pillars an absolute quagmire of mud, many of the dugouts being half
full of water. Two 60-pounder guns are now in position on the cliff
to the west of “W” Beach, and this afternoon I go up to have a look
at them firing. Their target is at a range of 9,600 yards, well up on
the left shoulder of Achi Baba, and an aeroplane is up observing for
them. The flame of the explosion shoots out some feet from the muzzle
and from the breach also, and makes a terrific roar, which echoes all
round the ships lying off, the sound playing ducks and drakes from one
ship to another. One can see with the naked eye the shell hitting its
target on Achi Baba. Our Fleet gets busy again, and later the batteries
on shore join in, and a bombardment starts. At 6.45 p.m. the Gurkhas
come into action on the left, and quite a big battle develops. We can
just see the men through glasses. Crowds from the beach flock up on
to the high ground to have a look, getting into direct line with the
60-pounders, much to the Gunner Officer’s annoyance, and police finally
are posted to keep them out of the way. A shell exploding with a black
burst over our heads, but very high, causes the watching crowd to
scatter in a somewhat amusing fashion. Gregory and I move forward to a
trench in front and look at the battle through glasses. All I can see
now is a host of bursting shells on the left and intermittent shelling
on the right and centre. Suddenly another of these black devils of
shells bursts over our heads and covers me with small hot cinders which
sting. We go back to dinner whilst the battle is still going on.
_May 13th._
At two o’clock this morning I was awakened by a most curious noise. It
sounded like thousands of men off “V” Beach crying and shouting loudly.
Shortly after I see searchlights, about eight of them, flashing from
the battleships at the entrance to the Straits. The noise goes on for
about half an hour and then suddenly ceases. I stand for a few minutes
puzzling what it is, and watching the searchlights still wielding their
beams of light around, and then turn in again.
At 6 a.m. I am told that the _Goliath_ has been torpedoed and sunk. A
Turkish destroyer came down the Straits and got her clean amidships,
and she sank in half an hour. I hear that half the crew is lost. The
destroyer, if seen at all, disappeared in the darkness. Poor old
_Goliath_! and it was only the other day that I was watching her in
action.
We now move our depot upon the high land on the left of “W” Beach and
further inshore, and divide it into four, one for Divisional troops
and one for each Brigade. While on this job at 7 a.m. I hear the sound
of bagpipes coming nearer and nearer. It is the first time that I have
heard bagpipes since I was on the _Southland_ with the K.O.S.B.’s.
Sure enough it is the K.O.S.B.’s, “all that are left of them,” some
three hundred strong out of the strength of eleven hundred that they
landed with from the _Southland_. They come swinging down to the beach
with one officer at their head, and to see them marching well behind
the inspiring skirl of bagpipes almost brings tears to my eyes. Three
hundred left out of a crack Scottish battalion, average service of each
man five years. I ride up to Brigade again this morning and find all
very quiet on the front. I hear that we were successful in yesterday’s
and in last night’s battle, and that the Gurkhas have taken a large
important bluff on our extreme left on the other side of the gully.
I bathe in the afternoon, and while enjoying the pleasure of doing
side-strokes with the sea having a slight swell on, I hear that
terrible rending noise of a 6-inch shell, similar to those that dropped
near me the other morning, which “bursts with a bang at the back of
the beach.” My bathing is promptly brought to an end, and I go back
to my “bivvy.” I feel safer there, somehow, but why I should I cannot
explain. But all who have been under shell fire will bear me out in
the statement that even if one is in a tent one feels more confident
under shell fire than if in the bare open, with the exception, of
course, of when one is caught under it going to some definite place or
finishing some urgent definite work. Then one’s mind is concentrated
on getting to that place or finishing that job. But sitting down on
the beach hearing the heavens being torn asunder by an unseen hand,
as it were—the noise of the tearing developing into a mighty hiss and
shriek, ending in a great explosion which shakes the earth under your
feet and echoes far away into the distance, followed by the whine of
flying pieces of hot metal, sometimes very near your head—is a most
disconcerting and unnerving position in which to find oneself.
For the benefit of those who have been so fortunate as to never have
heard a shell burst in anger, a slight description of it may prove
interesting. The first thing one hears is a noise like the rending
of linen, or perhaps the rush of steam describes it better. This
gets louder and louder, and then, as the projectile nears the end of
its journey, one hears a whine, half whistle, half scream, and then
the explosion. If it is very near there is an acrid smell in the
air. One’s feelings are difficult to describe. You duck your head
instinctively—you feel absolutely helpless, wondering where the thing
will burst, and as you hear the explosion a quick wave of feeling
sweeps over you as you murmur, “Thank Heaven, not this time!”
