the reserve supplies there. To-night we issue to the 88th Brigade only,
and the work in consequence is quickly finished. The distance to the
line is now short for the A.T. carts to take the rations up, for the
best part of their journey is made empty, namely from the lines at the
end of the promontory to our dump in the C.R.E. nullah. The journey
back to their lines from the trenches is now made with empty carts, for
all forward stores have been evacuated. There is no doubt that the Turk
hears the carts approaching to the various cookhouses, for the carts
rattle and the various parts of the harness clank loudly. Their sound
is certain to be heard by him in his front line, for the nights here
are so still. The Turk fires over towards the direction where he knows
the roads lie, hoping to claim a casualty in mule or man.
The late two Brigade H.Q. are now uninhabited and closed, and whoever
opens the doors of the several dugouts will be blasted immediately into
eternity by bombs attached to the doors, seats, and cupboards. I see my
Brigade close by our dump in the C.R.E. nullah, and the atmosphere is
cheery and full of confidence. Crack, crack, crack the rifles in front
sing away. I hear one bullet pass, but the few bullets that reach this
nullah are spent in force and drop harmlessly to the ground.
Major Bailey, as cheery as ever, calls in our dugout when we arrive
back, and we give him a good dinner of tinned roast fowl and champagne
before he embarks with his Field Company. I go down again to “Y”
formation post, and the scene there is the same as last night, shadowy
columns of men arriving in good order, lying down to await telephonic
instructions to proceed to the beach. The beaches are full of hundreds
and hundreds of men moving in single file along the piers and up the
gangways and on board ship, while at little coves near by lighters are
busy feverishly loading with animals, baggage, and remaining equipment.
_December 16th._
Still no change on the beaches. Still the same fitful white puffs of
Turkish shrapnel over the wooded lowland. Still the “ration” allowance
of Turkish high explosive on to the beaches. And yet tons and tons of
stores and equipment have left, and thousands of men from here are now
safe in the camps at Mudros. A light north-east breeze is blowing with
bright sunshine, and it is very clear. The conditions, for our scheme,
are perfect. Our second line is now crowded with troops, who remain
well under cover during the day. Water for these is a difficulty, as
there are no wells close handy and it has to be carted up to them daily
from the beach. Five 80-gallon tanks are fixed in position along this
line, which are kept full of water as an emergency. Our front line is
but thinly held, and all who pass between this second and front line
must keep to the roads, for the country is freely strewn with all
devices of trip-bombs, which await the Turk should he discover what
we are up to, immediately after we evacuate the front line, and come
on to give us battle. As yet I am certain that he knows nothing, so
well are our Evacuation Staff working. And the last night—“Z” night—is
approaching very near now. I believe to-night is “W” night. I issue as
usual, and visit Brigade H.Q. Take a stroll on the beaches after dinner
to view the scene of men and animals quietly disappearing off the land
that we have shed so much blood in conquering, and then I go off to bed.
_December 17th._
Early this morning we have showers of rain, which are followed by a
southerly breeze, quickly blowing them away. Brilliant sunshine makes
the day quite hot. During the night I receive orders to issue two days’
rations to-night to the 88th Brigade and the rest of the Division,
and afterwards to embark with all A.S.C. details along with D.H.Q. I
am down on the beach in the afternoon getting our kits shipped off.
At five o’clock the Turks open fire with two guns on to the beaches
and beach roads, and the first few cause casualties. The shells are
first-class, and burst with a deafening crash. One gun is on Sari
Bair and the other is on the hills on the left of Anafarta. They
continue until shortly after dusk—about 6.20 p.m. Five minutes after,
the beaches are alive with men once more, and the work of evacuation
proceeds energetically. This bout of shelling makes us anxious, as it
would appear that our plot has been discovered. I go up to C.R.E. dump
and issue two days’ rations to the 88th Brigade and the few remaining
odd units. We leave the balance of the reserve supplies. They are
too near the line to be burnt on the last night, and we leave them
as a present of thanksgiving to our enemy, the Turk, who has “played
the game” throughout the campaign. I say good-bye to the Brigade and
express the hope that I shall see them all safe and well in Egypt,
where I believe we are going for a good rest and refitment. Nobody can
deny that the 29th deserve it.
