new clothes, breakfast, and rum, and seemed none the worse for their
adventure. One said, “This is the third —— time I have been sunk,
and I’m getting a bit fed-up.” One quickly becomes a philosopher and
fatalist on this Peninsula, and the fact that we are all a tonic to
each other keeps our spirits up.
I hear that most of the crew are saved, including the Admiral and
the Captain. About forty have lost their lives, and I feel sure
amongst this number are those unfortunate brave men who stood calmly
waiting for almost certain and immediate death, or the bare chance of
continuing to live longer, on that trap of a torpedo-net platform.
I stroll down on the beach and talk to Naval officers about the loss,
but they appear as optimistic as ever—tell me she was an old boat, of
not much value nowadays, built as long ago as 1894, and that when once
Achi Baba is taken the Fleet will get to work and make a dash up the
Straits.
The scene is just the same this beautiful evening, but instead of a
dignified, strong battleship in our midst, there remains her green
bows, like the head of an enormous whale, peeping out of the water.
_7 a.m._
Taube flies over, drops bomb; two men killed.
_May 28th._
Go up to Brigade H.Q. this morning. Delightful canter along West
Krithia road. I pass many camps, or rather lines of trenches on either
side of the road serving as camps. Just at this time of the year
crickets are very numerous. It is difficult to spot them, but they make
a sound with their chirping not unlike the concerted song of a host
of sparrows. I notice it more particularly at Pink Farm in the early
morning, and sometimes at night on the cliffs by the sea. I find that
Brigade H.Q. have moved forward a little to the left, and have dug
nice quarters into the side of a small hill. They were flooded out of
their previous Headquarters by a cloud burst—a curious phenomenon. We
did not feel it at all on the beaches, and yet a few miles inland they
experienced a veritable flood.
_5 p.m._
I ride to Morto Bay across country through the white pillars, and have
a ripping bathe. It is a beautiful spot, just up the Straits, three
miles from the shores of Asia, flanked on its left by high ground, on
which is De Tott’s Battery, and on its right by the high wooded ground
behind Sed-el-Bahr. Perfect bathing, all sand, and gently sloping until
one wades out of one’s depth. Plenty of French troops bathing as well.
All this side of the Peninsula is in the hands of the French. As we
are bathing, one shell comes over from Achi and bursts near the white
pillars.
_7 p.m._
Arriving back at “W” Beach, I can see about half a dozen destroyers
bombarding a few villages on Imbros for all they are worth. Lord! are
we at war with Greece now?
_May 29th._
A beautiful day, but there are no battleships lying off, and but one or
two Supply ships. The absence of shipping makes a great contrast to the
busy scenes amongst the Fleet and transports of a week ago, and their
absence has a depressing effect on us all.
Several destroyers are patrolling up and down the coast, and from Asia
to Imbros. All is quiet on the front. But reinforcements steadily
arrive, and a continued steady stream of ordnance stores and supplies
is unloaded from the Supply ships into lighters, which are then towed
by small tugs to the piers, alongside which they are made fast. There
the stores are taken over by R.E., Ordnance, or Supply Officers, who
with groups of labourers unload them from the lighters on to the piers.
Greek labour then handles the stores along the piers to the beach,
where they are dumped on the sand. Then officers with clerks check
the stores with the figures stated on their vouchers, and Greeks load
on to wagons and mule-carts, which then drive off up the newly made
steep roads of the beach to the R.E. park, just half-way up the beach,
to the Ordnance depot on the cliff to the right of the beach looking
inland, or to the rapidly growing Main Supply depot, which will soon
make a splendid target for the Turkish gunners, on the high ground
at the back of the beach. At times we find that the Main Supply depot
is unable to satisfy all our indents, and in consequence we have to
go down on to the beach and draw from the piles of supplies which
have accumulated there faster than it has been found possible to cart
them away. But never on any occasion do we find that our indents have
to be refused from both the Main Supply depot and the beach. For the
A.S.C. out here, where there are difficulties that have never been
experienced before in previous campaigns—such as transporting by sea
from Southampton or Alexandria, over a sea rapidly becoming infested
with submarines; unloading into lighters off shore in a rough sea, with
the lighters bumping and tossing roughly against the ships’ sides;
towing the lighters alongside flimsy piers, always under a constant
work of construction or repair; and finally the arduous work of
man-handling from the lighters to the beach, carting from the beach to
the Main depot and thence to trenches, guns, and camps, with a daily
ration of Turkish shells to dodge—are organizing the feeding of the men
in the trenches, the man at the gun, and we behind, punctiliously as
our troops are fed in France. Whatever unforeseen difficulty arises,
breakfast and the succeeding daily meals are always ready at the
scheduled hours for General and private, officers’ chargers and mules.
