the cliff in full view of Yen-i-Shehr, waving to and fro a fly-whisk
with a metal band fastened round the handle which clasped the ends
of the horsehair; he feels confident that by the way he was waving
the whisk, with the rays of the sun reflecting from the metal band,
he was signalling by code to the Turkish observation post on Asia. I
think it was quite possible for him to do so, for a bright piece of
metal reflecting the strong rays of the sun in the clear atmosphere of
this part of the world can be seen a long way off, and I should say
quite easily as far off as Yen-i-Shehr is from “W” Beach. To a casual
passer-by the Greek would appear to be waving flies away from his face
with the whisk. Flies are daily becoming numerous here. One of the
Greek foremen, who spoke English, assured me that it was only a matter
of weeks now before Greece would come in on our side, and that he
looked forward to the day when he would take his place in the ranks.
It is strange how very silent everything is to-day—not a gun nor a
rifle shot—and we stroll about the beach chatting with the Naval
officers.
_Afternoon._
I hear that there was an armistice declared for the purpose of burying
the dead of both sides. It lasted about two hours, during which both
Turks and our men sat on their respective parapets watching each other
with interest while parties were out in front, mixing freely with each
other, clearing away their own dead. It was an extraordinary situation.
One of the Turks picked up two of our live bombs which had fallen short
and had failed to explode, and was making back to his trench with them,
when his officer, spotting him, called him back and made him hand the
bombs back to our men, and apparently gave him a good cursing in strong
Turkish. A short time after, both sides are back in their trenches, and
if a head should appear over the parapet of either side it is in danger
of being promptly blown off.
At dinner I express the thought that I wished Turkey would throw over
the Germans and become our allies. Our Tommies and theirs were so near
this morning, and, by God! they would fight well side by side. I say
that Turkey is the most valuable asset to have on either side. If she
were our ally the Dardanelles would be open to the Allies, and the
Central Empires would be utterly defeated in a year. As an enemy she
will cause the war to drag on Lord knows how long, providing we are
unsuccessful in forcing the Straits. I am “howled down,” and am told
that Achi Baba will be ours in a month’s time, and once ours, Turkey
is finished. But strolling up to the top of the cliff after dinner, I
take a long look at Achi. Ours in a month? I wonder. I turn, depressed
and pessimistic, into my house of biscuit-boxes, and bless the man who
invented sleep.
_May 4th, 5th, 6th._
Nothing much to record. Have been very busy these last few days forming
a Supply depot of my own for the 88th Brigade. I go up to Brigade each
day, riding as far as the white pillars, but go bang across country
now and not through Sed-el-Bahr. Our line is quite deep and well dug
in now. Firing going on steadily at night. Quite heavy rifle fire, but
it is mostly Turkish. I learn that at night he gets the “wind up” and
blazes away at nothing. One or two parties have made sorties, but our
machine guns have made short work of them. The Division is like one
big family party; we all know each other so well now, and one can go
through the trying vicissitudes of war with greater vigour if with men
who have become intimate friends. The horrible part is losing friends;
much worse, I think, than having to go oneself. Good friends leave
such a large gap. Tommies seem pretty cheerful at night on the beach.
After dinner we sit outside our biscuit-box houses and have coffee
(not a word! I got some coffee by exchanging jam with a Frenchman the
other day—strictly against rules), and looking out to sea, enjoy some
excellent cigars of the C.O.’s. “Any more for the _Arcadian_?” is
constantly shouted out by a Naval officer on the beach, calling those
who live at G.H.Q. who are billeted on the _Arcadian_ to the pinnace.
I often wish I could say “Yes” one night, and go on board and have a
good bath and a whisky and soda. Tommies play on mouth-organs and sing
Tommy’s tunes. At Lemnos, Tommy was marching round the decks of the
transports singing “Who’s your Lady Friend?” A few days after he goes
through one of the most sanguinary fights of the war; a week after he
is on the beach with a mouth-organ making a horrible execution of “A
Little Grey Home in the West.” A unique creation, the British Tommy.
If he ever does think of death or getting wounded, he always thinks
it will be his pal and not he who will get hit, and goes on with his
mouth-organ, washing his shirt, or writing to his latest girl at the
last town he was billeted in. Those with girls are the cheeriest.
