Milward, Naval Landing Officer, came to dinner last night. He was the
Landing Officer on the _Dongola_, and had the job of sending us off to
our doom on April 25th. Also Warburton, off a submarine. He was with
Holbrook when he got the V.C.
_June 16th._
Not very heavy shelling this morning. A few rounds near our depot at
issuing time. No shells from Asia. The French have been touching them
up a bit over there, and probably they are shifting their position. The
French are hot stuff in getting on to the enemy’s positions.
No letters, no rumours, and life very monotonous. Large numbers of men
going off sick with dysentery.
In the afternoon they start shelling again up the Krithia road, and
again I postpone my visit to Brigade H.Q. until nightfall, and ride
up this time. First time my mare has been to Pink Farm by night, and
she does not like it at all. There are plenty of bullets by night, and
but few by day. They continually flatten themselves against the ruined
walls of Pink Farm. The Turk appears to enjoy sitting in his trench,
cocking his rifle up, and spraying with bullets the road up which he
knows transport will come.
Riding back, just half-way to “W” Beach from Pink Farm I see a bright
flash to my left on the shores of Asia, and a few seconds after hear
the deep boom of “Asiatic Annie,” a shriek, and a dull thud on “W”
Beach. This is the first shell from “Asiatic Annie” sent over by night,
and if we are going to get them by night our life will be pretty
poisonous. No place on this little tip of land is safe from shells
now, and this afternoon the ships lying off have to clear away. To see
a battleship now is a rare event, on account of the constant fear of
submarines.
_June 17th._
Coming back from issuing this morning to my “bivvy” on the cliff, I
hear ship’s horns tooting continuously, and running to the edge of the
cliff I see a supply ship, which is lying immediately opposite, hoist
a red flag, being the signal that submarines are about. Destroyers,
mine-sweepers, and small pinnaces from shore put out to the transport
and cruise round and round her. I see distinctly a shadow glide along
on the water on the side of the ship farthest from us, looking like
the shadow from a cloud in the sky, and then it disappears. Men on
board are all around the ship, peering over the side. Then suddenly I
see bobbing about in the water, like a big fisherman’s float, the red
tip of a torpedo. Some one on a trawler shouts through a megaphone to
the other craft, “Look out for that torpedo!” A small row-boat from
the trawler puts out, rows up to the bobbing object in the water,
fastens a rope round its nose and rows away, towing it after them. On
nearing No. 1 Pier, the pier nearest to us, an M.L.O. standing at the
pierhead shouts, “Is the pistol head on?” A reply from the boat says
“Yes,” and the M.L.O. shouts back, “Well, take the damn thing away and
sink it.” The oarsmen then head their boat out to sea, and, after some
arrangement which I cannot see through my glasses, sink the torpedo.
Ordnance get to hear of this and are annoyed, for they would prize such
a find as one of the latest German torpedoes. It was quite 15 feet
long, with a red-painted nose and a long, shining, bronze-coloured body.
Later, we hear that the submarine had fired two torpedoes, and by being
too close to her quarry, missed. By being too close, also, she was
missed by the destroyers, for they, at the time, were making circles
around the transport at about the distance of the usual effective range
of a torpedo. Shortly after, the supply ships were driven off out to
sea by the Asiatic guns. Our 60-pounder guns are firing hard over
to Asia. I hope they have got the range of their guns. Our bivouac,
unfortunately, is in the direct line of their fire, and as each shot is
fired we can’t help jumping, and our “bivvy” shakes its flimsy walls.
Three shells from Asia pitched right into our hospital on the edge
of the cliff on the left of “W” Beach looking seawards, killing two
orderlies and wounding six, yet the doctors calmly went on with their
work of bandaging and dressing. The hospital is on a bad site, for it
is only divided by a road from the little village of marquees forming
the Ordnance depot.
