kit for D.H.Q. to Chocolate Hill on four little box cars, and I ask
if I can go with him to see my Brigade H.Q. He gives me a lift, and
off we go along the bumpy track from the promontory to the mainland,
when, bending to the right, through clusters of trees and in and out of
gorse-bushes and boulders, we arrive at last on the flat, growthless
plain of the Salt Lake. Instead of being heavy going over soft sand,
as I thought it would be, it is very good going over a hard, binding
surface, and we get along at a fine pace, which in the moonlight, on
such an occasion, is very exciting and enjoyable. Soon I see the shadow
of trees and cultivation, and know that we are nearing Chocolate Hill,
and almost at the same time I hear and almost feel the unpleasant whiz
of many bullets overhead, about, and around. We stop, but the noise
of the pulsating engines of the car drowns all other sounds, and we
walk a little way in front and hear the regular rattle of heavy rifle
fire. The spot where we are standing is receiving the benefit of the
“overs,” many of which kick up the dust around us. Now and again shells
scream over, but not many. We drive on to the trees in front, and dump
our kit. At this point the bullets are flying fairly high, and we feel
safer, though I expect all the time that blow of a sledge-hammer which
comes with the hit of a bullet. We unload the kit by some trees, and
some men near by are instructed to go on to the Division and tell them
that the first batch of their kit had arrived, and one man is left in
charge. We turn to go back, and I notice a wounded man on a stretcher
being carried away, and I ask them to put him in the car. I offer him
water, but he refuses, saying that he has been hit by a shrapnel bullet
in the stomach, and water makes him vomit. His voice sounds familiar to
me. I look at his face—I ask him if he is Howell of the Warwickshire
Yeomanry—he replies “Yes.” We rode next to each other, years ago, as
troopers. Many wounded are lying here, there, and everywhere, and we
load up our empty cars with as many as we can, and steadily and gently
go back. Firing dies down. It was only “wind up” on the part of the
Turks. I leave Howell at the Welsh Casualty Clearing Station on the “B”
Beach. He is quite cheerful. His experience of actual war started when
he had landed this morning, and ends now as he lies wounded, waiting to
be properly attended to, and he had trained and given up his spare time
for years past for these few hours! He shakes me by the hand. After
this war I do not think that people will be amused at the “playing at
soldiers” of Yeomanry and Territorials.
Back at the beach I load the four cars once more with D.H.Q. kit, and
off we proceed on a second journey. I am alone in charge this time, for
Badcock has to go up to Corps H.Q. The full moon brilliantly lighting
up everything helps us to get along at a good pace. On arrival at the
trees on the other side of the Salt Lake, where we had dumped the first
loads, I find no signs of this first batch, and a few men about appear
to know nothing whatever about it. We go steadily along, feeling our
way carefully, for there is no road, towards Chocolate Hill. I leave
the cars two hundred yards from Chocolate Hill and walk the rest of the
way. I pass men hard at work digging a trench. I arrive at the foot
of the hill and find it congested with all manner and kinds of parts
of units of an army. There are some infantry of our Brigade awaiting
orders—mule-carts with Drabis sitting cross-legged unconcernedly
thereon. Bullets do not appear to worry them. I believe they think
that they are butterflies. A first-line dressing station is chock full
of wounded, and the M.O.’s are hard at work attending to the cases.
Signal stations are tap-tapping and buzzers buz-buzzing. I walk up
the slopes of the hill, wending my way past dugouts all around, to my
right and left and above, in which are H.Q. of various Brigades. I step
over poor, broken dead men, lying nestling in the gorse, and curse from
the bottom of my heart the rulers of the German Empire; and seeing an
officer standing outside a dugout, I inquire for Major O’Hara, of the
29th Division. Am told that he will be back shortly. I then ask for
88th H.Q., and he comes along with me to help me look for them. We find
them eventually, and I learn that rations have been received. I also
learn that the day has not gone well with us, but that we will probably
attack at dawn, and that the 88th will this time be in action. The
Yeomanry, shortly after arriving at Chocolate Hill, had gone up beyond
to our front line under a terrible fire, but in perfect order, quietly
and orderly as if on parade. We had not advanced our position, which
was the same as before the battle. The gorse is burning fiercely on my
right, lighting up the immediate neighbouring country. Several wounded
were caught in it and burnt to death before they could be rescued, but
many were saved, and some gallant deeds were done in their rescue.
