two men have just been hit by shrapnel. Two R.H.A. men tell us that at
the end of the next communication trench there is a Naval 12-pounder
gun that had opened fire that morning on what was thought to be a
poisonous-gas factory in a nullah in the Turkish lines, and that a
Turkish battery had found our gun out and was shelling it. The two men
who happened to be here had been hit. Shelling seems to have ceased,
and one R.H.A. man said to the other, “Come on, Bill; if we are going
to get ’it, we are going to get ’it!” This sounded good philosophy,
and so we followed them. One of them shouldered a sack of food, and
the other two jars of rum. Round the corner we passed the two wounded
men—one wounded in the arm and the other badly in the shoulder; but
both seemed quite cheerful about it.
We went along the communication trench, on and on, until I really
thought that the damn trench would lead into the Turkish lines, and
then it gradually got shallower and shallower, until we found ourselves
in the open, but under cover of a rise, which was more or less
protected from Turkish fire. Then, suddenly, we came on this 12-pounder
gun and saw three gunners crouching in a dugout. The two gunners who
were leading the way went off down another trench hastily, pointing the
way for us to follow to the fire-trenches, and we nipped over that open
space in double-quick time, I taking a heap of used cartridges in my
stride, and at last we found ourselves in the well dug-out front-line
fire-trenches, where we found the Worcesters. We had a chat with the
officers.
Shortly after our arrival, shelling began again with that 12-pounder
for a target; they put salvo after salvo over at the place we had
passed. It was rather interesting watching the shelling from our part
of the trench, and the sergeant-major seemed to be thoroughly enjoying
it.
We have a look at the front trenches, which are very well made, with
high parapets of sand-bags, iron loopholes, and periscopes, and nice
little dugouts for officers’ messes and for men to sleep in, and
kitchens, larders, stores, etc. All the time bullets whiz over or thud
against the sand-bags, but one feels quite safe there, although only a
hundred yards away from the Turks. It is a bit dangerous going along
the communication trenches by day, as in places one can be seen, and
from there can see the enemy, they being so shallow. We soon got back
along the beastly long communicating trench to the Reserve, another one
farther along to the one we came. Then to the support line, and up out
into a nullah, and following that along we came to the open place into
which several nullahs ran, known as “Clapham Junction,” which often
gets shelled pretty badly, and always under fire from “overs.” Thence
on to the main Krithia road, and across country to the Pink Farm, where
we found our horses waiting. They were shelling the West Krithia road,
and so we cut across country to the West Coast road, and cantered home
in fine style, arriving back to breakfast at 9.30 a.m.
Not much artillery fire came from the Turks during the day, but the
“75’s” were steadily plugging them in.
_June 27th._
The attack is to take place to-morrow. I rode up to Brigade H.Q. this
morning. They were shelling a bit, but not much.
To-day is very quiet, but we are steadily sending shells over. Asiatic
battery seems to have been withdrawn, but there is a very big gun
somewhere that sends a 6-inch over now and again to the neighbourhood
of Pink Farm, but it does not reach the beaches.
In coming back from H.Q. this morning, shrapnel began to burst over
Pink Farm and behind, and I made my mare do her best gallop away, and,
in order to keep off the road, cut to the right across country. We
got amongst a maze of disused trenches, which she absolutely refused
to jump; and to top it all, she kept getting her legs entangled in
telephone wires laid along the ground, causing me to continually get
off to disentangle her. She is an awful fool over these things, and
those damned shells seemed to come nearer and nearer every minute. When
I _did_ get on the road, I made her gallop as she has never galloped
before.
_June 28th._
A beautiful summer morning. This morning is the morning of a battle.
We are going to try to take a Turkish redoubt on our extreme left, and
to push our line forward on the left, so as to curl somewhat round
Krithia. We call the redoubt “The Boomerang Fort.”
H.M.S. _Talbot_ comes in with destroyers and mine-sweepers, and a
Monitor—the _Abercrombie_, I think—and they take up positions off Gully
and “Y” Beaches on the West Coast.
A bombardment begins at 9 a.m., as I am issuing rations, the _Talbot_
and two or three destroyers hurling over their large shells in an
enfilading fire on to the Turkish trenches and the redoubt, while all
our guns on shore, with the help of the French heavies and the now
invaluable little “75’s,” join in the concert.