_May 7th._
To-day we are bombarding Turkish positions heavily and the village of
Krithia preparatory to advancing our lines to the slopes of Achi Baba
in the hope of my Brigade taking the hill. In the morning I issue at my
dump, and after lunch ride with Carver and Sergeant Evans to find our
respective Brigades. We ride up the west coast across grass and gorse,
and arriving at a gully, encounter shell fire, which is now getting
more frequent. We leave our horses with an orderly at this gully and
proceed on foot, skirting the edge of the coast. Shells are bursting
furiously over Krithia, which is again on fire. We reach a very deep
and beautiful gully, which appears to run inland some long way, and
we climb down its slopes to the shore. There we find an advanced
dressing station, to which wounded are continually being brought by
stretcher-bearers, or helped along by R.A.M.C. men. Several of the
wounded are R.A.M.C. also.
I inquire at a tent, which is a signal station, of the Signal Officer
in charge, as to the location of 88th Brigade H.Q., and learn that
they are inland. We chat awhile to this officer, who appears strangely
familiar to me, and at last I place him. I find that I dined with him
four years ago in Edgbaston, and his name is Mowatt, a Birmingham
Territorial in business on his own, which through the war has gone to
the winds. He tells me he has been here for four days and is often
troubled by snipers. They had caught one four days previously in a
dugout which, facing the gully, allowed his head and shoulders to
appear, giving sufficient room for him to take aim through a screen
made by a bush growing in front. The entrance to his dugout was from
the cliff side facing the sea, along a passage ten yards in length. He
gave himself up, though he had food and water for some days more. As
we talk, two wounded limp down the gully through the water, for the
bottom of the gully is in parts a foot deep in water, and I question
them as to how they were wounded. They reply, “Either spent bullets or
snipers,” and that they were hit about a mile further up the gully.
We go back, climbing up the cliff, and walk along the cliff’s edge to
where we had left our horses. A detachment of New Zealanders, I should
say about a thousand, are moving slowly in several single files across
the gorse to take their place on the left of our line to relieve
some Gurkhas, and I have a good opportunity of studying them at close
quarters. I am struck by the wonderful physique of the men, all of them
in splendid condition. I am rather surprised to see them, for I thought
that they were up country with the Australians. I leave Carver at this
point, and Sergeant Evans and I cut across country, and trotting up the
track which is now called the West Krithia road, reach Pink Farm. We go
beyond there, find H.Q. in a trench, and learn that rations are to be
dumped at Pink Farm. We are warned that we should not be riding about
there, as we might draw shell fire. Krithia is getting it terribly hot
from our shells, and is well on fire now. We learn that the French have
had a check, and that we in consequence have been unable to advance. We
come back and have a delightful canter all the way back to “W” Beach. I
have a meal, and then, with Williams, at dusk escort rations, this time
in limber-wagons as well as on pack-mules, up the West Krithia road to
Pink Farm, where I find Leslie waiting, and we come back on a limber,
I squatting on the rear half and Williams in front; quite an enjoyable
ride. Star shells are now in use, and they go up at odd intervals,
poising in the air for a second and then sailing gracefully to earth,
illuminating the immediate vicinity. It was fairly quiet all night;
just an odd shell or two fired by our Fleet at intervals.
_May 8th._
Before breakfast this morning I am ordered to take two hundred
rations up to some Lancashire Fusiliers (Territorials) who have found
themselves in our part of the line. Arriving at Pink Farm, shrapnel
begins to come over, and I get the mules under cover of the farm as
best I can and go on to H.Q. I continue to walk along the road, and
then cut across the open country to the trench where the Brigade are.
They are sitting in the trench having breakfast, and tell me that the
Lancashire Fusiliers have now gone to the beach. Festin, of the Border
Regiment, is now our Brigade Major, and he asks me to take a message
to the Field Company of Engineers attached to the Brigade, just
behind Pink Farm, off the road. As we talk, shrapnel bursts over Pink
Farm and to its left, probably trying to get at a battery which is in
position there. I take my leave, and on getting back to Pink Farm I
find that one of the Syrian mule-drivers has been hit in the stomach by
a shrapnel bullet. He is lying on the ground behind the walls of the
farm groaning, and on seeing me cries piteously to me in Russian. I
send over to an Indian Field Ambulance close by, and in a few minutes
two native orderlies come running over noiselessly with a stretcher.