One hitch, and our Army here may have to go on half rations or no food
at all.
“An army moves on its stomach.” True, we are not moving; but if our
stomachs are not regularly and wisely fed, we shall rapidly have to
move, and then in the opposite way to our objective.
The A.S.C. officer who was at dinner at Ritchie’s the other night is
with me on the beach, and, as I walk with him to the Main Supply depot,
he contrasts the circumstances here with those in France under which
the A.S.C works. Pointing to the pier and the stacks of supplies on
the beach, he says, “There you have your Havre and base.” The wagons,
limbers, and mule-carts are, he tells me, the equivalent of the
railway Supply pack-trains running every day from Havre to the various
railheads behind the lines. We arrive at the Main Supply depot, and
he says: “We are now at one of these railheads, but hardly ever does
a railhead in France get shelled, and never one of them regularly and
continually, as this one will be when these stacks of biscuits grow a
bit higher.” Pointing to our Divisional depot of four little dumps,
one for each of our groups, just three hundred yards away from us,
he says: “There is your refilling point, usually two miles or more
from railhead, and then seldom under shell fire.” In our case we are
actually behind railhead. An officer on duty at the Main Supply depot
who has been up to Anzac, as the landing of the Australians up the
coast is now called, joins in our conversation, and tells us that
actually on the beach at Anzac spent bullets continually fly over from
the enemy trenches, adding, “Fancy spent bullets flying round the depot
at Havre!”
I ride up to Brigade H.Q. in the afternoon and have tea, and am called
on to supply them with the latest beach rumours, which I glean each
morning from our dump and from our Naval officers on shore.
Coming back, just in front of Pink Farm I stop at the mess of the
Royal Scots, who are in a trench camp. Their mess is very well dug in,
and I am surprised how comfortable it has been made. They are very
hospitable, and have an overflowing larder of unheard-of luxuries
in this land of bare necessity. Old Steel, the Q.M., is there, and
presses “Turkish delight” on to me. As we sit talking, shrapnel whizzes
over and bursts behind us fifty yards to our left, trying to get “L”
Battery. I hear the account of the part the Royal Scots had taken
in the last little scrap, and am told that one of their sergeants,
who was a man of good position in Edinburgh in civil life, was found
dead, lying with a semicircle of five dead Turks around him, their
heads smashed in with the butt-end of his rifle. He must have come of
a fighting stock, yet never anticipated he would end his life on the
battlefield.
_May 30th._
I am on duty at 6 a.m. at the Main Supply depot drawing the day’s
supplies to our Divisional dump. Each of the four Supply Officers
takes it in turn, so that the duty falls to me once in four days. It is
a lovely fresh morning, and after signing for the supplies I light a
cigarette and stroll back to my “bivvy” feeling ready for breakfast.
I meet Milward on the way, who now lives in a tent near the depot. He
was our Naval Landing Officer on the _Dongola_ on April 25th, and is
now one of the Naval Landing Officers on the beach. He tells me that
he is about to go back to join his original ship, somewhere in the
North Sea; that he does not want to go a bit, and this side of the war
is far more interesting. He also says that the piers are going to be
constructed so as to be proof against the bad weather that will come
in the winter. Ships will be sunk to form breakwaters. “The winter?” I
exclaim. “Heavens! we shall be in Constantinople long before then; Achi
will be ours by June 30th, and then we have them at our mercy.”
Milward says that it is wise, however, to be ready for a winter.
Winter? Lord! what a long time ahead it seems!
This afternoon I ride with Carver, Woodbridge, Foley, and Tull, with
orderlies, to Morto Bay, and on the way have a delightful cross-country
canter. I have difficulty, though, in making my mare jump trenches. She
jumped hurdles at Warwick race-course like a bird. Had a delightful
bathe while the French Senegalese were doing likewise. Absolutely
coal-black figures, laughing and playing like children. No firing from
Asiatic side; their guns evidently silenced by us. Only three miles
across; most beautiful view, with mountains and plains of Troy in the
background. This place will make a fine watering-place after the war
for some enterprising capitalist.
