, one of the worst offenders, a huge fellow,
falling dead from a tree yesterday.
_5.30 p.m._
Brigade Supply Officers are ordered to find out the location of their
units. Horses can be had on application from D.H.Q. I ask to be allowed
to proceed on foot, and am granted permission, but they rather wonder
why I ask. The honest reason is because I am nervous, and I prefer to
be nervous on foot than a nervous rider on horseback over a difficult
country. I make a bee-line inshore, and after a quick walk of fifteen
minutes or so become intensely interested in what I see. Shells are
passing over my head from the Fleet, but the rifle fire appears to have
died down. Wounded are straggling back in twos and threes, and bearers
carrying the more serious cases, with great fatigue to themselves. To
carry a man two and a half miles over rough ground on a stretcher is
hard work.
Nearing the line, I pass police forming battle posts, and these,
together with the badges of the wounded men, which are sewn on their
tunics, returning to the beaches, helps me to steer my course. Now and
again I am warned not to go near where snipers are said to be, and
perpetually I trip over thin black wires, which serve for the nonce for
signallers’ cables. Passing a cluster of farm buildings, I arrive at
last at a scene of great activity and feel relieved that I am once more
amongst men. A trench is being dug with forced energy, orderlies are
passing to and fro, signallers at work laying cables, doctors dressing
wounded, and bearers carrying them to the rear. I discover that we have
had a set-back. I learn that we were heavily outnumbered, but that at
5 p.m. the Turks had retreated hastily to almost beyond Krithia, which
lies in flames on the high land in front of me towards the left, and
that actually the Lancashires had been through the village.
Walking along the line, I find the 86th Brigade, and from them learn
where H.Q. 88th are. On my way there I pass Captain Parker and Major
Lee, of the Hants. Major Lee asks me excitedly if they are getting on
with the digging of the trench, and then asks me to get some water up
to some of his battalion on his right by the French, which I promise to
do this night. Walking further along, I cross a white road of some kind
of paving, and then at last reach my H.Q. I see Thomson, who looks very
ill and tired, but appears very cool and quiet. I shall never forget
his smile when he saw me, saying “Hello, Gillam!” in a quiet voice. I
see Panton busy at dressing wounded, for alongside H.Q. is an advanced
dressing station. On my right I notice French troops hard at work
continuing the digging of the line to the edge of the Dardanelles.
I find out what is wanted in the way of food and water and where it
is to be dumped, and start off back to the beach. It is twilight and
rapidly getting dark, and it is difficult to find my way back to
the right beach, namely “W.” I remember with a shudder those silent
clumps of bushes and trees, and wonder if snipers are still alert. I
steer my way back by the masts of the ships, the heads of which I can
just see, and I walk as the crow flies over every obstacle I find. I
had learnt at Brigade H.Q. that the white road ran between Krithia
and Sed-el-Bahr, and mentally I made a note of the way I should take
rations on my return journey, namely to Sed-el-Bahr from “W” Beach via
“V” Beach, and thence up the white road. I see three figures ahead
limping, and as I had not seen a soul for fifteen minutes and it is
getting dark now, I finger my revolver, wondering if they are some of
our most trying enemies, the snipers. But that thought is only born
from nerves, for they are limping and must be wounded. On overtaking
them I find that one is an officer, Cox of the Essex, one of those who
had played “The Priest of the Parish” on the _Dongola_ the night before
the landing. He is the only one limping, from a bullet wound in his
calf; he is supported by his arms resting round the shoulders of two
men—one his servant, unwounded, and the other a man wounded through
the arm. Cox tells me he took cover in a nullah when hit, and remained
there all day. Twice the French advanced over him, and twice they
retreated, leaving him between the enemy’s lines. A third time British
and French advanced, and he was rescued and helped back. I wish him
further luck in this war, for luck had befallen him—he an infantryman
and a bullet wound in his leg. I like him rather specially, and feel
glad that he is to be out of it for a while. It is now quite dark and I
have missed my bearings and see a few small lights ahead, and make for
them and am very soon pulled up short by the challenge of a sentry.
I discover it is signals of D.H.Q. and am directed to H.Q., where I am
interviewed by a G.S. Officer, who asks me the position of troops. I
tell him French on the right, and then 88th, 86th, then 87th. I learn
that I am on Hill 138, the future name of D.H.Q. I am directed back
to “W” Beach and then endeavour to find O’Hara. After fifteen minutes
I find him and report what I had done, and am told that he had learnt
that a dump of rations, ammunition, and water is to be made at Pink
Farm. Learning that Pink Farm is the collection of buildings that I had
struck earlier in the afternoon, I point out that this farm will be
too far to the left for my Brigade, and that I found a convenient site
for the 88th dump on the right of the Sed-el-Bahr–Krithia road, but I
am told that I must have made a mistake. This disturbs me somewhat, as
I feel that I am right. He tells me to come along with him up to Pink
Farm, as pack-mules with rations, ammunition, and water had started for
this dump. We overtake some of them. Further on we meet Carver coming
back on horseback, and he reports where 87th Brigade H.Q. is. I now
see that the reason why they have decided on Pink Farm for a dump is
because Way had come back first and reported where his Brigade was, and
that through Carver and I not having turned up they decided on Pink
Farm as a Divisional dump for all the Brigades. As a matter of fact,
Pink Farm will suit 87th as well as 86th, for it lies between the two,
and rations, etc., from the one dump can be man-handled to the two
Brigades. But for the 88th, the dump is right out of it.