At 8.30 p.m. I go up to Brigade H.Q. with an orderly, and leave the
horses at Pink Farm, and walk across that two hundred and fifty yards
with bullets whistling more than usual, for to-night the Turks appear
more energetic with rifle fire. It is an eerie sensation, walking
across there in the dark when many bullets are about—walking very
fast, almost counting one’s steps, and getting nearer and nearer to
the little light on the side of the hill. Had a chat there for twenty
minutes in the dugout with General Cayley and his Staff, and had a
drink. Rather a nice picture, with the candles and the cheery officers
sitting round; outside, the sound of bullets whistling continuously. I
say good-night and go out, and find my orderly crouching pretty well
down in a dugout, and he says he thinks we had better hurry out, as it
is a bit hot, and as he says so, “ping” goes a bullet between us. But
the bullets do not give me the fear that those horrible high explosive
shells from Asia do. A moon is getting up, and so we are able to trot
back smartly. The scene on the Krithia road at night is just what
I imagined, in past life, war to be. The wagons trekking up to the
trenches, with, of course, no lights, and troops of all kinds moving up
and down. In the distance, star shells shooting up and sailing gently
down, illuminating the country as light as day, and as one gets nearer
to the firing-line the crackle of musketry gets louder and louder,
and during the final walk of three hundred yards from Pink Farm to
H.Q., the song of bullets flying past one makes one very much alive.
Overhead, a perfect sky and myriads of stars looking down on a great
tragedy with a certain amount of comic relief. These days we wish for
more comic relief than we are getting.
_June 18th._
This morning Asia’s guns have not worried us so far, but the batteries
in front of Achi Baba are very active, and are worrying the troops in
the valley very much. The sound of bursting shrapnel reminds me of the
spit and snarls of angry cats. Our artillery is quiet. Rumour says that
another enemy submarine has been accounted for, but the one that came
in yesterday morning is still at large, and consequently our Fleet is
unable to come and help us. At two o’clock H.M.S. _Prince George_ is
sighted off Imbros, surrounded by twelve destroyers and preceded by
seventeen mine-sweepers. It was a very impressive sight to see—all
these destroyers and sweepers jealously guarding the great ship from
submarine attack.
She takes up a position opposite the Asiatic coast, well out from the
mouth, and then opens fire with all big guns on the Turkish batteries
on Asia in position opposite Morto Bay. We enjoy seeing the pasting
that she gives them, her big guns rapidly roaring away and belching
forth spurts of flame and buff-coloured smoke. Everybody imagines that
every Turkish gun must be knocked out. After four hours, she leaves
with her retinue of smaller ships. Half an hour after, one big gun
on the Asiatic side opens fire on to “V” Beach, and simultaneously a
heavy Turkish attack on our left starts, supported by a tremendous
bombardment from Turkish artillery. The fight lasted all night, and
ended about six in the morning. Their infantry left their trenches very
half-heartedly, and our machine-guns accounted for a heavy toll of
enemy casualties.
_June 19th._
We gave way at a part of our line last night, but regained the ground
later in the early morning, and our line is still intact, and as we
were. We lost heavily, but Turkish losses were enormous.
Captain Usher, my Staff Captain, was killed this early morning in the
trenches by shrapnel, and I feel his loss awfully. He was always so
charming to me. It’s the “good-uns” that go, as Wilkie Bard says. I
am sure this war is too terrible to last long; it is simply wholesale
butchery, and humanity will cry out against it soon.
At 11.30 an exceptionally heavy shell came over from Asia (a high
explosive) and fairly shook the earth. Two minutes after, two more
came, and every living soul rushed for cover. Then for three hours
they pasted us: over they came, one after the other, with terrific
shrieks and deafening explosions, throwing chunks of hot jagged-edged
metal whizzing in all directions. All the mules and horses, as far
as possible, were got under cover, and men rushed to their dugouts.
Carver, Way, Davy, Foley, Phillips, and I were under cover of the cliff
in our “bivvy,” which cannot be called a dugout, as it is simply a wide
platform cut in and built up on the side of the cliff and in the line
of fire, between the 60-pounder battery, twenty-five yards to our west,
and the Asiatic battery. The 60-pounders soon opened fire, and then a
duel began; and after one or two have pitched first over our “bivvy”
into the sea, and one or two just short, we get nervy and decide to
quit. Phillips and Davy made the first dash down the cliff, and the
others said they would wait for the next shell. It came shrieking
along, burst, and I got up and made a dart down the slope. I was down
to the bottom of that cliff in thirty seconds, and found myself with
the Divisional Ammunition Column people, and all amongst boxes of
high explosive. Ammunition Column Officers are there, but I begin to
think it would have been safer up in the “bivvy,” where the others
still were, for they did not follow me. After a lull in the firing,
I went up to the cliff, and half-way up they popped off again, and I
was fortunate in finding a very safe dugout belonging to Major Horton,
and he invited me in with Major Huskisson, Major Shorto, Poole, and
Weatherall. And while shells still come over, first bursting on the
beach, then in the sea, then on the top of our cliff, and then on the
high ground on the back of the beach, we have lunch.