They stoop down, and with the tenderness of women lift the wounded boy
on to the stretcher and carry him away. We trek back, and on the way I
deliver the message to the Field Company.
For transport we now have little A.T. two-wheeled carts, known in
the Indian Army as ammunition transport, drawn by two little Indian
mules. These are in camp near the lighthouse, between “W” Beach and “V”
Beach. Delightful place this, and most interesting. The orderliness of
everything is astonishing; the quaint little tents—oblong, with sloping
sides—are arranged in neat rows. The inhabitants are surely the most
cleanly people on earth. Here I see groups of them, stripped except
for a loin-cloth, busy washing their shining, dusky bodies. After
this, little brass jars are produced, from which oil is poured over
them and rubbed in. Others, having finished this, are industriously
combing their long black locks and bushy beards. Others, again, are
making chupatty, a species of pancake, in broad, shallow metal bowls—I
taste one and find it excellent. Other groups of these dark warriors
are sitting outside their little tents smoking hookahs; all the men we
meet salute punctiliously. Near by are the white officers’ tents, quite
luxurious affairs. The whole place is delightful and looks almost like
a riverside picnic, only everything is very orderly. As to the carts
before mentioned, these are most ingenious. They are little two-wheeled
affairs with a pole, like the old-fashioned curricle; each is drawn by
two small mules, not larger than ponies. Wonderful little fellows they
are, bred in Northern India—Kashmere and Thibet, I believe. Lord! how
they work—they can pull almost anything, and they are so surefooted and
the little carts so evenly balanced that they can go about anywhere.
It is a very interesting sight to see a convoy of these carts on the
move, with their dusky, turbaned drivers sitting crouched up like
monkeys on them, chanting some weird Oriental ballad as they go, to the
accompaniment of jingling harness. They are well looked after, too,
these little mules—the drivers have had the care of them for years,
perhaps—and their training is perfect. They look as fat as butter, and
their coats shine like satin—very different from the hulking, ugly
brutes that we have brought—American. They appear to be quite docile,
and it is not necessary to have eyes in the back of your head when
walking through their lines.
I hear to-day that Major Barlow, to whom I was talking a few days ago
in the trenches, has been badly wounded.
One aeroplane has been very busy going out and coming back after short
trips over the enemy’s positions, followed by little puffs of bursting
shrapnel when over their lines. The weather is perfect.
_Swiftsure_ and _Queen Bess_ are now up the coast off the gully, and
are giving the left slope of Achi Baba and Krithia something to write
home about. Torpedo destroyers are also joining in, and later the shore
batteries take up the tune, and a bombardment similar to yesterday’s
starts, preparatory to another battle.
French “75’s” are barking away incessantly, and the bombardment is
increasing in ferocity.
New Zealanders are on the extreme left, then the 87th Brigade, next
the 88th and 86th, or what is left of it, with the new Territorial
Lancashire Fusiliers. Next come Australians, up on the hill by the
White House; and on the extreme right down to the edge of the Straits,
the French. The line forms the shape of a ◡, the extremes resting on
ground on either side of the Peninsula.
Through glasses at six o’clock I can see little figures running here
and there on the high ground to the extreme right beyond the White
House—now taking cover, now running forward, now disappearing on the
other side; ugly black shells rain amongst them and make a sickening
sight. Turkish artillery appears to have increased considerably. Their
shells rain all along our line, but none come on the beaches. All their
artillery seems concentrated on our trenches. Again and again I see
shells fall right in the middle of men who seem to be running. It is
difficult to discern whether they are Turks or our men.
I watch till the sight sickens me, and then I come away and arrange
the rations to go up to-night, seeing the boxes roped up on to the
pack-mules or loaded on to the A.T. carts. Two shells come near the
beach, bursting with a black explosion in the air. Rifle fire goes on
all night, but artillery dies down to fitful shelling. I hear that the
net result of to-day’s work is a gain of five hundred yards, but that
we have had great casualties.
_May 10th._
Another most perfect day. All day yesterday wounded were being
evacuated as fast as possible. I now have to feed a Brigade of
Australians as well as my own Brigade. I go up in the morning to their
positions, and for the first time get amongst them at close quarters.