Unfortunately, they have got the range of our beach accurately now, and
are beginning to do real damage. The little shells that we had earlier
did not frighten us much, but these beastly things make us all jumpy.
Several men have been hit to-day, and about a dozen horses and half a
dozen mules killed. All are taking cover as best they can. If one hits
this bivouac where I am now writing, this Diary comes to an untimely
end.
I wish our aeroplanes could find this gun; it appears so close up to
us, and if it takes it into its head to fling these beastly things
about all day long, this beach will be untenable. A damned fool near me
has just said, “If they go on much longer they will hurt somebody.” I
chuck a book at his head.
In France they do get a chance of rest behind the scenes now and again,
but here it is one constant “Look out!” and down we bob. After a bout
of shelling one imagines shells coming. For instance, when an aeroplane
sails over, people duck their heads, as it sounds just like a shell;
and then also there are so many ships in harbour that one is constantly
hearing the noise of escaping steam, sounding just like a shell.
One of our men has just had the side of his boot torn away;
fortunately, however, only the skin of his foot was grazed and bruised.
Fifty horses have now been killed, and three men killed and a few
wounded.
Had to go on duty at depot at head of beach. Shelling stopped. Finished
duty 6.45. Shell immediately came, and I fell flat behind some hay.
After that a few more came over and then stopped.
_May 14th._
Big gun started searching the beach with large high explosive shells
at four, for two hours. Every one had to take cover. Aeroplane
reconnaissance cannot locate gun, which is a damned nuisance. They
come with a terrific scream and burst with a deafening explosion, most
upsetting to one’s nerves. We all take cover behind the cliff. Not a
soul can be seen on the beaches. All animals are removed to down under
the cliff.
Casualties, twenty-three mules and three men wounded.
One piece of shell fell at my feet, and I picked it up, only to drop it
quickly, as it was so hot.
After being under fire of such awful shells one laughs at mild shrapnel.
Getting very hot, but perfect weather.
Saw Laird for a few minutes and had a chat with him.
Not much time for writing to-day. Go up to Laird’s “bivvy” and have a
long talk with him over old times. He landed on that first Sunday on
“S” Beach, and though in the Engineers, had the experience of taking
part in three bayonet charges. He was in a neat little dugout when I
went up, and was busy looking for a scorpion. I helped him look for
it, and it seemed so strange that after all these years we should meet
on the Gallipoli Peninsula, and before sitting down to talk of old
times should be looking for a scorpion that had got into his dugout.
Scorpions and snakes about three feet long are becoming more numerous
here, but I believe they are harmless, except in self-defence.
_May 15th._
All was quiet on the front last night, but to-day there has been one
long artillery duel.
I go up to Brigade H.Q. this afternoon, and go round by the road
through Sed-el-Bahr this time, because “I don’t like them shells; run
as you may, you can’t get away from them.” On the way I passed Ashmead
Bartlett riding with a Naval officer. The latter came and had tea with
us later, and said he was on the _Implacable_, and Ashmead Bartlett was
“bivvying” there as well. He is a correspondent for several papers.
Several battleships which were moored at the entrance move off at
nightfall now, after that feat by the Turkish destroyer which sank the
_Goliath_.
There is to be a general attack to-morrow night, Sunday. Some of the
Tommies do not like attacking at night; they say, “Let us get them in
the open, by day.”
The knocking out of a sniper by some of the South Wales Borderers was
described to me to-day by one of their officers. Two officers were
standing up in their trench by a machine gun, one holding a periscope,
when a bullet went through the sleeve of his coat, wounding the officer
to whom he was talking. The first officer spotted a sniper bob down
immediately after. He then got down in the trench beside the man
working the machine gun, and pointed out to him the bush behind which
the sniper had crouched. The machine gun was laid on to it. Then the
man on the machine gun and the officer took cover, the man holding
his hand up to the machine gun ready to pop off. The officer then
cautiously raised the periscope over the trench and looked carefully
at the lower mirror. He saw in the mirror a head slowly appear above
the bush eight hundred yards away, then a rifle lifted. He said to the
machine gun man “Fire.” Pop-pop, and the sniper rolled over dead on his
side beside the bush.