Sir John Milbanke, V.C., has been killed. Practically his last words
were, “Great Scott! this is a bloody business.” We go back to the
dugout of D.H.Q., where we find O’Hara and also Bray, the A.P.M. I had
often heard of Bray several years before the war, for my brother-in-law
was his pupil. He asks me if I am any relation to his pupil’s wife, and
so we meet and are introduced.
I hand the kit over to Bray. I am instructed to go back and fetch up
two of the cars loaded with tins of water from “A” trench. As I leave,
a rattle of musketry again bursts out from the jumpy enemy, and bullets
zip past, seeming to come from all directions. Parties which have been
standing about in the open move for cover. I again load up my four cars
with wounded, one case being that of a man who has just been hit in the
leg while digging in the trench that I had just passed. Back at “A”
Beach I apply for water at the water dump, and am told that it cannot
be issued without a chit from the officer. “Where is the officer?” “In
his dugout.” “Where is his dugout?” “Two hundred yards up the beach.”
Arrive at officer’s dugout. Officer asleep; wakened up. “Can’t have
water without chit from Corps.” I reply, “I shall get my water, and
at once, please.” He replies, “What’s that?” I repeat. I am refused a
chit. I politely explain that the reason he is peacefully enjoying his
slumber undisturbed by Turkish bayonets is because our Tommies are in
the front busy seeing that the Turks do not come over our line and rush
the trenches, also that some of those Tommies want water, and that I
have been instructed to take it to them.
The water loaded on two cars, the other two holding kit, off we proceed
once more on our third trip, but, alas! the moon dips down into the
sea. A shout from behind, and a car full of kit overturns in a trench.
It is left with the driver till morning. On we go, first bumping into
large stone boulders, then into large clusters of thick gorse, and two
more cars are finally out of action in deep holes. On I go with the
third car, groping our way across the Salt Lake, for it is now pitch
dark, and at last, when near the advanced dressing station, flames
spurt out from the bonnet of the car, and halting, we find something
afire in the almost red-hot engine. We stop. I walk over to the
dressing station. There is not much firing, only an occasional sing of
a bullet and no shells.
I learn that they are getting water now from a well, but want
receptacles. I off-load my tins from the car into an ambulance-wagon,
which proceeds up to Chocolate Hill, two hundred yards away. We wait
until the engine is quite cool, and then grope our way back; dawn is
breaking, and it becomes gradually lighter. Arriving at my “bivvy,” I
fling myself on my camp-bed and am fast asleep in two seconds.
_August 22nd._
We did not attack at dawn, and so the 88th have not been in action. We
are as we were—yesterday’s battle is not to be recorded as a victory
for us. Machine guns again from right, left, and centre fired from
behind great boulders of stone and hidden hillocks covered with gorse,
and wave after wave of our men were mown down as with a scythe. Twice
we captured the Burnt Hill, but twice were driven off, and Burnt Hill
remains Turkish. The Yeomanry were unable to get to grips with the
enemy: but for gallantry in that march from Chocolate Hill to our front
line, four hundred yards in front across the open in the daylight,
under a hail of shrapnel and machine gun bullets, their behaviour could
not have been excelled.
Their officers represent the best blood of England, and their men good
old country blood of the hunting and farmer class of Old England,
with many a man of good birth in the ranks. How could such men behave
otherwise than gallantly? To-night I take up the remainder of D.H.Q.
kit to their new quarters, not so far forward as Chocolate Hill, to a
rocky hillock covered by gorse, inland from the mainland, a distance of
about a mile in a line with our promontory. The place, if found out by
John Turk, will prove to be a perfect shell-trap, and shells bursting
on solid rock will burst “some.” They will be foolish to stay there.
_August 24th._
To-day we had a terrific thunderstorm; forked lightning all over the
sky and heavy rain, but it lasted only an hour.
We chose a new site further up the side of the slope of the promontory,
yet under cover of a slight rise of ground. The formation of the land
here is full of dips and rises, not noticeable from a distance, and
thereby affording excellent cover, for which we thank Providence. We
have to move, for the Corps Reserve depot is getting such an unhealthy
spot on “A” Beach that it is shortly moving to where we are now.
All day long the battleships pop off at the Turks on shore, the row
from the guns echoing and rebounding with deafening reverberation from
the hills and sides of the promontory.
I go up with rations to our Brigade to-night—a beautiful night—with a
convoy of mule-carts driven by the imperturbable Drabis, who merrily
chant Indian songs. The moon at night simplifies our work considerably.