_7.30 p.m._
I am writing this in our “bivvy” once more, and aeroplanes are up
spotting for the 60-pounders. They have just pooped off. One almost
shakes the cliff when she fires. Asia has answered, but the shell has
pitched on the east side of “W” Beach. The suspense of waiting for
these shells is getting on the nerves of us all. What gets on my nerves
more than shells is the losing of the “pukka” regular officers of this
splendid Division, who are so cheery and manly, so reassuring to one
and to each other. When they are killed, the stuffing and grit are
almost knocked out of you. We four Supply Officers have now been under
fire almost every day since April 25th, night and day, and a rest away
from it all would be awfully welcome. Yet we pull ourselves together
when we realize what the infantry have gone through and are still going
through; I hate talking like this, it makes me think I am getting “wind
up.” Fish is plentiful to-day, killed by Asia’s shells, brought in by
enterprising Greeks and sold to Tommies. Excellent eating.
_June 20th._
Last night one Asiatic gun fired over to our camp one high explosive
shell every half an hour, but everybody was well dug in, and no harm
was done. I was sound asleep.
This morning Turkish artillery is very active, but Asia’s guns are not
doing much. We are improving our “bivvy,” making it possible to do
our work without much interruption. It is almost impossible to keep
books and organize the feeding of an army with high explosive and
other shells dropping around, Lord knows where next. At the Supply
depot, however, we are very exposed, and it is very trying to stand
there issuing day’s food and loading up the wagons with shells flying
overhead, and therefore I am having a proper dugout made. We have
had many casualties there now, and the Supply and Transport men have
absolutely no chance to save themselves when standing in the open,
with high explosives bursting near. We try and treat it humorously, but
it is always a relief when the job is done.
This morning my staff-sergeant came to me and said, “The R.A. —— have
taken ——” (shriek of a shell and a bang, during which we both looked
over our shoulders) “them supplies to the gully, sir.” I reply, “All
right,” and then we both duck behind a biscuit-box as another shell
comes nearer. Not much use really getting behind a box, but it looks
safer than nothing at all.
As Hyslop, our Canadian Vet., said, “Any hole looks good when Asia gets
busy.”
This afternoon I walked along under the cliff to Gully Beach to see my
Brigade, who have now gone into reserve for a rest. On the way we pass
a Padre holding evening prayer and preaching a sermon. As I come back I
learn that several shrapnel had burst over the cliff, two officers, one
man, and a horse being wounded. A piece had hit the heel of the boot of
the Padre as he was conducting the service.
I spoke to several officers of the Royal Scots who had been in the
fighting two nights ago, during which the Manchester Territorials
retired, evacuating two trenches, which the Royal Scots and one company
of the Worcesters took back twenty minutes after. Colonel Wilson, O.C.
Royal Scots, has been awarded the D.S.O. for this piece of work.
Bombs were used freely, and when the Royal Scots had got to the
foremost trench, at one time Turks and British both occupied the same
trench, the Turks hastily erecting a barricade in the trench itself to
protect them from the Royal Scots, who, however, quickly drove them
out by bombs. Steel assured me that the Turks were using explosive
bullets, but I doubt this; but I do think that they reverse their
bullets now and again. I notice that his face is pitted with little
cuts, and I learn that he has suffered this through being in the front
line with his regiment in the battle of June 4th, and on reaching their
objective—the Turkish trench in front—while hastily helping in the work
of building a parapet with sand-bags, was struck full in the face by
a sand-bag bursting through being struck by machine gun fire. He is
acting Adjutant to the regiment.
I hear that there is to be a French bombardment to-night, followed by
an infantry attack.
