have breakfast. Getting fed-up with biscuit. My servant rigs me up a
“bivvy” and I roll up and go fast asleep. Lord, what a gorgeous sleep
it was! I slept till one, and then had lunch, and after, a shave
and a wash. I did little all day but watch the Fleet firing and the
transports unloading everything imaginable necessary for an army. We
have now rigged up a nice little mess with some ration boxes and a
tarpaulin, and have quite a nice dinner at night with a boiled ham,
bully beef rissoles, and biscuit pancakes. Our chef is “some” chef. A
Naval officer at night, after dinner, is continually shouting “Any more
for the _Arcadian_?” where G.H.Q. is. Reminds me of “Any more for the
_Skylark_?” at Brighton. It is pleasant going to sleep at night with
the sound of the swish of waves breaking on the shore in one’s ears.
The Fleet guns roar away consistently all day.
_April 30th._
To-day we have some shells on the beach, but not very terrible ones.
Many of them go “fut” in the ground without exploding. If this is all
the artillery they can put up against us, Lord help them! They must be
having hell from the Fleet.
Go up to Brigade H.Q. via Sed-el-Bahr this morning with a rifle and
dressed as a Tommy. All go up dressed like that now, for snipers are
still about. On past the white pillars to Brigade H.Q., we pass the
bodies, still unburied, of Turks and British—fallen heroes lying broken
amidst wild flowers. I call and see Major Gibbon at his observation
post, but from there can see nothing of the enemy. Before me is a
simple, lovely summer scene; yet amidst the nullahs and the olive
groves, the flowers and barley, Death lurks, alert to claim his toll.
It is a long walk back to “W” Beach via Sed-el-Bahr. Snipers are still
at large, which is remarkable, and we are warned not to walk across
country, though to do so would be much quicker. I pass two snipers as
we arrive back at the white pillars, prisoners in the hands of the
French. One prisoner is limping badly from a wound in the foot. The
French appear to have made themselves very much at home in Sed-el-Bahr.
I pass an officers’ mess and lunch is on. I am surprised at the
delicacies on the table, including many bottles of white wine. We are
still on bare rations, and bully and biscuits at that, but they appear
to have bread, probably from Tenedos, and probably for officers’ messes
only; and they all seem very bright, as if it was a huge joke. As we
are about to enter Sed-el-Bahr a French sentry stops us, and warns us
not to go through the village, as two men have just been sniped. We
pass at the back of “V” Beach. The view from here of the Fleet is
magnificent. Occasionally one sees a whiff of yellow smoke shoot from
the side of a ship, and a few seconds after a deafening report follows.
It takes some getting used to.
We pass a company of Senegalese manning a trench dug at the back of “V”
Beach. They lie in it, peering over the top, looking inland intently,
as if they expect the enemy, who is more than three miles away, to rush
down on them at any moment.
I pass General D’Amade at the H.Q. at the back of “V” Beach, and stop
to chat with the French officer who was on the _Arcadian_ with me,
and also a French Naval officer who was on the _Southland_. The Naval
officer inspects my rifle with interest, saying it is the first time
that he has handled one of the short patterns. He tells me that he saw
the fight from the _Andania_ on Sunday morning, and says that he thinks
that it will stand out as the most magnificent fight of the war.
MAY
_May 1st._
A few shells, but none very terrible, come over; one, however, in
our depot. Beautiful weather. Heavy rifle fire heard at night. Now
and again a Turkish shell lands over from Achi. The rifle fire last
night was Turkish; nothing happened. Probably “wind up” on their part.
Letters arrive. While sitting on a box reading, a shell comes beastly
near, but bursts in a not very frightening manner twenty yards away.
But I and the few near me fall flat to the ground. I have been advised
to do this by an officer who is an expert in shelling, and he tells
me that by so doing, though a shell may burst ten yards from you, one
should be safe. My servant rolls over and over, shouting “Oh!” and I
rush to him, asking him if he was hit, but find that a stone had caught
him on the forehead, and but for a nasty bruise he was none the worse.
This afternoon I have a bathe off “W” Beach. Crowds are bathing. What
a contrast to this time last week! Only a week ago we landed, and now
“W” Beach is like a seaside resort as far as the bathing is concerned.