They have honeycombed the land near the white pillars with dugouts and
have their H.Q. at the White House on the hill. I see Captain Milne,
their Supply Officer, and arrange matters with him.
Our Vet. (Hyslop) and Sergeant Evans ride to-day with me and we call
at our Brigade H.Q., now moved some few hundred yards behind their
former position of a week ago, dug in a dry nook surrounded by trees,
in a spot similar to a park of some large house in England. Their
mess is simply a table of earth dug out by digging a square trench
in which they sit, the centre of the square being the table. There
I find Colonel Williams, Thomson and our new Brigade Major. I find
that Festin was wounded yesterday whilst standing up in the trench in
which I was talking to him the day before. Troops have found little
springs and an ancient well, and so there is now a plentiful supply
of water—and beautiful water too. In addition to Australians and the
Punjabis in camp by the white pillars, there are now Lancashire
Fusiliers and Manchesters, the whole making one large camp of dugouts
and trenches in orderly rows.
It is fortunate that there is very little rain, otherwise the place
would be a quagmire in five minutes.
The Punjabis have built walls of mud and stone shell-proof shelters,
and are much handier at making themselves comfortable than our white
troops. In the battle of the 8th the Australians showed marvellous dash
and individual pluck—not a straggler among them. Many deeds of great
heroism were performed, and if a man gets an honour in their ranks it
will be one worth having.
It is difficult to pick up exactly our front-line trench, and the Q.M.
of the Worcesters the other day, finding a trench containing Munsters,
inquired as to the whereabouts of his regiment, and was told that they
were on in front; he walked on, and finding nothing, came back. He was
told that if he walked much further “he wouldn’t ’arf get Worcesters.”
He was walking bang into the enemy’s lines.
Two aeroplanes are up to-day, circling energetically around the slopes
of Achi Baba.
Our batteries are busy, steadily plugging shells into the enemy’s lines.
An aeroplane is up and the Turks are trying to pot it. Aeroplane sails
up and down Turkish lines unconcerned.
The curious thing about being under shell fire is that when a shell
comes near you, you duck down and take cover, and immediately after
resume your conversation.
This morning at the white pillars I said to the Australian officer,
“What is your strength?” He said, “Look out!” Down we bobbed. A sound
like tearing linen, ending in a shriek and a bang. Up we jump, and he
calmly continues the conversation.
Met Duff, my H.A.C. pal, again; so funny seeing him; both of us ride
together. Last time we rode together was at Goring, side by side in B
Sub., A Battery. Never thought that we should both be officers riding
side by side on the Gallipoli Peninsula. Have a delightful bathe off
“W” Beach to-day; the water crowded with bathers, French and English.
By far the best bathing I have ever had in my life.
_May 11th._
Rather cloudy to-day, and much cooler. Rode up to Brigade H.Q. with
Hyslop, to the same place as yesterday. Saw Australian Supply Officer.
As I was talking to him a few shells came over our way—not singly,
but by twos and threes. I have got used to the sound of them passing
through the air now, and know by the sound whether they are coming my
way or not. Again, as yesterday, the Australian officer gave me the
warning “Look out!” and we dived for a dugout. The Australians get
awfully amused when they see people doing these dives out of the way of
shells, and it certainly does look humorous.
My Brigade is moving back to the reserve trenches for a rest, and they
need it. The reserve trenches are those by the white pillars, occupied
at present by the Lancashires and Manchesters (Territorials). I meet
General D’Amade and his Staff, including the officer that I knew on the
_Arcadian_. They are all riding. He stops me, asking if I have seen
General Parish, the Australian General. I express regret that I have
not, at which he appears annoyed. One of his Staff asks me to point out
29th D.H.Q., and I direct him to Hill 138, in rear of us. I point out
the Australian camp to the General, who goes off then to inquire for
General Parish.