At 10 a.m., issuing finished, I take my glasses and walk along the
cliff, taking up a position on the side of an extra piece of high
ground, and sit comfortably there with my back to it. Two 60-pounders
behind me are firing away at the same target, at which all the guns on
land and sea are concentrating their awful fire, a target of not more
than fifteen hundred yards of the Turkish line, with the little redoubt
at the back. Shells—large, small, black, yellow, and white—burst in
hellish confusion and awful chaos, while Turkish batteries, raised
to fury, reply, first on to one battery, then another. But their fire
seems controlled by a flurried brain, for the shells burst harmlessly,
high in the air, or, except over our first line, of which they have the
range, accurately on no targets at all.
Destroyers pour in broadsides, then swoop round, making a circle, and
take up a new position, letting forth viperous rounds of broadside once
more. A captive sausage-balloon on a tramp ship sails high in the air,
well out to sea, spotting for the _Talbot_ and the destroyers. It is
by far the most terrific and mighty bombardment that I have seen, and,
I think, appears to be so because of the large amount of artillery
concentrated on to so small a target.
_11 a.m._
The bombardment in no way seems to slacken, but I clearly see the
range increased, and hear the officer behind me commanding the two
60-pounders, which are in action just near, to increase the range. I
watch carefully, and as the smoke and dust quickly clear away from
the redoubt and Turkish front line, which had been subjected to this
terrible ordeal for two solid hours, I hear a roar of musketry, mingled
with the excited, rapid reports of machine-guns. I actually see, in
one part, a line of blue spurts of flame, a curious effect, caused
by the dark background of gorse and trees. And then the sun reflects
on hundreds of small metal discs, and I see leap as one man from our
trenches rows and rows of khaki figures, each equipped with a small
shining disc fastened on to his back. On they run, and swarm up the
redoubt like packs of hounds, and strangely—though perhaps I am too far
away—I see none fall.
The scene has passed: I have seen a gallant charge, made in the old
style. In five minutes it is over and become glorious history. The
bombardment continues, and the scene goes back to one of bursting
flame, yellow, green, white, and black smoke drifting away in the
strong breeze to the sea. The 60-pounders behind me steadily plunge
and recover as their charges are hurled forth on their destructive
journeys, with an ear-splitting roar. Suddenly over the din I hear a
familiar and fear-striking sound: it is the deep boom-_s-h-r-i-e-k_ of
“Asiatic Annie,” and her sister follows quickly after, and they are
endeavouring to get at the 60-pounders just behind and silence their
efforts. The 60-pounders take no heed, but go steadily on. They are
hard to hit, and are well dug in. I am directly in the line of fire,
and what missed them might get me, and so, after one shell bursts
damnably close, I abruptly slither down the slopes of the cliff into
the arms of two smelly Greeks, who have been sitting below me, shouting
now and again gleefully, “Turkey finished!”
Our camp gets a bad shelling. Two passers-by are killed, and one of our
transport men is buried in his dugout, and when dug out is found dead.
_4.30 p.m._
Have been at work on supplies; the firing has died down somewhat.
Wounded are arriving, and the stretcher-bearers are nearly dropping
with fatigue and heat as they carry their heavy burdens along to the
dressing stations on the beach. Prisoners are arriving. I count a
hundred, all looking frightened out of their lives; I heard we had
captured four hundred prisoners, three lines of trenches, the Boomerang
Fort, one four-gun battery, and twelve Maxim guns.
_6 p.m._
We are again bombarding heavily, and I hear my Brigade is attacking,
but cannot see anything but smoke and dust.
_8 p.m._
It has now quietened down somewhat, but Asia is sending shells over to
the 60-pounder battery once more.
_June 29th._
Early I ride up to Brigade H.Q. I find they have moved forward. I
ride on past Pink Farm, to the little nullah beyond, and there find a
trench has been dug leading out from the end of the nullah which I am
told leads to Brigade H.Q. The trench, recently dug, is quite 8 feet
deep, and roomy enough for pack-mules to pass along and men in single
file to pass back in the opposite direction. All the time bullets were
pinging and hissing overhead. The trench finally ended in a junction
of several trenches leading in various directions to the firing-line.
Dug in the sides of this junction was our new Brigade H.Q., on the
level of the bottom of the trench, and taking advantage of a rise in
the ground in front, affording perfect cover, except from a direct
hit; on the left was Twelve Tree Wood, the scene of a bloody fight in
the early days, but now used for artillery forward observation posts.
Farmer, our Brigade Major, was very busy, looking ill and tired.