I felt in holiday mood, and with that delightful refreshed feeling
that one has after a dip, I strolled along the sand up to the depot
for a cup of tea. But the scream of a shell overhead from Achi, which
fell in the water beyond the bathers, brought my holiday mood to an
abrupt end. The mouth of the Dardanelles and the sea at the end of the
Isthmus is full of warships, from battleships to small destroyers and
their necessary small craft, transports, hospital ships, trawlers, and
lighters. Engineers, French and English, are working feverishly at the
building of piers and finishing those already begun. Stores are being
unloaded, and marquees for their storage are being erected.
The scene here is extraordinarily interesting. I have never seen such
a motley gathering in my life. The beach is crowded with figures,
all working for dear life. The sea is dotted with lighters, out of
which are being poured all kinds of military stores—wood, sand-bags,
wire-netting, galvanized iron, cooping, and the like; all these things
are being conveyed to the piers and from there put ashore. On the shore
itself parties are at work erecting tents and marquees, and other
parties are hard at work making dugouts, plying picks and shovels with
a will. Here they are erecting the signals station, a contraption of
beams and sand-bags. Outside, wires are being laid, and so the work of
the beach parties goes busily forward. Yet to my untutored gaze the
scene is wonderful. The whole beach is a hopeless mix-up of French and
English, with a good sprinkling of Naval men—presenting a kaleidoscopic
effect, with the afternoon sun shining upon it, such as I have never
seen before. It is of course quite an orderly mob really—but this is
only recognized when one watches the work of one group at a time.
Here is the real business of a military landing on a hostile shore,
everybody knowing what to do and how to do it, and so the work goes on
without a hitch.
At 7 p.m. I start off with a long convoy of pack-mules with rations
for Brigade H.Q. via the Sed-el-Bahr–Krithia road. At present it is
impossible to use vehicles, for the first line is served by but two
roads, which are nothing but farmers’ tracks. An armed escort of the
Essex Regiment accompanies us. The Padre of the 88th Brigade, who is
just joining, comes along with me, intending to join the Worcesters
in the trenches. Just entering Sed-el-Bahr we are halted by a French
officer, and almost immediately my head feels as if it is blown
off by four spouts of flame stabbing the darkness just a few yards
away, followed almost instantaneously by four deafening reports. A
French “75” battery is in action, and that means business. Almost
immediately after No. 4 gun had fired, No. 1 fired, then No. 2, No.
3, and No. 4 again, and so on, shell after shell following each other
in rapid succession into the night, towards Achi Baba. The gunners,
crouching like cats by their guns, were lit up fitfully by each flash,
disappearing again in the pause of a fraction of a second between each
round. An officer in a dugout behind, with telephone glued to his ear,
shouts incessantly directions as to range, elevation, and depression to
an officer who is standing nonchalantly smoking a cigarette behind the
battery, who in turn shouts orders to the guns. The guns reminded me of
two couple of hounds held in leash at a coursing meeting, barking with
eagerness to be let loose. Our little pack-mules are greatly concerned
at first, but become surprisingly docile as the firing goes on. A sharp
order is given by the French officer standing behind the weapons; the
gunners relax their tense attitudes and begin attending to parts of
the guns. The officer who had first stopped us most charmingly and
politely apologizes in English for delaying us, and our convoy proceeds
on its track. I chat to the Padre; find he is fifty-five years of age
and before the war a peace-loving rector. What circumstances to find
one’s self in after fifty-five years of peaceful life! I record him in
my mind as a very gallant old gentleman. We pass through the French
camp down through the trees to the poplar-grove cemetery, which always
now fills me with a curious awe, so ghostly do the graves look in the
moonlight, lying peacefully amidst the poplar-trees. It is a most
beautiful sight, with the glimmering water of the Dardanelles beyond.
Ahead on our right the reflection of the bright beam of Chanak
searchlight, swinging round from east to west across the Narrows, can
be seen in the sky, searching for any of our ships, should they make a
dart up the Straits. Past my friends the loudly croaking bull-frogs,
past the stately white pillars, on up the white road that leads to
Krithia and towards our dumping-ground—Brigade H.Q.—the little mules
pad carefully and surely along, led by the Syrian mule-drivers, who
chatter confidentially to each other in Russian, for they now are at
home in their new life, and delight in the thought that they are doing
their bit in the great cause.