I go back and have a last meal with Horne. Our camp will be deserted
to-morrow, yet if an enemy aeroplane sails over, no change will be
noted. Our dugouts are left standing intact. I, with the details, go
down to “Y” forming-up post, and there meet, as on previous nights,
parties and companies of men arriving. I call the roll of my men, and
am instructed by the Adjutant of the C.R.E. to fall my men in behind
the D.H.Q. party when the order is telephoned up from West Beach. A
wait of three-quarters of an hour. We hope no shells will arrive. Horne
comes up to say good-bye to me. I wish him good luck, not envying him
his wait of forty-eight hours.
To-night is “X” night. The order from the beach arrives. All are called
to attention. We march off, through the Main Supply depot, down into
the trench, over the open space of West Beach, along the pier. A short
pause here, of ten minutes, and then in single file we pass up the
gangway over the sunken ships which act as a breakwater to the little
harbour, and so on board a paddle-steamer. In half an hour she is
full. It is a lovely moonlight night. We steam out into the bay, come
alongside a small steamer, and file on board her. I go up on deck and
view the scene of Suvla Bay by moonlight. I can hear the crack of the
rifles from inland—and also voices from the beaches; now and again a
torch is flashed as a lighter crunches upon the beach. With a soft
swishing sound, a lighter glides past us to some other ship. The whole
bay and foreshore is bathed in moonlight, and as I look, all those
eight months of hardships, gloom, and danger pass in review before me.
A feeling as of a great burden being lifted off my mind comes over me,
and a sense of extreme gladness that at last the long-drawn horror is
past—and what horror! “Never again!” I think to myself. “Never again!”
I look towards Anzac and notice that the whole sky is aflame—the stores
are alight. Probably a stack of supplies which has caught fire by
mistake. And then, as I look, a curious mist arises, low at first, off
the sea—as if with an invisible hand, a cloudy cloak is slowly draped
over the whole Peninsula. First Suvla, then Anzac and the coast line
become blotted out, and I see now nothing but a grey mist. Suvla Bay
and its horrors, its hopes, and disappointments are lost to my sight
for ever—for by the time the mist has dispersed the ship has moved away.
_December 18th._
After a good night spent on the floor of the wardroom, lying on my
“British warm” with my cap as a pillow, I wake up about 7 a.m.,
wondering where on earth I have got to. I hear that now delightful
sound, the pulse of ship’s engines, and know, with a happy feeling,
that I am sailing on a ship to the friendly waters of the harbour of
Lemnos. No breakfast is to be had, for all troops, officers and men,
except myself, have embarked with rations. Stupid of me to forget
myself, when it was my job to see that all troops went off with
rations. I explore the ship and cadge a topping breakfast of eggs and
ham off one of the crew. I go into his cabin and eat it on the Q.T. At
twelve o’clock Lemnos heaves in sight, and at one o’clock we enter the
harbour. It is all but five months since I was here last, and the camps
have doubled and trebled their size, and doubled and trebled their
number. As we pass the French and British battleships, Monitors, and
destroyers, the respective crews come to the sides of their ships and
gaze with interest at us. But there is no demonstration. When I last
passed these ships, five months ago, the crews cheered us, and cheered
again as we passed out to war. Now they look on, gaze at us, and say
nothing. It seems almost a reproval. We take up our moorings amongst
other small ships which have come with troops from the Peninsula, and
after a brief delay are transferred with baggage to the _Southland_.
Ah! this means sailing for Egypt, probably. Egypt! It will be like
sailing home. The _Southland_ was the boat which was torpedoed early in
September. I go and look at the damage that was done. A great hole was
torn in one of her holds, and it was lucky that she was able to reach
Lemnos, fifty miles away from the spot where she was hit.
We learn that the 86th have passed to Helles, and soon we are to
follow. Good Lord! This is the unkindest cut of all. So we are not
done with it yet. Well, I don’t suppose the Turks will let us get off
scot-free this time. I draw food for the men on board, and at 7.30 p.m.
go down to dinner. The last time that I dined in this saloon was in
those days in April, just before the original landing. The officers of
the K.O.S.B.’s were dining here then, and their bagpipes played them
in to dinner, many for the last time in their lives. We have a merry
dinner-party with champagne. After, I enjoy the luxury of a hot bath
and then turn in.