_5.30._
Two Taubes have just come overhead flying at a great height.
Anti-aircraft guns are firing and there is some good shooting, but the
Taubes have turned and are going back to the Turkish lines. One of our
aeroplanes has gone up.
A beautiful clear day, and one can see in detail the Asiatic side and
the Isle of Imbros. No heavy shells to-day so far on this beach.
Invitations to lunch and dinner, etc., go on every day here, and it is
a regular custom for men in the firing-line to invite men from the base
(only four miles back) to a meal and vice versa. This campaign is quite
unique in many ways.
_May 16th._
Perfect day again. Saw Brigade H.Q. and hear they are moving further to
the left up in the firing-line, about half a mile beyond Pink Farm.
Hear that our wounded, and French and Australian, have been arriving
in great numbers at Cairo and Alexandria. The British are now being
sent to Malta. Hear that 20,000 Turkish wounded have arrived at Smyrna,
and 12,000 at Constantinople. Put in divisional orders to cheer us up.
Fancy a civilized nation sending round statistics of the result of
their slaughter to cheer and exhort! Yet it cheered me. Strange how
quickly one becomes bloodthirsty and savage.
Fighting proceeding on our right by French. No general attack being
made to-day, idea being to strengthen line, push forward steadily by
sapping, and then, when in strong position with three or four lines of
supports, to make a rush. This will probably happen in a few days now.
Big gun has not been knocked out after all, for we had a dozen of the
best over to-day, but I was up in front and so missed it.
Gurkhas on left have pushed forward well up to left of Krithia. Still a
few snipers behind our lines on left of Krithia.
We had divine service this morning behind 88th Brigade lines. A service
under such circumstances is most impressive, every soul there being
within easy distance of a horrible death. It is a lovely morning, and
as the soldiers sing the hymns with lusty voices, an accompaniment is
provided by the screaming of shells overhead. But the singing continues
unabated. Here one hears the same dear old tunes of our childhood,
but under what different circumstances! At home, the breeze softly
whispering in the trees outside the ancient church, with the shaded
light glimmering through the stained glass and men and women mingling
their voices in praise to God; and then, out here, the breeze murmurs
as at home, the birds are singing and the sun is shining—but over the
congregation, the bareheaded rows of khaki figures, even while they
sing the same old hymns as of old, the Angel of Death hovers with naked
sword. Then the benediction in level tones from the Padre and the
service is ended. Surely the most impressive I have witnessed. For here
in a double sense one stands face to face with one’s Maker.
_May 18th._
Our Brigade has now moved up about three-quarters of a mile in front
of Pink Farm, and I go up this morning to find them. I ride up to, and
leave my horse at, Pink Farm, and walk the rest of the way down past
a ruined house, on over a small nullah, along the road past a battery
up to a white house called Church Farm, where I think it is about time
to halt and inquire the way. A few Tommies encamped in this house tell
me Brigade H.Q. is two hundred yards further on in the trenches, and I
walk on. I notice a Tommy walking in the same direction with a biscuit
tin on his shoulder, which he has rubbed over with mud to prevent the
sun glittering on it. I continue on in the direction indicated, and
hear a few “pings” past my head, but thinking they are the usual spent
bullets, take no notice. Suddenly something “zips” past my head, making
a row like a huge bee flying at high speed; the noise being unlike the
usual “ping” of a bullet passing harmless overhead, I conclude that I
am being deliberately fired at by a sniper, and so bend double, and
steering a zigzag course, jog-trot across the remaining fifty yards to
a nice deep trench. On arrival, I inquire where Brigade H.Q. is, and am
directed to a communication trench, which I go along and find myself at
length in a square dugout with no roof, in which are General Williams,
busy at work with a spade, Thomson, Farmer, and Reave. Concluding my
business, and being instructed that the little ruined house in front of
Pink Farm is to be the dump for rations, I say good-bye. Thomson says,
“Now, Gillam, run like a bunny,” but, those bullets being a bit free at
present over the trenches, I follow my own route back and walk along
the hindmost trench, which I am told leads to a nullah which goes back
in the direction of Pink Farm.