In the background beautiful wooded country, with the stately white
pillars standing up, the whole place this side of the pillars a large
French camp. I like the French. They are charming. What a difference
this place is now to what it was in those first few days, when we had
to toil up at night through the Turkish cemetery, past the croaking
frogs, with fears of snipers.
_May 31st._
A perfect day. I ride up with Foley to my Brigade in the morning, and
there meet Captain Wood, the Adjutant of the Essex, and dear old Ruby
Revel, of the same regiment. The messroom at Brigade H.Q., though
dug in the side of a small hill, is like a country summer-house, and
this morning it is very hard to realize that we are at war. Crickets
are chirping in the bushes, and pretty little chaffinches with
bright-coloured feathers hop about amongst the trees.
I look through a powerful telescope at the Turkish trenches, and it
seems almost as though I could throw a stone at them. The precipitous
slopes of Achi Baba appear in vivid detail. As for the Turkish first
line, I feel that if I put my foot out I shall tread on its parapet.
Yet I see not a sign of life. And all is perfectly quiet. I think that
a big attack is coming off in a few days now, and great preparations
appear to be going on. Many reinforcements have arrived, and we are
almost up to full strength again. In fact, several of those who were
slightly wounded on the first day have actually returned fit and sound
to the firing-line.
Riding back, Foley and I call at his Brigade H.Q. and see Major Lucas,
the Brigade Major, and later Brigadier-General Marshall comes in.
Their H.Q., situated some three hundred yards behind Pink Farm, but to
the right, looking towards Achi, is built in an even more beautiful
spot than the H.Q. of the 88th. In fact, it can only be described as
a most beautiful natural garden, and the quarters are composed simply
of summer-houses nestling under trees, with flowers and meadow grass
growing in beautiful confusion all around. Bullets just fall short of
this spot, and shells do not drop near, for it is away from any target.
I call at the R.N.D. armoured car camp afterwards, just half-way back
between Pink Farm and the beach, off the West Krithia road, to look
up a friend that I hear is with them, but learn that he has not yet
landed. Four armoured cars are dug in to what look like deep horse
stalls of earth—beautiful Rolls-Royce cars, and I hear that they are
to go into action in the battle which is thought to be coming off in a
few days.
_2 p.m._
This afternoon it is so hot that I strip to the waist and write on
the cliff. A few transports are in. Mine-sweepers in pairs, with
little sails aft, are on duty at the entrance, cruising slowly and
methodically to and fro, joined to each other by a sunken torpedo-net;
and woe unto a submarine that should run into that net! It will quickly
meet with an untimely end; its base will hear no more news of it,
and its destruction will be kept secret by the Navy. Destroyers are
on patrol right out to sea. One battleship can just be seen far away
towards Lemnos. Work on the beach goes on steadily. Engineers are hard
at work constructing a new pier, which will serve as a breakwater as
well. Stones for this purpose are being quarried from the side of the
cliff. A light railway is in course of construction round the beach and
along the road at the foot of this cliff and up to the depot.
JUNE
_June 1st, 11.30._
Rode to H.Q., leaving my mare at Pink Farm, where I met General Doran,
our new Brigadier, with whom I walked to H.Q. Coming back along West
Krithia road, met Mathias, Brigade Vet. Two shells whistle over us.
Mathias says, “Here comes a shell,” to which I reply, “It’s come and
gone, dear boy,” as they burst “plonk” in the middle of the road that
we have to pass along. We make a detour and ride back over country.
Four officers, just come from England, arrive and have lunch with us.
_3 p.m._
Ride with Foley to Morto Bay for a bathe. Bay full of French and
Senegalese bathing. As we sat undressing, one big, burly fellow came
up to Foley and said, “Speak English, how do you do?” and held out his
hands. Foley was so taken aback that he shook hands. He then turned to
me, and showing his teeth, said, “Tobacco.” Being rather afraid that
he was going to bite me, I quickly took out my pouch and gave him a
handful. Then a sergeant, also a nigger, came running up, and ordered
him off, using most fearful language apparently, and away he went,
running like mad. They are fine-looking men. Morto Bay looking very
beautiful. I can imagine this a fine watering-place, after the war,
with promenade, gardens, hotels, golf-links, etc.