_December 19th._
It is topping being on board a nice ship again and back once more
to civilization. I row round with the skipper in the morning to one
or two ships in harbour, and after lunch go over in a pinnace with
some officers to the shore, calling on the _Aragon_ on the way, where
General de Lisle and Colonel O’Hara join us. Firth, O’Hara, and I,
on reaching the land, walk up to a village inshore and buy eggs. It
is delightful being able to stretch one’s legs without having to
carry one’s ears at the “right engage” in expectancy of the whistle
of the enemy shell. We have great fun purchasing eggs from old Greek
ladies—six from one, twelve from another, and so on. When loaded up
with them we get back to the pier, on to a waiting pinnace, and so out
to the _Aragon_, where O’Hara entertains us to tea. We learn that we
are not to be on the Peninsula long—only a matter of three weeks—and
then we and the R.N.D. will be relieved and taken to Egypt. And so the
sooner we are back there, to get it over, the better. We get back to
the _Southland_ and have a cheery dinner, which we make the most of.
To-night is “Z” night, and as we sit talking after dinner we wonder how
the work is proceeding. Last night everything went satisfactorily—no
shelling—and news this morning shows the Turks have spotted no change.
_December 20th._
Suvla is Turkish once more. All troops left without a casualty. The
evacuation proceeded all day yesterday. The scenes on the beaches
appeared as normal as ever. At nightfall all stores that had been
intended to be evacuated had been safely shipped. All that were left
were the skeleton stacks of supplies, waiting to be set alight, useless
ordnance, and the supply of emergency ammunition. The beaches were
shelled as usual in the day. Night fell, and those left on the beaches,
except the Evacuation Staff, were hastened on to the waiting ships.
At dusk a few Monitors and destroyers quietly slipped into the Bay,
standing by in readiness for a Turkish attack.
The ration carts that were left were promptly shipped, not a mule being
left—in fact, every hoof was safely embarked. Then began the last
stage. In succeeding waves the remaining troops fell back in perfect
order to the forming-up posts. In a steady stream they were hastened
off on to the waiting ships, until at last the supreme moment arrived.
The message was telephoned to the line that all troops behind those
few men who were waiting a few yards from the unsuspecting Turk had
left Suvla for good and all. Here and there a man fired his rifle as
a farewell salute to our gallant enemy, but no man was permitted to
fire without an order. With their boots wrapped in sand-bags they crept
back, down the communication trenches, out on to the roads, past the
first gate, which was immediately locked, the news of their passing
being telephoned to the beaches. Past the second likewise, then the
third, and then straight to the beaches; finally on board, and hurried
off with great dispatch when the Evacuation Staff knew from their
statistics that Suvla Bay was free of every Britisher but themselves.
Hastily A.S.C. officers run round the frameworks of the Supply stacks
in the depot with lighted torches, and quickly the supplies are ablaze.
Then a rush is made to the waiting pinnaces, which merrily puff out
to the battleships. Meanwhile the officers detailed to wait at the
casualty clearing station are picked up by pinnaces, for no rearguard
action has been necessary: the Turk was lying ignorant of it all in
his trenches, crack-crack-cracking his rifle. If he had only known! At
last not a living Britisher was left on Suvla or Anzac; every dugout,
nook, and cranny was searched, and it was with great interest that the
Evacuation Staff viewed the scene from the battleships as daylight
broke. The fires burnt fiercely and quickly; Turkish shells came over
as if to hasten the destruction of the fire. Complete success had been
the reward of the excellent work of the Staff.