[Illustration: BATHING OFF GULLY BEACH, HELLES.]
[Illustration: “Y” BEACH, CAPE HELLES, WHERE THE K.O.S.B.’S LANDED ON
APRIL 25, 1915, HAVING TO EVACUATE THEREFROM ON THE FOLLOWING DAY.
The beach was captured later from the land by the Gurkhas. Its
situation remained close behind our front line during the whole
campaign. The high ground was well within rifle range of the enemy
during the whole campaign. The enemy lines are behind the camera.]
We arrive at our destination, and lo and behold! no one is there.
Phillips and I confer. I decide to go on with Smith, Q.M. of the Hants,
to find H.Q. We take an orderly each from the armed guard. I take an
Essex man. We follow the white road, and arriving at the front-line
trenches are pulled up short by the “’Alt, who are you?” “Supply
Officer.” “Advance to be recognized.” We advance. Smith asks where
Battalion H.Q. are, and learns they are a hundred yards to our left.
We find, a hundred yards along, a part of the trench dug back a bit to
serve as Battalion H.Q. The trenches are deeper now; one can stand up
in safety, but only just. Smith asks for Captain Reid, the Adjutant; he
steps out to us. We express surprise at the quietness of things. There
is absolutely no firing on our front, but we can hear desultory firing
on our right from the French line. Reid offers us cigarettes and lights
one himself. I remark to him that it is unwise to light a cigarette
standing in the open, to which he replies that the enemy are a long way
away. He directs me to Brigade H.Q., further along the line. I wish him
“Good-night,” and with my orderly proceed cautiously in the direction
he had pointed, for it is now pitch dark. I am challenged again and
again, and find myself after a bit among the Royal Scots, and one of
their officers kindly lends me an orderly, who takes me to Brigade
H.Q., dug in a dry brook, some two hundred yards behind the front line.
Thomson is asleep, and it is with regret that I have to wake him. He
tells me to dump rations in the same place as the last night’s. I start
to go back, steer my way by the front line once more and in the dark
miss the direction, and find myself about to walk across a track which
runs through our front line towards the enemy’s and an alert sentry
bringing me to the halt with a sharp challenge, I find my mistake. I
then leave myself in my orderly’s hands, who takes the lead and guides
me back to the Brigade dump, when I find that Phillips had met Q.M.S.
Leslie and had nearly finished the unloading of the pack-mules. I
really believe that if I had not been challenged and had passed through
our lines towards the enemy’s, my orderly, one of the “doesn’t reason
why” breed, would have calmly followed me. Some one taps me on the
shoulder, and a Tommy asks me, “Where’s your rifle, mate?” I reply
that I haven’t one. He then says, “Ain’t you one of the ’Ants?” and
wonderingly I reply that I am the Supply Officer, and the man brings
himself erect with a sharp click, begging my pardon. The reason of his
mistake then dawned on me; I have on a private’s tunic.
Our goods delivered, we trek back, and on arrival at Sed-el-Bahr the
sound of heavy rifle fire breaks out, but by the sound it is from our
own rifles. We wonder what is happening, and think ourselves fortunate
that we had finished our job before this activity started. I am in rear
of the column, walking with my orderly about fifty yards behind the
last mule, when I have a bad nerve shock. I have had many during the
past week, but this one takes the biscuit. Out of a hole in the side of
a broken-down house there leaps a French soldier. He shouts something
to me in French and points a rifle, with gleaming bayonet fixed, at my
chest. In days long gone past, it has sometimes happened that one of
my young sisters or a brother with a warped sense of humour would leap
round from the corner of the landing in our early home, just as I might
be passing along, and shout “Boo-h!” I used to go hot and cold with
fright, and appeared to cause intense amusement by my state of nerves.
When this boy sentry, who by his looks could not have been more than
nineteen, jumps out from his hole in the wall, my heart seems to stand
still, until it feels that it is never going to start its job again,
and then with a bound it carries on its job at about ten times its
normal speed. My mouth feels like dry blotting-paper, and all I say is,
“Oh, hell!” at the same time throwing my hands well over my head. My
orderly, who appears most unconcerned, comes to my rescue and says with
a Cockney accent “Ongley,” and our gallant ally brings his rifle to the
order and allows us to pass.