Achi Baba looked a beautiful bronze colour, with patches of green. The
Dardanelles show a deep blue colour, gradually blending into the purple
of the Asiatic side, with its background of mountains. At the entrance,
little mine-sweepers are on duty. The beach is full of naked black and
white figures bathing, and the country in the background is dotted with
French camps. The firing-line in the distance, and our guns popping off
at intervals, and enemy shells now and again whistling overhead—such is
the environment in which we have our bathe.
Foley suggests riding back through Sed-el-Bahr, which we do, and we
were fortunate in doing so, as eight shells, beautifully placed,
exploded just over the road that we otherwise should have taken, and at
about the time that we should have been passing along it.
_10.30 p.m._
Bit of the Turkish attack going on. Heavy rifle fire. “75’s” very
angry, and beating all known records of rapid fire. Their song sings me
to sleep. I am not afraid of shells when I am sleeping.
_June 2nd._
After issue, go down on beach to our Train office, which is now dug in
the side of the cliff. It has twice been moved, each time farther and
farther round the cliff on the right of the beach looking seawards.
When shelling is on, our Train office soon becomes full of passing
officers, reminding me of a crowded pavilion at a cricket match when
rain stops the play. Just as the pavilion empties as the rain stops,
so does our Train office when the shelling stops. Then all the morning
there calls a continual stream of officers—R.E., Ordnance, Supply,
Artillery, and regimental—presenting their respective indents for
transport, which the Adjutant has difficulty with, in mathematically
fitting in the detailing of transport to satisfy their demands with
available wagons. It is a job that requires tact and organization.
Officers also call who come just to pass the time of day and exchange
rumours, or beach gossip as we call it. The circulation of rumours is
the best entertainment that we have, and though 95 per cent. of them
are estranged from truth by a large margin, yet life would be doubly
as dull as it is without them. They are always listened to with great
interest, though, before they are heard, listeners know they are going
to be miles off the target of truth. And if a man who has achieved a
reputation for carrying with him the latest and most interesting “beach
gossip” fails any morning in producing any, he causes really keen
disappointment.
This morning we hear that the Turks are starved, have no clothes, are
almost at the last gasp for ammunition, and only require one more
hard knock before they retreat precipitously to lines which they
have prepared well beyond the slopes on the other side of Achi Baba.
The Navy then tell us that once Achi is in our hands we command the
Narrows; Chanak Fort will be shelled to a pile of bricks and stones,
the Fleet will make a dash up the Straits into the Marmora, and will
arrive before Constantinople in three days. After a heavy bombardment
of this city, the goal of our ambitions, we will attack the Turkish
Army, now starved and demoralized beyond recovery. They will be beaten
and will make unconditional surrender; the Peninsula will be ours, the
Dardanelles will be open, Russia and the Allies will link hands, and
the war will end six months after in glorious victory for our cause and
confusion to our enemies.
We drink in minor rumours day by day that are given as irrefutable
evidence in support of these prophecies; we are buoyed up in hope and
spirits thereby, and ourselves spread the rumours to those of our
friends who still remain pessimistic.
I go up to the Main Supply depot, and there, having by now been given a
reputation for carrying good and juicy rumours, I cheer them up by the
news that Achi will be ours by June 30th. Smart, one of the officers
there, who was in the retreat from Mons, makes me a bet, and the stake
is a nice ruler that he has on his desk. I promptly book the bet. I go
up to Brigade and have tea, and supply them with the latest rumours.
_June 3rd._
It is very windy to-day, and is blowing nearly a gale, and wind on the
tip of this peninsula is an unpleasant element to be up against. In
consequence, the beach is smothered with dust, and clouds of it fly in
all directions, covering everybody and everything.
While issuing, shells burst on the crest of the high ground at the back
of the beach steadily all the time, and nearer inland puffs of shrapnel
are visible. They cannot reach us here with shrapnel, thank goodness!
Shrapnel is so comprehensive. A lucky shell comes to within ten yards
of our depot, kills a man, a passer-by, outright, wounds a sailor, and
slightly wounds my butcher in the knee.