I leave Hyslop, who has another job on, and start to ride back across
country, having a few jumps over the new rest trenches. I am overtaken
by an officer who is the Adjutant of one of the Lancashire Fusiliers
(Territorial) Battalions, the 6th, I think. Lord Rochdale is in
command. He tells me that they have been in Egypt training for a long
time, and cursing their luck at being seemingly sidetracked, with not
much opportunity of seeing any active service. Suddenly they were
wired for, and in twenty-four hours left Egypt for here. On arrival
they marched straight up to the trenches, and at 5.30 p.m. the next
day went into action and lost heavily. As I was being told all this I
heard a most weird noise, as if the whole of the sky were being rent
in two, ending in a deafening explosion, and looking over my shoulder
in surprise, I see twenty-five yards to my left, over a little mound,
a spout of smoke and earth and stones flung into the air. I say to my
companion, “I think we had better trot,” which we do. It is strange,
but my old horse did not seem to worry much when the shell burst. It
must have been a 6-inch, and is the first big one that I have had near
me so far, and may it be the last. Its sound is unlike that of any
shell I have heard up to now, and far noisier in its flight; I think
that if they chuck these sort about on the beach I shall be jumpy in a
very short time. I only hope the beaches are out of range, or will be
before very long. Evidently they have a new gun. At times I feel very
optimistic, looking forward confidently to our trip over Achi Baba;
at other times Achi Baba looks so forbidding that I feel we shall all
spend the rest of our lives hanging on to this tiny bit of land. I can
canter to Brigade H.Q. from the beach in fifteen minutes, and walk from
there to the front line in another fifteen, and that gives an idea of
how far we are on. I ride over to the aerodrome—we are fortunate in
finding such a perfect one—and over to “V” Beach, which the French
have got into a much more shipshape order than ours. I count seven
battleships and seven destroyers up the entrance as far as Morto Bay;
the “packet of Woodbines” is still off the Asiatic coast and touches
up Yen-i-Shehr and Kum Kale with 10-inch shells. From the high ground
overlooking “V” Beach the Fleet at the entrance makes an imposing
spectacle, waiting for the Army to open the gates of the Straits before
they dash through to the Marmora. The _Goliath_ and _Prince George_
fire odd shots now and again at Chanak. Late in the afternoon we get a
few light shells over on “W” Beach and a few men are slightly hit. In
a little gully between “W” Beach and “X” Beach preparations are being
made to start a field bakery, and we are promised real bread in a few
days. One of our mares has given birth to a foal; my mare, much to the
mother’s annoyance, is much interested.
Our train is in camp now on the high ground on the left of “W” Beach
looking inland, and have made very good lines. All the men have built
little shelters out of wagon-covers, sail-cloths, and tarpaulins, in
rows opposite their horse lines, the whole looking like a well ordered
gipsy encampment. I made myself very unpopular there to-day by saying,
“You won’t ’arf cop it in a day or so when John Turk finds you out.”
Saw General Hunter-Weston making a tour of the beaches to-day. He
appeared in very good spirits. Our trenches in the front line are now
getting quite deep, and sand-bagged parapets are being rapidly built.
The Gurkhas do not like trench warfare at all, and cause much anxiety
to their white officers by continually popping their heads over to have
a look round. The Turkish line has crept much nearer to ours since the
last battle, and they are also rapidly digging in. A party of Gurkhas
were ordered out to capture a machine gun in an emplacement on an
advanced knoll in front of the Turkish right and our left. The gun was
captured, and one little Gurkha brought back a Turk’s head, and it was
difficult to make him part with it. Heavy firing broke out at eleven
o’clock to-night and lasted an hour or two.
_May 12th._
It is raining hard this morning, and very cold as well. I visit the
Senegalese camp at “V” Beach. They are physically very well built men,
well up to the average of 6 feet in height. They are as black as coal,
with shiny faces, like niggers on Brighton beach, and very amusing
in their manners. At the last battle they charged magnificently with
horrible yelling, frightening the poor Turk out of his wits. They are
equipped with wide, square-bladed knives about 14 inches long.
Wireless news is now typed and published nearly every day. To-day we
hear that the _Lusitania_ has been sunk and that Greece and Italy are
likely to come in. An extract from a Turkish paper says that we have
been pushed into the sea, and almost in the same paragraph that “the
foolish British will persist in attacking.”
We have quite a comfortable little house now at our Supply depot on the
beach, made out of boxes with a sail-cloth overhead.
Hardly any firing to-day. Shore batteries remarkably quiet, but Fleet
firing intermittently.
_Afternoon._