_June 21st, 6 a.m._
There is a fearful bombardment going on; every battery on shore is
concentrating its gunfire on a Turkish redoubt on the Turkish left,
called the Haricot Redoubt, and also on the trenches. The Turkish
batteries are replying furiously, but without effect, though “Asiatic
Annie” is rather nasty, her shells falling around the French batteries.
One cannot see the effect, because of the dust that the shells are
kicking up, which is blowing right down to the beach. The 60-pounders
on our right, twenty-five yards away, are joining in with a deafening
report; only one is in this action. The echo of her voice plays ducks
and drakes around the coast and the few transports about, getting
fainter as the sound dies away. French battleship at mouth of Straits
firing heavily. Destroyers continually patrolling around her.
_11 a.m._
The infantry attack by the French has started, and there is a report of
heavy musketry all along their line.
_12 noon._
I can see the French advancing under a perfect hail of shrapnel over
the ridge behind De Tott’s Battery. They are lost to view, and now
I can only see hundreds of shells bursting and hear an undertone of
musketry. I can see nothing now but dust and smoke.
_4 p.m._
On duty at depot. Fighting died down. Howitzer from Asia firing our
way, but cannot reach us. Shells bursting about Hill 138.
News that the French have done well and advanced quite a good way.
_6 p.m._
Asia fires on submarines off “W” Beach and nearly hits one. They clear
off for half an hour and then come back.
Perfect weather, and fine day for flying. Aeroplanes doing good work,
whirring about over Achi Baba and Asia.
_7.45 p.m._
The Turks are counter-attacking our right in force, but the French,
with the support of the “75’s,” are holding the ground which they have
won to-day. Roar of guns growing louder and louder.
If the French manage to hold their own, it will considerably lessen the
morale of the enemy, and the hill should be taken in the near future,
and our own job will be half over.
_8.30 p.m._
Battle still going on. On beach Tommies singing “There’s a Little Grey
Home in the West.” Sun just going down behind Imbros, making most
lovely colouring. Sea dead calm: most peaceful scene, looking out to
sea, but when one turns one’s back one sees a great battle raging three
miles inland. Extraordinary contrast.
_June 22nd._
Very hot, but perfect day. French attack successful yesterday. They
took two lines of trenches, and so have shortened and strengthened our
front. Walked with Phillips and Birch (second in command of another
submarine that has just arrived) to Gully Beach, overland. All quiet on
front. Turkish artillery dead quiet, but French “75’s” now and again
popping off. See Brigade H.Q., now in rest on the side of cliffs, and
also Essex Regiment. Hear that Revel, of the Essex, has died of wounds.
Ripping young chap. Had a cheery chat with him up at Brigade H.Q. two
weeks ago. The 29th Division officers are falling fast now, and we feel
their loss terribly. A Taube came over this morning and dropped three
bombs, but only hit one man, wounding him slightly, but killed nine
horses. I thought I saw the bombs drop quite clearly, as I was watching
through glasses, and it was surprising the time that they took to drop.
I may have been mistaken—the Taube was about over me—but I thought I
saw a pencil line, as it were, drawn against the sky. Nasty suspense
waiting for the things to reach the ground.
O.C. of the West Lowland Territorial Engineers killed by shell at gully
yesterday. Very fine chap.
_8 p.m._
A quiet day. Rumour that we are to expect asphyxiating gas dodge, and
that we are going to have respirators served out. Unfortunately, the
prevailing wind is down the Peninsula and in our faces, and we are
barely four miles from the Turkish trenches. Beautiful evening, and the
sun setting behind Imbros is making most exquisite colouring.
_June 23rd, 10.30 a.m._
Turks very quiet. French “75’s” now and again firing. Very hot, fine
day. Rode last night to Gully Beach with Carver, round by road on
cliffs on “W” coast. Beautiful moonlight night. Wagons trekking up and
down, and now and again a sentry challenges with his bayonet pointed to
the breasts of our horses, which we rein in, at the same time shouting
“Friend,” answered by “Pass, friend; all’s well.” I should like to feel
that it really was “all well.”
Enemy aircraft brought down yesterday, falling in Turkish lines.
French losses in recent battle, 2,000.
To-night I ride again with Carver to Gully Beach, which is now the home
of the 29th Division H.Q.