I pass Worcesters and Royal Scots in the trenches, and finally the
trench dips down to a wide open space under cover, with a small brook
running its course, out of which two nullahs run. This, I am told, has
been officially named “Clapham Junction.” Unfortunately, a few shrapnel
then burst immediately over “Clapham Junction,” and I therefore go to
look for a waiting-room, refreshment-room, or booking-office in which I
can take cover until the rain has stopped. I find a “refreshment-room”
in the shape of an advanced dressing station, and two officers there
very kindly give me breakfast. After breakfast I walk along the nullah,
which I learn is now to be called Krithia Nullah, back towards the
rear, and when the sound of bullets pinging away overhead ceases, I
step out on to a newly made road, which is still under construction by
the Engineers, and then come across the Manchesters again in a newly
dug trench forming reserve lines. Walking back to Pink Farm, I mount
my mare and canter back to the beach. Last night the Turks made a raid
on the part of the line held by the Lancashire Fusiliers, endeavouring
to capture a machine gun, but very soon gave up the idea. They lost
heavily and left six prisoners behind.
Supply depot for my Brigade alone now working smoothly. We draw rations
for the whole Division, men and horses, at six o’clock each morning by
G.S. wagons. This takes two hours, during which the rations are carted
from the Main Supply depot some three hundred yards inland from our
depots at the back of “W” Beach, and sorted out to each of the three
Brigade depots and the Divisional artillery depot. Breakfast at eight,
and at 9.30 I go to my depot again and issue the rations to my units,
meeting the Q.M.’s who have arrived with their transport. Receipts for
the rations are then given me by the Q.M.’s, who cart them away to
their own lines, where their first-line transport is encamped only a
distance of three to five hundred yards away on the other side of the
beach. At night they are taken up to the various ration dumps, and from
there taken the rest of the way to the trenches either by hand or on
pack-mules. At the forward ration dumps the work of redistribution is
carried on under a continual flight of spent and “over” bullets, and
standing there one is in constant danger of stopping one. Up to now
several casualties have been caused, but mostly slight wounds. After
five minutes one becomes quite used to the singing of the bullets,
which sound quite harmless. It is only when an extra burst of fire
breaks out that it is necessary to get into a trench or behind some
sheltering cover. I ride up in the afternoon to Brigade H.Q., who have
now dug themselves into a dry watercourse just in front of Pink Farm. I
see General Williams and Thomson. Afterwards I walk up to the trenches
where the Worcesters are, up beyond Church Farm, and across that open
space. At Church Farm I am told that at this side of the building I am
out of aiming distance from a rifle, and can only be hit by an “over,”
but that at the other side of the building I come under range, and that
it is not wise to loiter in that neighbourhood.
I therefore get across the three hundred yards of open space as quickly
as possible, and vaulting into the safety of the trench, I inquire
where Battalion H.Q. is, and following the direction given, pass
along nice deep trenches with sand-bagged parapets. Trench warfare in
dead earnest has now begun, and for the first time I realize what it
is like: an underground world, yet not an underground, for one can
see grass, flowers, and trees growing, but only close to. Walking
from Church Farm to the trenches, I see nothing but lovely country
leading up to frowning Achi Baba, and near by, in front, rows and rows
of thrown-up earth. No sign of animal life of any kind. Yet once in
the trenches I found myself in a world alive with energy—men cleaning
rifles, writing letters, washing clothes, making dugouts, laying
cables. I pass dugouts, little rooms of earth dug out of the side of
the trench; some are cookhouses, some officers’ bedrooms, some messes,
and some orderly-rooms, with tables and chairs. All this world has
been created underground, and unseen by the enemy, only a few hundred
yards away, in the space of a few weeks; and this is trench warfare,
materialized by spade and shovel, by hundreds of strong arms, night and
day. I come at last to H.Q. Worcester Battalion, and am directed to
the mess—a nice dugout roofed in by timber. Major Lang is sitting at a
table reading letters from home. I ask for letters for Captain Bush; am
told they have been sent down to the beach by an orderly; am offered
a drink, talk about the heat, which is getting tiresome now, and hear
that soon we are to be served out with pith helmets. I say good-bye and
start back. I am in a maze, and have to be directed back to the trench
that I jumped into. I vault out and, zigzagging, jog-trot, for I am
told to go quickly back to Church Farm, and hear two bullets singing
their faint song far away over my head. I come to a nullah, where I
find horses and mules in dug-in stables in charge of Roberts, Brigade
Transport Officer, just in front of the little ruined house in front of
our Brigade H.Q., and arriving there, hear that Thomson has gone back
to Hill 138 with the Brigadier. I go back to Pink Farm, mount my mare,
and cantering along the West Krithia road, catch them up. On either
side of the road are now dug rest trenches, organized as camps—the
trenches not as deep as the front trenches, but sufficiently so to
keep the men under cover. I trot along the road through one of these
camps, and am soon pulled up by an M.P. with the sharp order, “No
trotting, please.”