Still the Turk did not know that we had left. He saw the tents of our
hospitals standing, but the deserted appearance of the beaches must
have made him wonder. The morning wore on. Puzzled, a few venturesome
Turks peeped over the parapets of the trenches. Nothing happened. They
climbed over the top, walked over No-man’s-land into the deserted
trenches, and the secret was discovered. We had evacuated—lock, stock,
and barrel—under their very noses. Down the roads they came in small
parties. A few muffled noises were heard, by which the watchers of this
strange drama from the battleships knew that the bombs that we had laid
cunningly were claiming victims, fighting our battles for us without
our being on the field. And so they came to Lala Baba, and some German
officers, with a characteristic insult to their brave ally, hoisted the
German flag as a token of a German “victory,” though the honours of the
day were with the Turk. He, however, had won not by beating us, but by
our being beaten by Nature—the impregnable fastnesses of the mountains
of Suvla Bay and the Gallipoli winter storms. How a Turk could allow
a German flag to be hoisted is beyond comprehension. One day Germany
will fall shamefully to the dust in the eyes of her Oriental ally, and
Turkey must beware of that day, on which she can expect no mercy.
The last crowded ships arrive at Mudros Harbour. The shore becomes
thronged with Australian troops, who, more fortunate than ourselves,
are bound for Egypt, while we, after lunch, embark on the _Partridge_,
and sail off with our General once more for the Peninsula. It is a
chilling, depressing voyage to Helles, a journey made by me now for the
third time. I hope it will be my luck to make it yet a fourth time, for
that will be after the war. We have a meal off rations that we have
brought with us. The boat is crowded with troops, and they do not seem
very cheery. Night falls. At eight o’clock we see in the distance the
starlights sailing up and down inland, on the Peninsula, though it is
hard to discern the outline of the shore. Soon the lights of a hospital
ship are discernible ahead. Suddenly, two flashes are seen, one after
the other, from the Asiatic side; two booms of guns are heard, about
fifteen seconds after, followed by two piercing shrieks, and the shells
burst with a bright flash of flame on “W” Beach. And so we are in it
once more. Shortly after, we see the dim outline of the shore. We heave
to and anchor off “V” Beach. After a wait of half an hour, lighters
come alongside, on which we get and are towed to a pier running out
from “V” Beach, which now, in addition to being protected from the
strong currents of the Dardanelles by the _River Clyde_, is protected
from the outer sea by a sunken French battleship, the _Massena_. In
consequence, the water inside the pier is like a millpond, while
outside a heavy swell washes against the sides of the two ships. I am
on “V” Beach once more. It does not seem to have altered much since I
left on August 20th last, but appears perhaps more orderly than it was
then. More light railways are about.
Foley is there to meet us, and it is good to see him safe and well. Up
to a fortnight ago, he tells me, it was very quiet on the Peninsula—in
fact, they have been playing football matches in the aerodrome, and
on shore, in a large dugout, the band of the R.N.D. have been giving
concerts. But lately two guns from Asia have been throwing over at odd
intervals of the day 8-inch Naval shells, and life on the beaches is
becoming jumpy again. Also some new guns have been placed in position
on the slopes of Achi Baba, which have been worrying the rest camps
further inland. He tells me that the Turkish ammunition had improved in
quality. This was what we had found at Suvla, due to Bulgaria’s entry
into the war as our enemies and the opening of the road from Germany
to Constantinople. The war will not end before this road is cut by the
Allies. We shall never succeed now in forcing the Straits, and so this
road will never be cut in this manner. We must, however, hang on to
this end of the Peninsula, and I pity the troops who will be detailed
for duty to do so through this winter. It will not be the 29th, for
shortly we shall again be leaving, and this time for good. Three weeks,
I think. Three weeks only on “W” Beach, the bull’s-eye of a target.
_C’est la guerre!_ As we march up on to the Helles Plateau we notice
fires burning in the distance up the coast of Suvla—the Suvla Supply
depot and other stacks still burning.
On arrival on the high ground on the left of “W” Beach looking inland,
I turn into the same dugout which used to be our home in the early
days of this “round in circles” campaign. Matthews is there to welcome
me, and a new officer named Harris. As I turn in, I think of our old
dugout at Suvla, now occupied in all probability by sleeping Turks.
How strange! During the night I am awakened at intervals by loud
explosions. Only Asia firing on “W” Beach at intervals. One bursts on
the slopes of our cliff, and large lumps of earth fall on our tarpaulin
roof.