I ride up to Brigade with Phillips. General Doran shows us map of our
objective, and carefully marks thereon where rations are to be dumped
to-morrow night, for to-morrow is to be the day of an attack upon our
part to take Achi. If successful, then the beginning of the end of the
show will be in sight. No news from outside world, and a great scarcity
of papers. Reading a paper about a month old is now a great luxury.
In the evening, Williams and Phillips and myself borrow a boat from
an M.L.O. and have a short row round. It makes splendid exercise, and
the scenes on shore are very interesting. Why did not we think of it
before? When they shell the beach, all we have to do is to get into a
boat and row out to sea, and then watch the fun. Surely a submarine
would not trouble to torpedo us, and it would be a shell with our name
and address on that would hit us. We pass a submarine—British—marked
B9, a very small one. An officer is in the conning tower and says “Good
evening” to us. We chat, and he invites us on board. Two sailors hold
our little boat while we clumsily climb on to the submarine’s slippery
back. We climb down a perpendicular iron ladder through a hole not much
larger than a coal-shoot to a cellar under a street. Inside we find
only one chamber, awfully cramped and small. At one end of this sleep
the men, and at the other two officers. The chamber provides quarters
for men and officers alike, and engine-room, ward-room, and ante-room,
all in one, like Dan Leno’s one-roomed house. In Dan Leno’s words,
“If you want to go into the drawing-room—you stay where you are!” I
am shown the working of the engines, and try to look wisely at the
intricate host of levers and brass things, but really can understand
nothing at all of what the officer is talking about. I am shown how a
torpedo is fired. You pull a thing out and she shoots. Phillips appears
to know all about it though, but he doesn’t really. I look through the
periscope, turn the lens round, and suddenly before my eyes I see “V”
Beach and Sed-el-Bahr in vivid detail. What joy it must be to spot a
Hun battleship and see her effectively hit!
The officer then invites us to sit down and call for drinks. I gasp;
we never heard of such things on shore. An attentive A.B., smiling
benevolently, brings along about half a dozen bottles and glasses.
The officer apologizes for not having much choice. Is he pulling
our legs? What perfectly charming beings these Naval fellows are! I
choose sherry. Williams gets chatty about the Middlesex Yeomanry. The
Middlesex Yeomanry always comes into Williams’s conversation when he
gets chatty, but I can’t connect this regiment with submarines at the
moment. I have two glasses, and we rise to go. Our perfectly delightful
host expresses regret that we must go, and invites us again in the near
future. Up the perpendicular iron steps we climb. Phillips, leading,
puts his heavy boot in my face. It seems a long way up those steps. Up
in the cool air, with the breeze blowing in my face, the deck of the
submarine seems much narrower than when we first came on board. I look
at the little boat gently heaving in the water alongside, and take one
cautious step on to one of its seats, and with one foot in the boat and
one on the submarine I turn to thank my host again. The little boat
falls with the swell of the sea, and I promptly sit down very hard into
her. All aboard, we row back merrily. Hear that two shells have arrived
on the beach during our absence. Shells! Pugh! that’s nothing. We don’t
worry about shells, now!
I swear that I had only two sherries; but I am very empty inside, and
the cool air, after a stuffy atmosphere—— Yes! even a Padre might feel
like that.
_June 4th._
I awake and rise early. To-day is the battle, and to-night we shall be
probably feeding our troops in or beyond Krithia. To-day will probably
be a great day for our arms.
I get my issuing over early, and ride up to Brigade H.Q. and see Usher,
asking him if he has any further instructions. All the arrangements
are complete, and I hope that I shall have to take the rations up to
or beyond Krithia, for then we shall have tasted complete victory. I
see General Doran, who is hard at work. Two officers of the Egyptian
Army arrive and talk awhile with me. I learn that they have landed
only this morning. They are dressed very smartly; polished Sam Brown,
revolver, smart tunic and breeches and boots, but I think they are
making a mistake. They look like the pictures of a military tailor’s
advertisement. Most officers of the infantry dress like the men, to
lessen the chances of an enemy sniper getting them. I get back to “W”
Beach at 10.30 a.m. and see the _Implacable_ and _Albion_ coming slowly
in, with destroyers and submarines all around each ship, jealously
guarding them from submarines’ attacks. A French battleship, I think
the _Saint-Louis_, is off “V” Beach. Destroyers are on the patrol, as
usual, searching for the dreaded submarine enemy. Three hospital ships
are now in.
_11 a.m._