Orderlies and telegrams were constantly arriving. The Signal Office
was working at full steam—dot-dash, dot-dash, incessantly being rapped
out on the buzzers. When I see the signallers at work, the scene in a
London telegraph office always comes to my mind, and I contrast the
circumstances under which the respective operators work. Farmer is
continually being called to the telephone. Officers on similar errands
to mine are waiting. It is like being in a City office waiting for an
interview with one of the directors.
Not very bright news came from the Royal Scots; they were badly
cut up yesterday, losing all officers, except Colonel Wilson and a
subaltern. Steel is dying; he was a great pal of mine, was very decent
to me before the landing, landing at the same time as myself. Captain
Tressider, who arrived a month ago, is dead. On our left, however,
complete victory for British arms.
On coming back, part of the communication trench is rather exposed and
a sniper was busy after me, using all his five cartridges, but the
bullets sailed harmlessly overhead. But the risk we Supply Officers
take is not 100 per cent. of what infantry go through. A battery is
sending high explosive shells over from Achi now, but they are bursting
on the east side of this beach, and after firing a dozen shells they
only slightly wounded a goat.
_11.45 a.m._
I was sarcastic too soon. Asia has just fired over an 8-inch, and it
has passed over our “bivvy” with a horrible shriek and exploded in the
sea. They would not be able to do this if our Fleet were here, and so
we say “Strafe the submarines!”
_7 p.m._
All has been quiet on the front to-day, but two big guns from Asia
and one 18-pounder battery have been worrying the French, and our 4.7
on the hill by De Tott’s Battery and the big French guns have been
replying. The effect of the Asiatic big gun, when it hits anybody, is
terrible. I picked up a jagged, flat piece of metal to-day, ¾ inch
thick, 9 inches long, and 3 inches wide. When these shells burst on our
beach, these pieces of metal fly in all directions, some reaching a
hundred and fifty yards away.
The remainder of the Lowland Division is landing to-day. Just two more
Divisions, and I believe we should very soon take Achi Baba, providing
we had better supplies of big-gun ammunition. We put in two bathes
to-day. We are most fortunate in getting sea bathing, as it keeps
sickness down. We issue eggs now and again to the troops to endeavour
to keep down dysentery. All ranks get a chance of plenty of bathing,
sooner or later. Asia is very busy firing on the French batteries;
later, at dusk, they fire on hospital ships, but finding out their
mistake, desist. Evidently they are Turkish gunners, and not German.
_9.30 p.m._
A great gale has sprung up, and our canvas-sheet roof looks like coming
off. The dust is awful. Lightning is playing over the sky and makes a
very fine sight; curiously, there is no thunder.
_10 p.m._
The gale is terrific now, and I call out to our servants to come and
hang on to our canvas roof, which is anxious to sail away. After
strenuous effort, with dust choking us, and all of us swearing and then
laughing, we secure the roof and turn in.
_June 30th, 1 a.m._
A shriek and a loud explosion awaken us, and Carver says it is a high
explosive howitzer from Asia. It has passed over our “bivvy” and
exploded on the beach. The ordinary long-range shell seems to miss our
“bivvy” on account of the angle of trajectory.
But when a howitzer fires the trajectory is such that it could easily
get our “bivvy.”
_2.30 a.m._
We are awakened by our roof blowing off, and up we have to get again
and fix it. The gale fortunately is dying down, although the wind is
pretty strong.
When we awoke this morning we were told that they had put several
shells over in the night, and one in the Main Supply depot has
unfortunately killed a man.
The result of the battle two days ago was good, the 29th Division
pushing forward about three-quarters of a mile, and Krithia should
soon be ours. The Turks counter-attacked last night in mass, but very
half-heartedly, and lost heavily. This morning four hundred Turks were
seen coming up in front of the French on our right, but the French
“75’s” got amongst them, and they ran and ran for quite a mile, with
the French shells bursting all amongst them, two a second. I should
say very few of those Turks were left. The 60-pounder on the cliff got
in a few as well. Three 60-pounders are out of action, waiting for new
springs from England, and they have been waiting a devil of a time. The
Turks are wonderful fighters on the defensive, with the geographical
advantage all in their favour, but absolutely lack dash in the attack.
_12 noon._
A French battleship is coming in with the usual escort of destroyers
and mine-sweepers, looking like a duck with her ducklings. Evidently
she is going to punish Asia.
The smell of dead bodies and horses is attracting the unwelcome
attentions of vultures from Asia. They are evil-looking birds, with
ugly heads and enormous wings, and circle round and round overhead.