_December 21st._
I am awakened by a few shells bursting on the beach. After breakfast
I meet our new C.O., Colonel Huskisson. I dined with him in Ritchie’s
dugout in May last, when he was O.C. Main Supply depot. I learn that
the beaches get shelled now heavier than they were ever shelled
before. During the morning I walk inland with Bell along the light
railway system, which runs from the beaches and branches in several
directions over the Helles Plateau, for a distance of about a mile.
Mules pull small trucks up from the beach to the high ground behind the
beach, where the mules are unhitched and the trucks, with their own
momentum, run down the plateau, which is on a gentle slope. Bell’s idea
is to have a Supply depot at the end of the railway on the plateau,
and to issue from there to Horse Transport, which will come up one
wagon at a time. Should transport collect in any spot on this plateau
it immediately draws shell fire. I am struck by the way transport goes
about in daylight and under observation from the enemy, certainly not
in long convoys, but in single wagons or two or three together. Achi
Baba looks more formidable than ever, and bleaker. In fact, the whole
tip of the Peninsula looks far more cheerless than when I was here last.
A strong southerly wind is blowing this morning. This afternoon we have
rain, and as night falls our “rest trenches” are sloughs of mud, for
hardly any work appears to have been done on a system of drainage and
the men have no roofing whatever. In fact, at Helles corrugated iron is
practically nil, although at Suvla we did have a small supply. Do they
honestly believe that they can hang on this tiny tip of land during the
winter?
Just beyond the end of the railway, the ground is thickly lined with
camps, consisting of rest trenches. These now lead right up to the
system of deep trenches forming our front line. Behind where I am
standing at the end of the railway, at a distance of three hundred
yards, there stands a very large hospital of tents and huts. This could
be destroyed utterly by Turkish shell fire in half an hour, yet it
stands untouched. No large bodies of troops or transport are allowed to
collect or pass near, of course, but small parties of two or three may
pass by. D.H.Q. is about two hundred yards behind, dug in, in trenches.
On their left is the West Coast road, overlooking the sea. The 87th are
in the line, and a part of the 86th, the remainder being in rest camp
trenches. The 88th have of course not yet arrived. Our artillery are
practically in the same positions that they were six months ago.
_December 22nd._
It is quite calm now and a fine day; thus we are given an opportunity
of digging the mud out of the trenches and to work on a system of
drainage. But we want roofing badly. Unlike “V” Beach, now a perfect
harbour, safe against almost any sea, “W” Beach at the first heavy
swell becomes impossible for landing any supplies. Engineers are
busy as usual on the piers, not on construction, but on the work of
repairing the damage done by each spell of rough sea. The storm that
we experienced at Suvla did not spend its fury on Helles, though they
felt the outskirts of its force here—so much so that the flimsy piers
off “W” Beach were almost washed away, and for the time we depended on
the courtesy of our French Allies to land stores and supplies on “V”
Beach. No. 1 Pier here, however, is fairly safe, for we have two small
ships sunk at the end, set at an angle, forming a breakwater; but they
are too small to make the harbour as secure as the one at “V” Beach.
We should have sunk ships six times as large. All along the shore off
“W” Beach lighters lie three deep, washed up by past spells of rough
weather.
The scheme of having our divisional Supply dump inland has fallen
through, as it is too near D.H.Q. and would be sure to draw shell fire,
which is becoming more and more frequent and effective. We draw at dusk
from Main Supply depot, and at night issue from our divisional dump in
an unsafe spot on the far side of the back of “W” Beach, having to be
careful not to show too many lights. Asia keeps us on the _qui vive_
all day, and too much activity on the beach will always draw a spell of
shelling. A cloudy evening. At 11 p.m. the 88th Brigade arrive.
_December 23rd._
It is a fine, cold day. We now walk about on the beach with our ears
always listening for the sound of a gun from Asia or Achi Baba, upon
hearing which we get ready to fling ourselves to the ground or dive
into a dugout. I go along to the H.Q. of the 86th and 88th Brigades,
both built in the side of a cliff just this side of “X” Beach and
almost opposite our D.H.Q. Their dugouts are delightfully cosy little
houses; they are practically safe from shell fire and form a great
contrast to Divisional H.Q., dug a little way to the right in trenches
which are in full view of the enemy and in danger of a shell dropping
plumb on to them at any moment.