By day it is dangerous for transport to go far afield.
_August 25th._
It is now four long, terrible months since we landed, and we are still
on the low lands at the three landings. The positions in front of us
are formidable, almost impregnable, and unless the Balkan States are
drawn in on our side, never shall we open the Dardanelles. The task is
now impossible for us, and we have lost our opportunity at the start by
only landing with one Division. Our effort has failed, though we have
made good our landing. The shipping here gets shelled as at Helles, and
this morning a battleship was hit twice.
We can hear heavy firing down at Helles.
_August 26th._
Everywhere everybody is hard at work making dugouts. In the line our
infantry are feverishly making a line of defence, digging night and day
without cessation. “A” Beach gets shelled, but no shells reach our end
of the promontory. Our battleships’ guns roar out continually all day,
as if in sullen anger at the recent failure—at what I am afraid will
be our last effort. My Brigade has moved over from Chocolate Hill, and
is in the line on the low part of the slope of the high hills which
form the left flank, next to the sea, of our position, and Brigade H.Q.
is dug in behind a hillock in a gully which has been called Lone Tree
Gully.
_August 27th._
A violent gale blowing to-day. Carver, Petro, and Phillips are now here
as transport officers.
Work on the beaches now goes on feverishly, night and day. Each day a
new sand-bagged dugout appears. Additions are made to the piers. Two
off West Beach are complete. One further up, towards the end of the
promontory, is being built rapidly and skilfully by a bridging party of
regular Australian Army Engineers. I am told by their warrant officer
that there is a regular Australian Army, but that it is being jealously
guarded in Australia, and that really it is only a framework of an
army. The bridging section, however, at Suvla is part of this. The
fighting army of Australia and New Zealand is voluntary since the war,
yet is superior in fighting qualities to the Prussian Guard.
Further up, towards the end of the promontory, two small beaches or
coves are rapidly being turned into fitting order to receive the steady
requirements of food, ammunition, S.A.A. stores, ordnance, etc., and
piers there are rapidly being thrown out. At night, long convoys of
A.T. carts and pack-mules form up loaded with rations, A.S.C. and
Ordnance stores and ammunition, and proceed along the promontory
towards the mainland. On arrival there they branch off in various
directions to their respective destinations, just behind the line.
Early on their journey they encounter the song of bullets flying from
the Turkish line continually all night. I think that the Turks in the
front line must be given so many rounds of ammunition and told to loose
off in the air in our direction, not aiming at anybody, but firing
blindly in the hope of a victim. Now and again a bullet does find a
victim, but on going up regularly each night one gets so accustomed
to the sound of their flight, that one walks on, taking no notice;
although, if by any chance a rifle is pointing directly your way, even
at a thousand yards’ range, it sounds as if it is fired close to your
head, and almost simultaneously, “whizz-ping,” goes past you very near,
and then unconsciously you duck.
The drivers on the A.T. carts, however, worry about the bullets less
than anybody, remaining sitting on their carts and chanting away
contentedly.
To-night, trouble with water occurs, and I am up with O’Hara and Hadow,
our Staff Captain, at Brigade H.Q. on the job. Our H.Q. now are at
Lone Tree Gully, about four hundred yards behind our front line. One
is quite safe there unless they choose to shrapnel it, but a gully in
front was badly shrapnelled the other day, and the Royal Scots, being
caught in it, were severely mauled. Further back on the road, though,
for some distance one has to walk along through a zone of “overs,” and
two found a target to-night in a sergeant and corporal on transport
duty. As I walk along that road, I am always ready waiting for the
sledge-hammer blow from the unseen hand, always hoping that it will be
a Blighty one, through the soft part of the arm or leg.
A large proportion of our water has to be brought ashore by
water-lighters, pipes leading from them to the shore. Tanks are filled
from the pipes, and all kinds of receptacles filled from the tanks,
such as petrol-cans, milkcans, fantasies, and goat-skins. The cans can
be loaded on to the A.T. carts, while the fantasies and goat-skins
are loaded on to mules, in each case two on a mule, one hanging on
either side. The A.T. cart form of transport is much preferable to the
pack-mule, for the latter is fond of bucking and throwing off his load,
which on a dark night on convoy means great trouble.
The Engineers are hard at work finding wells, but such wells as we have
cannot by any means supply even half of the requirements of water.