We meet Phillips, our 88th Transport Officer and O.C. No. 4 Company, a
good soldier; Ford, Q.M. of the Essex; and Grogan, Transport Officer of
the K.O.S.B.’s, a delightful chap; and passing them we arrive at Pink
Farm, where I tell my tale to Colonel Beadon and Major Streidinger.
It is now raining hard, and I have no coat. It is hard work getting
through the clayey mud. They apparently do not consider my statement
that this dump is of no use whatever to the 88th, for a bush that I
can just see a hundred yards away is pointed out, the moon then being
up above the clouds, and I am ordered to go two hundred yards beyond
there, where I will find Thomson and 88th Brigade H.Q., and to arrange
with him for fatigue parties to come back and carry up water. They say
they have just been talking to Thomson.
This puzzles me, and I start off for that bush. I hate bushes just
now. I pass it and come to a brook full of the loudest-croaking frogs
I have ever heard. Without much exaggeration they made as much row as
a dozen people would, all talking together loudly. Then I pace what I
think is two hundred yards in front of that bush and come to nothing at
all. Remembering that in the dark one hardly ever walks in a straight
line, I alter my course, and walking a few yards, see the rays of an
electric torch shining, towards which I walk quickly. It is immediately
switched out as I approach, and now, feeling cautious, I shout, “Are
you British?” but receiving no answer, I shout once more, and am glad
to receive an answer of “Aye, aye.” I go up to them and find that it is
our front line, and inquire where Brigade H.Q. is. A little light to my
right, but behind rather, is pointed out, to which I go. There I find
Thomson in a trench and give him the message as instructed. The light
of a torch shining on his face shows me a look of annoyance, expressive
of his thoughts that I am a fool. He politely tells me that he wants
rations taken to the spot that he had pointed out in the afternoon. I
find that I am at 86th Brigade H.Q., and that Thomson is but visiting
there for a conference. Having a difficulty in finding my way to Pink
Farm, I make for the front line once more, whence the direction is
pointed out to Pink Farm, for I can only see a hundred yards ahead and
all bushes look alike. I hear the noise of croaking frogs and make for
it.
It comes from the brook that I had passed, and from there I go towards
what I think is Pink Farm, but find that it is a collection of the
pack-mules under Phillips, and I unload my feelings in horribly bad
language. Then Phillips gives me a packet of cigarettes, which I am
entirely without. I am wet through now to the skin, and dog-tired;
my pocket is full of iron-ration biscuits, and between puffs of my
cigarettes I munch them. Not a sound of a shot, not a flash of a gun.
Old John Turk has had a nasty knock and is over a thousand yards
away. Nothing but the sound of the hiss of the gently falling rain.
I follow the farmer’s track up to Pink Farm and tell my troubles to
Colonel Beadon. Colonel Williams, who had distinguished himself at
Sed-el-Bahr, is there without a coat, and soaked to the skin as I am. I
am instructed to take the remaining mules back to “W” Beach, link any
which I pass, that are on the way up, on to my convoy, and also pick
up any which are starting off from “W” Beach, make one convoy, take
stock and make a note of it, and take the whole through Sed-el-Bahr up
to the spot Thomson had pointed out to me in the afternoon. I think of
the tale of the odd-job man who had been given every imaginable job
in the world by his old lady mistress, and who asked her if her house
was built on clay, as he would very much like to make bricks in his
spare time. I go back to Phillips; the convoy is turned round and off
we trek, I at the head, Phillips in the rear. I meet Davy on the way
up with a convoy of his, and accordingly instruct him to join on to my
convoy. He says, “Look here, Gillam, old boy; you’re fagged out and
are making a mess of things; go back to bed, old boy. I know all about
it, and we have to take these mules to Pink Farm.” I wish Pink Farm
elsewhere, express my feelings to him in forcible language, and finally
convince him under protest. However, we are soon friends again, and his
convoy links up in rear of mine. We hear three reports of a rifle ring
out on our right. A sniper, still undiscovered, at work. We arrive at
“W” Beach, arresting the start of another convoy, which in turn also
becomes part of ours, and I go to find O’Hara. Having found him, I told
him my tale of woe; he says he will come with me to the 88th Brigade;
and after taking stock and tacking a watercart on to the rear of the
column, we trek off to Hill 138. Stopping there, O’Hara has a chat with
the A.P.M., who has been to the 88th H.Q. and assures us that we are
on the right track. On through the ruined village of Sed-el-Bahr we
go, down through a poplar grove enclosing a Turkish cemetery, when we
overtake the C.R.A., riding alone with an orderly. We are on the white
road that I noticed in the afternoon, and the C.R.A. takes the lead, as
he states that a part of the road further up is rumoured to be mined.