Sometimes Tommies pot at them with their rifles, but get into trouble
for doing so.
The smell of dead bodies is at times almost unbearable in the trenches,
and chloride of lime is thrown over them. I know of no more sickly
smell than chloride of lime with the smell of a dead body blended in.
In the fire-trenches the Turks will not allow our men to bury the dead
unless a special armistice is arranged. In consequence, in the dead of
night our men volunteer to creep out, tie a rope round a body which may
be too near them to make the atmosphere bearable, and then rush back,
haul the body in, and bury it in the trench, or they will soak the
body in petrol, go back to their trenches, then fire into the body—the
white-hot bullets soon setting the petrol on fire, and the bodies in
this dry climate quickly get cremated.
Several barges were sunk by last night’s gale, and one pinnace set on
fire by last night’s shelling.
_3 p.m._
The French battleship is now firing on Asiatic batteries very heavily,
and it seems impossible that any one could live under her fire.
_5 p.m._
Asia starts firing light shrapnel over, which we don’t mind at all. As
long as they do not fire that heavy stuff, which is on you before you
can duck, they can pop away all night.
_5.30 p.m._
Asia firing heavy stuff on French lines. Now they have pitched one
bang into the hospital. I—thinking every minute one will pitch in our
depot—hurry up everybody, and they work with a will, taking cover when
the shriek comes. Now they fall on the beach and splinters fly around
us—it’s damnable! The corporal at 5.45 reports forage finished, which
is a relief, as we can get to our dugouts.
On the way across to my dugout I hear the shriek coming, and there is
no place to take cover, and the suspense is a bit nerve-trying. With a
terrific bang it falls in the hospital, but the hospital is now clear
of men.
_6 p.m._
Safe in our dugout now, and one passes over us into the sea. Now they
are falling on the beach. Nearly everybody is under cover.
_7 p.m._
Shelling stopped, and we are allowed to have some rest.
As Williams has to go to Brigade H.Q., I offer to show him the way, the
H.Q. having moved forwards.
We start off at 8.30 p.m. and ride at a good smart trot, as we are
a bit nervy of Asia sending one of those horrible big shells over.
But all is quiet, and we arrive at our Brigade dumping-ground,
about three-quarters of a mile in front of Pink Farm. (Pink Farm is
practically razed to the ground now by shell fire.)
We leave our horses with an orderly, who ties them up under cover and
takes cover himself. Stray bullets are flying over now and again,
and we get down into the nullah and go along it up the communication
trench. After about half a mile of it, we pass an R.A.M.C. orderly, who
says, “Keep your heads low, sir, as you pass that point,” pointing a
little farther along, “as there is a sniper watching there.” Of course
he is wrong, suffering from “wind up,” and what he thinks are snipers’
bullets are “overs” passing through a gap in the side of the trench.
We hurry along, heads well down, as bullets are pretty free overhead.
After another half-mile we come to Headquarters. The Staff are just
finishing dinner in their dugout—beautifully made by the Engineers. The
Brigade Major is at the telephone, and later the General gets up and
talks over it. D.H.Q. are speaking at the other end, discussing some
G.S. point, just as if two business men were discussing the price of
some contract.
After the General resumes his place at the head of the table, the
Brigade Major on his left-hand side, next the Signal Officer, on his
right hand, the Staff Captain, the Brigade Machine Gun Officer and
a Major of the R.N.D., who had recently arrived. Williams and I are
seated at the other end. The dugout is lit by an acetylene lamp, and
Miller, the Staff waiter and chef combined, is standing, acting butler.
Outside the “ping-ping” of bullets goes on incessantly.
Sitting there round the table, smoking and chatting, I could not but
compare the scene with that of the after-dinner coffee and cigars at
a dinner-party, when the ladies have gone to the drawing-room. The
conversation is also witty and bright, with no mention of war.
Miller is a character of his own. He is as dignified as a real butler
would be, and yet a Tommy of the old school, through and through.
But instead of black cut-away coat and side whiskers, he wears khaki
trousers rather hanging over his ankles, and a grey shirt open in
the front—for the heat is excessive—and sleeves rolled up. He always
embarrasses me, for every time I happen to look his way he catches my
eye and beams benevolently on me. I suppose it is because I look after
the Tommies’ tummies. Lightning now begins to play about the sky, which
gets rather cloudy, and then “L” Battery, just to our right, barks
out suddenly. That arrests my thoughts and brings me back to reality.