After we have turned in to-night we hear a heavy roar of musketry
from Anzac, and soon the battleships and shore batteries join in. It
is a clear night, and the roar of the musketry echoes over the bay
remarkably loudly. I have never heard such concentrated rifle fire so
loudly before.
It lasts for about two hours, and then dies suddenly away to the
incessant crack-crack-crack of the regular nightly rifle fire.
_August 28th._
Gale still high.
To-day, I, with Foley, pay my first visit to a battleship, the
_Swiftsure_. She is easily distinguishable from other ships by two
large cranes in position amidships on either side. I had previously
signalled to Fleet-Surgeon Jeans on board, sending an introduction
to him given me by General Cayley, our Brigadier. A pinnace arrives
for me; we skim over the calm water of the bay, smartly pulling up
alongside the great ship. My quest was a case of whisky for Brigade
H.Q., stuck up in dugouts in Lone Tree Gully, with no chance of getting
any. This is the first time that I have been on a battleship, and as I
climb up the rope ladder, I remember that I had read somewhere that in
the days of Nelson one saluted the quarter-deck when one steps thereon.
As I was first up I did not know whether it was correct, but I did so,
and noticing some Naval officers following me behind also saluting, saw
that I was correct.
They entertained us royally on board. I nearly had a nervous breakdown
when they offered me a whisky and soda. Naval officers cannot be beaten
as hosts.
A howitzer has been potting at us to-day, a good many of the shells
going right over the cliff into the sea on the other side.
Convoy work again at night to Lone Tree Gully, and a chat with the
General in his dugout. A lovely moonlight night, and calm again after a
three days’ beastly gale.
_August 29th._
Go to D.H.Q. in the morning, who have now moved back to a gully
alongside Corps H.Q., nicely dug in the side of a hill near us. Their
quarters, as well as those of Corps, are built amongst the green gorse,
which, with paths running in and out and terraces about, makes a
lovely garden. Very nice conditions under which to work. I am writing
this on the heights of the shale cliffs of the northern promontory of
Suvla Bay. The sea is calm and a deep, lovely blue, suddenly changing
to green at the foot of the rocks. Suvla Bay, with Salt Lake and the
wooded and gorsed low land and the hills and the mountains in the
background, are laid out in beautiful panorama. Achi Baba can be seen
in the distance south, and I have been so used to seeing it from Cape
Helles that the view is quite a novelty.
Off the bay are three battleships, supply ships, and trawlers,
lighters, etc. An aeroplane is humming overhead, and our guns on shore
are continually barking away, while little puffs of shrapnel from the
Turkish batteries burst over and about the wooded low lands, Salt Lake
and Chocolate Hill, where our front line runs, denoted by the crackle
of musketry.
The view is most interesting, the brownish-green gorges—leading to the
sea—with their clouds of dust denoting the industry within. Behind me,
purple Turkish hills, every point of which is held by the enemy. Then
in between our line and the hills the scrubby low-lying country, all
buff and green, the cultivated land, and the olive groves. I look at
it hopelessly—for I know now, as we all do, that the conquest of the
Peninsula is more than we can hope for. All that is left to us is to
hang on day by day. It is anything but a cheery prospect. Death in
various forms walks with us always; the sad processions of sick and
wounded—chiefly the former—move down to the hospital ships every day;
we see all our best friends taken, one after the other—and to what
end? The golden chances have been allowed to slip by; we can never win
through now—so we have to “cling on” to the bitter end.
_August 30th._
A beautiful day again! Turkish batteries very busy all day. Shrapnel
and high explosive shell, and also duelling between Fleet and land
batteries. Otherwise all quiet, nothing doing. Brigade moves down from
trenches to “A” Beach West, and news that we are to go to Imbros for a
rest is circulated. Enemy aeroplane swoops over like an evil-looking
vulture and tries to drop bombs on Fleet, but has no direct hit to
record.
At nightfall Brigade starts to embark, ready to sail at daylight.
Officers have cabins, and so I am enabled to have a sleep. Am suffering
from one of my beastly colds, however.
Nice to get away, after the disappointments of that worst of all
months, August, when we had expected so much.
[Illustration: A CAPTURED TURKISH TRENCH, SUVLA BAY.]
[Illustration: A VIEW OF SUVLA BAY.
Sari Bair (well behind the Turkish lines) can be seen in the background
to the left of the picture.]