The steep cliffs on either side of the gully are honeycombed with
dugouts, each with a little light shining, and in the declining light,
with the moon hanging overhead, shining on the sea, it is a very
beautiful sight. We had a topping ride back along the road on the edge
of the cliff overlooking the calm sea, lit up by silver moonlight. We
could see quite plainly enough to canter, and cantering by moonlight
in such beautiful surroundings is a unique pleasure.
_June 24th._
To-day has been very hot and arid, very fine, and the sea dead calm,
but artillery duels have been going on all day.
As the French were so successful in their last battle, having captured
those trenches and the Haricot Redoubt on their left, thereby
straightening and shortening our line, I think there is going to
be another general attack for the hill to-morrow, preceded by an
exceptionally heavy bombardment. If successful, then the danger of
asphyxiating gas attack for the present is over.
Went up to Brigade H.Q. with Phillips. Beautiful moonlight, and all
quiet on front. Had a nice gallop back on West Krithia road, but my
mare nearly ran away with me; a bit dangerous going, as there were so
many shell-holes about. Pink Farm and West Krithia road get so badly
dusted with shrapnel all day and every day now, that I usually go up by
night or early morning to H.Q.
_June 25th._
It is now exactly two months since we landed. Turkish artillery has
been fairly active to-day. It has been very hot, but a beautiful day,
and is now a most beautiful night, with the sea dead calm. We are
having some nice bathing. The fly pest is worse than ever, and is
frightfully worrying. The attack is not to come off to-morrow, after
all, but Sunday.
To-day the _Lord Nelson_, escorted by destroyers, went up the West
Coast and bombarded some target behind Achi Baba. Shortly after, a
column of smoke arose behind the hill, and evidently the _Lord Nelson_
has made good practice. She was shelled by a Turkish field battery, but
only two shells burst immediately over her, and hardly did any damage.
_June 26th._
I rose at 5.30 a.m. and, getting my mare saddled, rode over to the
other side of the beach and woke up Butler, the Quartermaster of the
Worcesters, who had promised to give me what he called “a personally
conducted Cook’s Tour to the first-line trenches.” We had some hot tea
and biscuits and a tot of rum, and then we mounted and started off. My
mare was full of the joy of life and very fresh.
As we went over the crest on to the West Coast road, mist was hanging
low on the cliffs and at the foot of Achi Baba. Above, the sky was
cloudless. The words of Omar came to mind—
Awake, for Morning in the bowl of Night
Has flung the Stone that puts the Stars to flight.
I wish the stone would put the Turks to flight.
We rode to the gully, and then down on to the beach; there a priest
was preparing an altar on biscuit-boxes, and about four hundred troops
were waiting to take Holy Communion. We rode up the bed of the gully,
and it was the first time that I had been right up. The Engineers had
made a good road up, winding in and out between high, irregular cliffs,
covered with gorse, and passing little gullies running out of the main
one, to right and left. All up, for about a mile and a half, the sides
are honeycombed with dugouts for troops to rest after a spell in the
trenches, for Battery H.Q., and signal posts, etc. We passed the H.Q.
of the 86th Brigade, the latter being dug-in in a charming spot a mile
up from the beach. Thompson, my late Staff Captain, was seated on a
terrace high up the cliff, shaving, and shouted “Good-morning” to me.
Arriving at the head of the gully, we dismount and hand over horses to
a groom, with instructions to him to take them across country to Pink
Farm. We meet Harding, the Q.M. of the Royal Fusiliers.
We climb up the right side of the gully—a most beautiful spot, which
would delight artists—and enter into a trench, over which bullets
whiz, and now and again shrapnel. Passing along the trench for some
way, we turn to the left, and go for quite a hundred yards along the
communication trench, leading into a maze of trenches, but we are
enabled to find our way by directing sign-boards, such as “To Reserve
Trenches,” “To Support Trenches,” “To Fire Trench,” and names of units
marked on as well.
We at last find ourselves in the Reserve, and have a chat with the
Essex. Then we wend our way and pass along an uninhabited trench, an
evidently disused communication trench, and come on what is literally
the emblem of death grinning at us. We see a grinning skull, with
almost all the flesh rotted off it, a bundle of rags, a hand, and two
lower parts of legs with boots and puttees intact. Such a sight in
earlier life would have filled me with horror. But I look upon such
sights now as one would look upon a ruined house.