“Y” Battery starts, and then the darling little Soixante-quinze, and
bullets begin to fairly hiss over. A hell of a shindy! Our mission
over, we rise to go. We salute the General, who says good-night, and
off down the trench, keeping our heads very low instinctively, though
really it is unnecessary.
Lightning is now flashing all over the sky, and what with the flashes
and roar of the batteries near by and the pitch darkness that comes
immediately after a lightning flash, the walk back along that trench,
one whole mile of it, was most weird and Dante-esque. Now and again
bullets hit the bank on our left, but most of them are going over. We
pass troops coming up, and later see a man sitting down at the side
of the trench, and finding that he had been hit in the wrist (lucky
devil!), we take him along with us. Arriving at the nullah, we find
another man who has been hit at the dump, in the leg, and we send them
to the dressing station behind Pink Farm.
We see the transport is all right at the Brigade dump, mount our
horses, which have been tied up in an awful tangle, making us use
some “’orrid language,” and then “forrard away.” Off we go back, with
“overs” pretty free around, and Turkish shells screaming over, well on
our right.
The lightning frightens our horses somewhat, and blinds us after each
flash. It is incessant, and lights up the Peninsula in detail, but no
thunder follows. We hope that Asia will let us go home in safety. She
does, but half an hour after we arrive home, and when everybody except
night-workers and guards and pickets have turned in, heavy shells come
over, and at the rate of two an hour they continue all night, and so
our night’s rest is not as good as it might be.
JULY
_July 1st._
On duty at depot at 6 a.m. I find one shell has pitched in my Supply
dump during the night, leaving a jagged splinter a foot long, and 4
inches in its widest part. Ugh! those naval shells. At eleven o’clock
shelling starts again, and we have it hot and strong for an hour and a
half. The transports get it as well from the hill, and one ship nearly
gets holed. Moon, one of the Signal Officers, riding up the beach has
his horse killed under him, and he himself is wounded in chest and leg.
Not seriously, but he looks pale and frightened. Very few casualties,
as people keep under cover pretty well. During the shelling, this
morning, one of the hospital marquees catches fire, but not through the
shelling, and is burnt to the ground. A Turkish prisoner had dropped
a smoking cigarette on some muslin. The marquee contained Turkish
wounded, but I think that they were all saved. Joy of joy! Allah be
praised! and glory be to God! a real plum cake and chocolate just
arrived from home. What joy to get your teeth into a slice!
_Evening._
Since noon the day has been quiet, and Asia has left us alone. Over
Imbros the golden sun is slowly setting, and above, the clouds are a
lovely orange red. A strong wind is blowing in from the sea, which is
very rough, necessitating the suspension of the landing of supplies and
ammunition. Casualties in Monday’s battle were 2,500, Australians and
New Zealanders included. These, at Anzac, engaged enemy while the 29th
Division attacked, in order to keep some of them away from us. They,
however, made no progress their side, and were not expected to. Their
casualties were 500. A Turkish officer who was captured said that if we
had pressed forward all along the line we should have taken the hill,
as reinforcements of one division that the Turks were expecting did not
arrive. They have since arrived. However, this may have been a yarn.
Last night was very quiet.
_July 2nd._
I go up to Brigade H.Q. before breakfast, leaving my mare in the nullah
in front of Pink Farm, where the Brigade Staff’s horses are stabled.
The General’s groom, now knowing my mare well, gives her breakfast,
good cool water from a well which has just been found there, oats
from the Argentine, and hay from Ireland. As I walk up the trench I
feel very limp and weak. Something is wrong with me. Half-way up the
trench, I see part of the parapet which has been knocked down by a
shell recently, and from there obtain a good view of our trenches and
Sphinx-like Achi Baba. She is almost human, and in my imagination
appears to be smiling at the vain efforts of our little, though never
contemptible, Army to conquer and subdue her. I shake such thoughts
off. I am run down, and in consequence imagine things worse than they
are. Arriving at Brigade H.Q., I find the General and Staff up in the
trenches, and talk to Brock, of the Gypy Army, the Staff Captain.
He tells me all about the Sudan—how he has two months’ leave and is
spending it on Gallipoli. What a place to spend a holiday! He reads
my thoughts, and says, “People in Egypt do not realize what things
are really like out here.” He then tells me that lately orderlies and
others have been disappearing in a curious way. A driver last night was
sent up the gully with two mules to fetch a watercart. Neither driver
nor mules returned.