_August 31st._
Arrive at Imbros at 8 a.m., and Brigade proceeds to camp on the low
land by the sea. I mess with the General and Staff, and again parcels
arrive opportunely with masterpieces of cakes and sweets, which are
seized by the mess waiter and daintily served up at table.
Oh! the relief to get away from shell fire and the chill atmosphere of
death in its crudest form.
SEPTEMBER
_September 1st._
Start off with my man Lewington on donkeys and a pack pony across the
hills, over a stony, narrow path, with three little boys in charge
of the animals. The way is sometimes over and sometimes round a line
of irregular, conical-shaped hills, some almost mountains, covered
with thick green gorse, large boulders, rocks, and small stones. The
few valleys are beautifully wooded and dotted with vineyards growing
luscious dark grapes, and also groves of fig-trees.
One gets glimpses of the blue Ægean now and again, and the distant
Isthmus of Gallipoli and the Island of Samothrace, with the coast of
Bulgaria still further off. After two hours’ trek, during which I felt
as if I was a character in the Scriptures, we sighted the village of
Panaghia, and we had a sporting trot down a narrow, sandy, steep path.
One little boy on a donkey, who joined us, raced me and beat me by a
short neck. Poor old Lewington was hanging on to his moke with a pained
but polite expression on his face, and heaved a sigh of relief when we
arrived at the village.
We pulled up at the Grand Britannia Hotel, recently so named by a
Greek. It is a little broken-down house, having on the ground floor a
boot shop, and on the first and top floor two small bare rooms.
After a meal of partridge, omelettes, and honey, with German beer to
drink, I am taken out to an empty house, and shown to a room furnished
only with a bench.
My man slept on the landing and I in the room, and I soon fell fast
asleep. At midnight I am awakened by certain creepy insects. I light
candles and awake my man, and we conduct a massacre. Our landlord
arrives on the scene much disturbed, and places my bed in the centre of
the room, whereupon I turn in again and sleep peacefully for the rest
of the night.
_September 2nd._
Awake in the morning with the sun streaming in and with the sounds
of cocks crowing and chickens clucking. Looking out, the view of the
conical beautiful hills makes me almost catch my breath, and, God bless
my soul! a Greek peasant maiden, beauteous to look upon and fair of
complexion, is feeding her pigs and chickens.
After breakfast at the Grand Britannia Hotel (sounds like the Ritz,
London, doesn’t it?), Duff, of all people, rolls up with Munro. We all
lunch together, and then roam round the village, buy a few things, and
take photographs.
After tea, Duff goes on to Castra, by the sea on the other side of the
island, and Munro and I go back to camp. It is beautiful riding back
through the hills in the late afternoon. Perfect day and colouring
gorgeous. Nearing camp we get a fine view of Gallipoli. All is so
peaceful where we are, but just over that narrow strip of sea, war
rules in its most horrible form.
Have dinner with Cox, of the Essex, who turns in at 8.30, and I go back
to Headquarters and have an after-dinner smoke with the General and
Staff, sitting round a little table in the marquee lit by candle-light.
_September 3rd._
Start off with Phillips on a donkey and pony respectively over the
hills again. A gorgeous morning, and it is good to be alive. Peasants
give us delightful grapes as we ride along. Sheep are grazing, their
bells tinkling, with a few cows and bullocks, and now and again a covey
of partridges rises.
Arriving at Panaghia, we have a bottle of beer, and then go on along
the road to Castra, by the sea. Castra is situated on a high hill
overlooking the sea, with a few fishermen’s huts on the beach.
The Isle of Samothrace, which is a cluster of mountains rising sheer
from the sea, lies opposite. The sea is dead calm, and of a gorgeous
blue. A few fishing boats lie in a tiny little harbour on the right of
the little bay, which is flanked by hills. In the background are more
hills and low wooded valleys, and we feel as if we had stepped into the
Garden of Eden.
Duff is here, and we have lunch, after which Duff returns to camp.
Phillips and I go up on the cliff and have a delightful sleep.
Everything is dead quiet, and there is not a cloud in the sky. We are
right away from the world, and the scene before us—that of the blue
Ægean with Samothrace a few miles away—has not changed for thousands of
years.
After tea, we have a bathe in beautifully clear, warm water, and no
rocks. The evening closes in, and the colouring thrown by the declining
sun on Samothrace is beautiful. A boat with a square sail comes sailing
home, looking like “the return of Ulysses.”
After dinner we turn in and sleep on the floor of the veranda.
_September 4th._