VARIOUS BOMBARDMENTS
Every morning regularly the Turks commenced shelling us punctually at
eight o'clock, presumably after they had had breakfast, and again at tea
time. They generally continued for a couple of hours, and these hours
were always lively ones for us, and it was a daily occurrence to lose
men, horses and mules.
On the 16th May, eleven Frenchmen, who happened to be close to our
lines, were killed instantly by one shell, on the 17th one of my horses
was wounded, and on the 19th the second was hit in the ribs by shrapnel.
The Turks often switched off from us and bombarded a section of the road
used by wagons, gun-teams and motor cyclists. The latter were, to me,
the chief wonder of Gallipoli. I ride a motor cycle myself, and have had
a few smashes, so can fully realise its dangers.
I was introduced to this convenient form of locomotion by Dr. Rolleston
after a breakdown in health. It is the most wonderful tonic I have yet
come across, because the moment one gets on to the bicycle one's
attention is so centred on keeping it going, picking out the smoothest
bits of road, avoiding collisions, etc., that I veritably believe the
treachery of one's closest friend would, for the moment, at least, fade
from the memory. I am perfectly certain that the Gallipoli motor
cyclists never gave a thought to absent friends; they were much too busy
avoiding pitfalls and shells. They flew over the most uneven ground,
took small trenches as it were in their stride, and were generally the
most dare-devil set of boys I have ever seen. Many a time we stood and
watched through our glasses this dangerous strip of road which the Turks
had got the range of to a yard. As the wagons, gun-teams and cyclists
approached it, they would get up the pace, and fly through it at top
speed. The narrow squeaks that we constantly witnessed on this bit of
road were enough to make one's hair stand on end! Yet I am glad to say I
only once saw a man struck down. It looked so sad--the moment before so
full of the joy of life, and then, just a little, huddled heap, lying
still and quiet on the dusty roadway.
On May 20th, the Turks bombarded us for several hours; five of my men
were wounded, two seriously, one of the poor fellows having his leg
smashed to atoms. The same day I had five mules and one horse killed and
ten mules wounded. The Horse Artillery, camped round about us, also
suffered rather severely, for the Turks every now and again switched
their batteries on to their lines and caused them heavy losses. It was a
busy time for Lieutenant Fisher, the Veterinary Surgeon of the Horse
Batteries, who kindly came to our aid whenever the Zion mules got
"strafed."
When this bombardment broke upon us, everybody made a rush to get his
horse, mule or himself out of danger, and many were the curses heaped on
the Turkish gunners, who were universally consigned to the warmest place
of which we have ever heard. It makes me laugh even now when I think of
a little comedy that took place between Rolo and his groom. The latter,
whose name was Dabani, was a most comical looking little fellow, with
bandy legs, a swarthy face, and little black beard sprouting in patches
here and there. He was an Israelite from Arabia, and although an
excellent fellow in many ways, he was more renowned for his piety than
for his courage. You could always tell the intensity of a bombardment by
the fervour of Dabani's prayers. On this occasion, when the shells
began to burst and spatter the shrapnel all round us, Rolo shouted to
Dabani, whom he saw scuttling off for safety, to come back and look
after his horse. "What, look after your horse now?" cried Dabani. "This
is a time when I must look after myself," and taking not the slightest
notice of Rolo's angry maledictions, he, with rabbit-like agility, dived
for safety into his dug-out!
This bombardment badly shook some of my men, and among them Schoub, my
farrier, who, the moment he felt it safe to emerge from the nethermost
depths of his dug-out, came in a state of abject terror to Gye, begging
piteously to be sent back to the bosom of his family in Alexandria,
because, he remarked, "I am no use here now. The shells have made me
stone deaf. I cannot hear a word." "What," said Gye, in a low voice,
"not a single word?" "Not a single word," replied Schoub!
It was many months before he returned in safety to Alexandria, and by
that time bombardments had become so common that they had ceased to
terrify.
On the 2nd June, I was returning with Claude Rolo from an expedition
which we had made to the Gurkha trenches on the extreme left of the
line. Before we had got very far on our way heavy howitzers began to
bombard the Turks, and as we were just then passing an artillery
observation post, hidden away in a cross trench, we turned aside and
went into it. From here we could see our high explosive shells bursting
with terrific effect on the Turkish trench, which was only about three
hundred yards away. The Artillery Observation Officer telephoned back to
the guns the result of each shot, and under his guidance the shells soon
battered down the earthworks, pulverising everything where they fell.
Soon, however, some sharp-eyed Turkish gunner spotted our observation
post and began to plug at us pretty rapidly. Shells hopped off the
parapet, shrapnel struck the steel shield, fuses and fragments of all
kinds thudded into the bank behind our backs, and we seemed for the
moment to be living in a little tornado of lead and iron. When this had
continued for a few minutes, I remarked to the gunner man: "What on
earth are the Turks trying to hit?" "Hit us, of course," he somewhat
shortly replied.
Now, so long as we remained here in the deep trench we were
comparatively safe, but as I wanted to get back to camp, I thought I
would pull the gunner's leg before leaving him; he had no idea who we
were, for we were in our shirt sleeves as usual, so I pretended to be
thoroughly scared, and said: "Good heavens, this is no place for me!" on
which he smiled the smile of a brave man who feels pity for a poltroon.
There were some twenty yards or so of open ground to be covered the
moment we left the shelter of the observation post, and, of course, this
was a really dangerous strip, because it was exposed to the fire of the
Turks, and had therefore to be covered at top speed. The only way of
accomplishing this in safety was to do it in between the shells, and as
there was only a couple of seconds between each, the plunge out had to
be made the instant one burst, so as to be under cover before the next
arrived. Warning Rolo to follow me after the next explosion, out we
darted. We had almost reached safety when I heard coming after us the
scream of an approaching shell. I shouted out to Rolo, "Jump for your
life!" and at the same time threw myself down, and the last thing I saw,
amid the dust kicked up by the shower of shrapnel bullets, was Rolo
plunging head foremost into a ditch, as if he were taking a dive!
We were neither of us hurt, but a stone thrown up by the shell struck me
on the hand and drew a little blood. We both congratulated ourselves on
our lucky escape and got back to camp with whole skins, none the worse
for our close shave.