Krithia lies ahead on our left in flames, a wonderful sight.
It has stopped raining; we pass several brooks, and from them comes the
clamouring noise of loudly croaking bull-frogs. We pass one after the
other four white pillars of stone, about a hundred feet in height. On
my right I can see dimly the waters of the Dardanelles. Dawn is just
developing. The C.R.A. raises his hand and we stop. He rides cautiously
forward with his orderly, and after a minute returns and orders us to
follow him. He turns sharply to the left, makes a wide circuit, we
following, and comes out on the white road once more farther up. He
then leaves us and disappears. We continue for three hundred yards,
when I come to the conclusion that we are very near our destination,
tell O’Hara so, and the command is given “Halt!” O’Hara and I walk on
up the road. Not a sound is heard—no shells, no rifle fire whatsoever.
I can see no one about. I look to my right, where Brigade H.Q. should
be, and find nothing but some shallow dugouts. We go off the road to
the right amongst bushes, and trip over a few poor dead Tommies. We
come back to the road. O’Hara thinks I am wrong. Good Lord! supposing
that I am wrong after all this!
We walk up the road further, and suddenly come to a sentry standing in
a trench on our right. I look to the left and see another trench and a
sentry a little way on, on guard. The road goes on into darkness. I
am smoking a cigarette, and am ordered peremptorily by the sentry on
my right to put it out. We question him, and find that we have arrived
at our front line. Every man of four is on guard, the other three
sound asleep in the bottom of the trench. The sentry tells us that
the Turkish line is a good way ahead, and that he has seen or heard
nothing from there since he has been on guard. He is shivering with
cold, though muffled in his coat, but for all that looks a fine type
of fellow. But he is “pukkah” and 29th as well. Finest troops in the
world, bar none. The finished type of a disciplined British Tommy. Oh!
for six more Divisions of this quality: Achi Baba would have been ours
this day. He directs us to Brigade H.Q. Following his direction, we
turn back down the road and come back to the shallow dugouts.
During our absence Thomas, of the Essex, and a Naval officer, smoking
a huge pipe and muffled to his ears in his white muffler and blue
overcoat, had arrived. They tell us the dugouts are the 88th Brigade
H.Q. We inquire for Thomson and the rest, and are told that they
have gone to 86th to confer. One by one the little patient mules are
unloaded, and proceed down the road, to wait, and the boxes, rations,
ammunition, and water are spread singly amongst the thick gorse off
the road, so as not to be seen by the enemy in the morning. While
this goes on I talk to the Naval officer, and learn from him that he
is an observing officer for the ships’ guns; he appears a very cool
customer. He tells me that he is a very unlucky man to talk to; that
an officer yesterday was wounded while talking to him, and another
killed last night under the same circumstances. I wish him “Good-night
and good luck,” and go back to the mules, and help to hasten their
unloading by helping myself. Colonel Patterson, O.C. Mule Corps, keeps
on urging upon us the importance of not losing the ropes, as when lost
they are difficult to replace. The last mule being unloaded, we search
for the watercart, but it is nowhere to be found; but tins of water
are up now, and we hear that a well has been found, the water pure
and not poisoned, as we had feared. And so we start to trek back. A
short way back and O’Hara shouts “Halt!” Then he says to me, “Gillam,
where’s that —— mine we’ve heard so much about?” I answer, “Great
Scott!” Somebody behind us gives a muffled cough, and a Tommy, one of
the armed escort, steps forward and in a Tommy’s polite manner says,
“Begging your pardon, sir, but we are standing on it.” O’Hara shouts
“Walk—march!” and we move at a good four miles an hour until we arrive
at the white pillars and the friendly sound of the croaking frogs; we
realize at any rate that we are safe from land mines. Evidently this
mine is a false alarm. Permission to smoke is given, and the Syrian
boys exchange ration cigarettes and chatter to each other in Russian.
Up to now they had been almost entirely silent. We pass many French
troops sleeping in little hastily made camps, and we pass some Zouaves,
looking picturesque in the early morning light in their quaint Oriental
uniforms. And so through the silent cemetery and poplar-trees, through
Sed-el-Bahr, now a large French camp, back past Hill 138 and home to
“W” Beach. I give O’Hara a few of my iron-ration biscuits and almost
stagger to my Supply depot, for I am hardly able to walk any further,
and lie down on my valise, that my servant has thoughtfully laid out
for me, beside the S.S.O. and Colonel Beadon, falling off to sleep with
the satisfaction that to-morrow at any rate the 88th will have their
rations.
_April 29th._