Previous to this incident I had been chatting to my orderly about
his life in the Army in peace days, but now walk on in silence until
we have overtaken the convoy, finding the mules halted. Suddenly
the French battery that we had passed earlier in the evening opens
a terrible fire. I go along to its position and find that half our
convoy had passed earlier, but that, the battery being suddenly called
into action, the rear half of our column had been ordered to stop. In
the excitement two of the mules get adrift, and with good instinct
trot off to their own lines, ignoring the cries in Russian from their
drivers and the angry bark of the little “75’s.” A halt of ten minutes,
and, again with polite apologies, the pleasant French gunner officers,
wishing us “Bon soir,” allow us to proceed. Home to bed and a good
night’s rest.
_May 2nd._
A Taube flies over and drops one bomb on our new aerodrome to the left
of Hill 138. One of our machines which is up swings round, heading
straight for it, and quickly drives it back. A couple of aircraft guns
from one of the ships put in some good practice, little white puffs of
shrapnel bursting perilously near. A few wounded come in from a little
show last night, and amongst them are wounded Turkish prisoners.
We are issuing stores now from one depot for the whole Division, and
to all others who come. Way and Carver are running it. I simply hold a
watching brief for my Brigade, but give a hand when I can in helping
the business to run smoothly. Foley is up the coast a short way at “X”
Beach, running his own depot for the 87th Brigade, and wires constantly
come in from him indenting on us for stores he has not in stock. It
is just like a business store, and we are running short of supplies,
but a Supply ship has come in to replenish our stock and form a large
reserve depot. Our depot is the hot-bed of rumours and news, and we
feel the pulse of the Division through the news that the Quartermasters
and ration parties bring. Bad news has arrived this morning. Captain
Reid, to whom I was talking last night, has been killed, and Major Lee,
his C.O., with him. I inquired as to what time it happened, and learn
that it was at eleven o’clock. I was talking to him at ten. It appears
that shortly after I had left him, word was passed down the trench for
C.O.’s and Adjutants to go to the end of the trench to meet the Staff.
Major Lee, accompanied by Captain Reid, immediately went, and met two
officers dressed in khaki with Staff tabs. One of these officers fires
a revolver in Major Lee’s face, killing him instantly, while the other
murders Captain Reid. In their turn they were quickly bayoneted by
Lee’s and Reid’s orderlies. The line is attacked by some two hundred
Turks, who are met in the open by our men and quickly retire, getting
hell from the French “75’s” in doing so. The two officers dressed in
our Staff uniform proved to be Germans, and their action was an attempt
to break our line.
I hear also that Godfrey Faussett, Colonel of the Essex, has been
killed. This upsets me far more than danger, and I have the nightmare
question running in my head sometimes now, when talking to my friends
or seniors whom I knew so well in England, “I wonder if I shall see you
alive again.”
A few snipers have been caught, and they present a weird and uncanny
appearance. They wear uniforms of green cloth, to which in some cases
are attached or sewn sprigs of gorse-bush and small branches of trees.
Their rifles, hands, and faces are painted green, and they can be
passed unnoticed at but a few yards’ distance. Most of them have been
found in holes and dugouts underneath clusters of bushes, with two or
three boxes of ammunition, and enough bread and water to ration them a
fortnight.
This morning the Fleet and the few guns which are on shore are
bombarding the Turkish positions heavily, and the slopes of Achi Baba
are alive with bursting shrapnel and spouts of earth and smoke shooting
skywards, but through it all Achi Baba looks calm, dignified, and
formidable, like a great giant saying “Thus far and no further.” Verily
it looks the fortress gate of the Peninsula, and we are but on the
threshold, or rather on the footpath leading to the threshold. Turkish
artillery replies but feebly with shrapnel, but the shooting appears
good.
I hear the crackle of rifle fire and learn that we are again attacking.
Good luck to the 29th!
_Afternoon._
Guns of the Fleet and shore batteries steadily boom away. Rifle fire
has died down. Wounded are beginning steadily to come in, and as fast
as possible are evacuated on to hospital ships. I go up to Headquarters
and find site for dump for rations retired somewhat. I passed many
wounded and stretcher-bearers coming back. I saw Colonel Williams, our
new Brigadier, calmly walking about in the most exposed positions. A
regiment of Gurkhas are on the right of our line, and those in support
have dug themselves each a little dugout, just room enough for a man
to lie in, rolled up. These little dugouts are in regular lines, and
each one being occupied with a little Gurkha makes a most quaint scene.