[Illustration: 29TH DIVISIONAL HEADQUARTERS, GULLY BEACH, AT THE FOOT
OF THE GULLY, HELLES.]
[Illustration: VIEW OF “V” BEACH, CAPE HELLES, TAKEN FROM THE _RIVER
CLYDE_.
Sed-el-Bahr is to the immediate right of the beach, not in the
photograph.]
I ride with Thomson to “V” Beach and the _River Clyde_ comes in sight,
seen from the high ground near the lighthouse, which was the Turkish
position on April 25th. I hear from him the events of that awful day.
How, when the General and Costaker were hit, he was ordered to go back
to the _Clyde_ and to take Reave. How he was on one end of the hopper,
lying down, and Reave the other, and had to attract his attention and
call to him to follow. Then they had to get back over dead bodies
and the wounded under a hail of bullets, which zipped overhead or
crashed against the hopper and sides of the _Clyde_ with a loud
bang. He described the scenes on board the _Clyde_, and the cries of
wounded; the arrival of messages on steam pinnaces, signallers at work
semaphoring to battleships and transports. And there lay the _River
Clyde_, now a haven of rest, with a solid pier built out from shore and
alongside it, using its hulk as a harbour. “V” Beach, now a model of
an orderly advanced base, under the organizing talent of the French,
looked a different place to the “V” Beach that I saw last. We search
for Costaker’s grave without success. Two huge graves are on the right
of the beach looking seawards—the graves of those soldiers and sailors
whose bodies I saw laid out for burial on April 27th, wired round, and
with fine crosses erected on each. I ride back with him through the
village, past the camp of the amusing Senegalese, and along the new
road that leads to “Clapham Junction.” On either side rest camps have
developed, composed of lines of trenches and dugouts, sheltered in
trees and bushes.
I see several batteries of “75’s,” and one is in action.
Down a slope through trees, and over little nullahs covered with
growing gorse-bush, over meadowland past the site of our old Brigade
H.Q., till when within sight of our new H.Q. we come into uninterrupted
view of Achi Baba, and Thomson then says we had better trot. On
arrival, tea is ready, and a new cake has arrived. It had taken
three weeks to come out, and yet tasted quite fresh. We have tea
in the open, at the bottom of the dry brook, and afterwards I take
my departure. On return to “W” Beach, over comes a big shell, and
immediately all work is stopped, and one and all, General and private,
make for cover. Drivers rush to their lines and untie their mules and
horses, and trot, canter, and gallop to the safety of the shore at
the foot of the cliffs right and left of the beach. We wait beneath
the friendly, sheltering cliffs, and hear the swishing shrieks as
the shells hurtle through the air, bursting on the beach and on the
higher ground. Then, as one shriek does not end with the crash of an
explosion and its noise continues, we look at each other with a certain
amount of apprehension, until with a fearful rending it sweeps down on
to us, helplessly taking cover on the steep sides of the cliff, and
crashes with a deafening roar almost at our feet, as it seems, but
really fifty yards away. Immediately there is a rush to more sheltered
ground half-way up the cliff, and three forms are seen lying helplessly
in the road. One is my staff-sergeant, with a scalp wound and badly
shaken, and two are dead, mangled beyond description. Thank the Lord,
my staff’s wound is not serious. Well, he is for Blighty now, and good
luck to him!
We find the animals—mules and horses—have been strafed rather badly.
The lines that they are on are in very exposed positions as far as
shell fire is concerned, and it was not possible to get many away, and
in consequence the casualties among the poor helpless creatures were
serious. Hyslop, our Vet., dispatched all that he could on their last
journey with one pull on his revolver, pressed to their foreheads. As
a pause came in the shelling, so he rushed out from his dugout and
finished off those which were wounded beyond cure, going about the
horrid task coolly and methodically, at intervals, being forced to rush
for cover to save his own skin, but ever ready, when chance offered, to
go back to his merciful task. Though we have been on this Peninsula but
a few weeks, the Veterinary Services are efficient beyond praise, and
the cases of all animal patients, suffering from the smallest ailments
to the most serious of wounds, are dealt with by the Veterinary
Officers with the same care as the Medical Corps bestows on human
patients.