I take snaps of one or two, to their intense delight. They look very
workmanlike in their shirts, wide hats, and shorts.
It is now dusk and we hear that we advanced, but soon after had to
return to our former positions. We are now badly outnumbered. The enemy
have lately received many reinforcements, and are receiving them daily.
We want several more Divisions to carry this business through. We have
dinner, and I go to bed rather depressed. Heavy rifle fire bursts out
at night, and in the middle of the night our Adjutant has to get up and
organize a convoy of pack-mules to take up ammunition.
_May 3rd._
It is a perfect morning, but it is getting very hot. I ride up about
10 a.m. with the company sergeant-major to as far as the furthest of
the white pillars, and there we tether our horses to a tree and walk
the rest of the way up the white road. All is absolutely quiet on the
front—not a shell, not a rifle shot.
All firing from the Fleet has ceased, and the gunners on shore are busy
cleaning their guns and digging gun-pits and dugouts. It is quiet and
peaceful. At the front line I cannot see any signs of the enemy. I chat
with Major Barlow of the Essex, who was at Warwick with me. He is now
O.C. Essex. It is strange being without the roar of the guns once more.
The Fleet has been treated to rather a hot reception, and finds it
advisable to lie a little further down the entrance to the Straits,
which it accordingly does. The mouth of the Straits looks glorious:
the intense blue of the sea, with the warships and transports with
their motley collection of lighters, picket boats, etc., all stand out
strongly against the steely blue of the sky. Further off, the lovely
Isle of Imbros shimmers like a perfect gem set in a sapphire sea.
One can just make out the lovely violet tints of her glorious vales,
tempered by the pearly grey mists that lightly swathe her mountain
crests, as she stands out sharp against the sky. A beautiful sight and
not easily forgotten. Looking landward, the trees are all bursting into
leaf, the country is wrapped about in a cloak of flowers and flowering
grasses, with Achi Baba as a grim and rugged sentry, its sides sloping
away to the sea on either hand. Truly a grim and forbidding sentinel,
but one which most certainly has to be passed if we are to do any good
at all.
To-day an enterprising Greek landed in a small sailing vessel with a
cargo of oranges, chocolate, and cigarettes, and in a very short time
was quite sold out. We shall be having a Pierrot troupe on the beach
next.
At night as the moon rises to the full the picture is perfect. The
coast of Asia—that land of mystery and romance, with the plains of
Troy in the background, immortalized for ever by the sweet singers of
ancient Greece. One can almost picture those god-like heroes of the
past halting in those titanic fights which their shades perhaps wage
nightly in the old battlefields of Troy, halting to gaze in wonder and
amazement on the strange spectacle unfolded before them—modern war,
that is, and all its attendant horrors. Hector, Achilles, and Agamemnon
in their golden harness—their old enmities forgotten—must surely gaze
in astonishment on the warlike deeds and methods of another age than
theirs. The soft, shimmering sea merges into liquid silver where in the
dim distance the little wavelets lap around the silent sleeping isles.
There is Tenedos, standing like a sugarloaf in a silver bowl, silent as
the night itself, and filled with mystery. Further off Imbros, that
queen of the isles, sleeps like a goddess wrapt about in a garment of
violet and silver, all unheeding apparently of war’s alarms—surely on
such a night as this the mythology of the ancients becomes a living
thing, and it does not tax the intellect much to imagine Diana, queen
and huntress, surrounded by her attendant maidens, pursuing the quarry
through the violet vales of the isles. Again, one can almost hear the
splashing of Leander as he swims the Hellespont to keep his tryst with
the lovely Hero.
Most of those living on the beach have dugouts now, but I still live in
a little house made of biscuit-boxes. The Royal Scots came into action
the first time last night. The Munsters were taken by surprise and had
their trench rushed, and the Royal Scots were given the job to retake
it, and cleared the trench of the enemy with two platoons at the point
of the bayonet in twenty minutes. Greek civilian labour has now been
landed, and we use them for unloading the lighters. A Turkish spy could
with ease pass himself off as a Greek labourer of one of the gangs.
Personally, I think we are making a mistake in employing them.