Chapter IV: Part 4

Our train is in camp now on the high ground on the left of “W” Beach looking inland, and have made very good lines. All the men have built little shelters out of wagon-covers, sail-cloths, and tarpaulins, in rows opposite their horse lines, the whole looking like a well ordered gipsy encampment. I made myself very unpopular there to-day by saying, “You won’t ’arf cop it in a day or so when John Turk finds you out.”

Saw General Hunter-Weston making a tour of the beaches to-day. He appeared in very good spirits. Our trenches in the front line are now getting quite deep, and sand-bagged parapets are being rapidly built. The Gurkhas do not like trench warfare at all, and cause much anxiety to their white officers by continually popping their heads over to have a look round. The Turkish line has crept much nearer to ours since the last battle, and they are also rapidly digging in. A party of Gurkhas were ordered out to capture a machine gun in an emplacement on an advanced knoll in front of the Turkish right and our left. The gun was captured, and one little Gurkha brought back a Turk’s head, and it was difficult to make him part with it. Heavy firing broke out at eleven o’clock to-night and lasted an hour or two.

_May 12th._

It is raining hard this morning, and very cold as well. I visit the Senegalese camp at “V” Beach. They are physically very well built men, well up to the average of 6 feet in height. They are as black as coal, with shiny faces, like niggers on Brighton beach, and very amusing in their manners. At the last battle they charged magnificently with horrible yelling, frightening the poor Turk out of his wits. They are equipped with wide, square-bladed knives about 14 inches long.

Wireless news is now typed and published nearly every day. To-day we hear that the _Lusitania_ has been sunk and that Greece and Italy are likely to come in. An extract from a Turkish paper says that we have been pushed into the sea, and almost in the same paragraph that “the foolish British will persist in attacking.”

We have quite a comfortable little house now at our Supply depot on the beach, made out of boxes with a sail-cloth overhead.

Hardly any firing to-day. Shore batteries remarkably quiet, but Fleet firing intermittently.

_Afternoon._

Go to Brigade H.Q. in the afternoon and find the rest camp at the white pillars an absolute quagmire of mud, many of the dugouts being half full of water. Two 60-pounder guns are now in position on the cliff to the west of “W” Beach, and this afternoon I go up to have a look at them firing. Their target is at a range of 9,600 yards, well up on the left shoulder of Achi Baba, and an aeroplane is up observing for them. The flame of the explosion shoots out some feet from the muzzle and from the breach also, and makes a terrific roar, which echoes all round the ships lying off, the sound playing ducks and drakes from one ship to another. One can see with the naked eye the shell hitting its target on Achi Baba. Our Fleet gets busy again, and later the batteries on shore join in, and a bombardment starts. At 6.45 p.m. the Gurkhas come into action on the left, and quite a big battle develops. We can just see the men through glasses. Crowds from the beach flock up on to the high ground to have a look, getting into direct line with the 60-pounders, much to the Gunner Officer’s annoyance, and police finally are posted to keep them out of the way. A shell exploding with a black burst over our heads, but very high, causes the watching crowd to scatter in a somewhat amusing fashion. Gregory and I move forward to a trench in front and look at the battle through glasses. All I can see now is a host of bursting shells on the left and intermittent shelling on the right and centre. Suddenly another of these black devils of shells bursts over our heads and covers me with small hot cinders which sting. We go back to dinner whilst the battle is still going on.

_May 13th._

At two o’clock this morning I was awakened by a most curious noise. It sounded like thousands of men off “V” Beach crying and shouting loudly. Shortly after I see searchlights, about eight of them, flashing from the battleships at the entrance to the Straits. The noise goes on for about half an hour and then suddenly ceases. I stand for a few minutes puzzling what it is, and watching the searchlights still wielding their beams of light around, and then turn in again.

At 6 a.m. I am told that the _Goliath_ has been torpedoed and sunk. A Turkish destroyer came down the Straits and got her clean amidships, and she sank in half an hour. I hear that half the crew is lost. The destroyer, if seen at all, disappeared in the darkness. Poor old _Goliath_! and it was only the other day that I was watching her in action.

We now move our depot upon the high land on the left of “W” Beach and further inshore, and divide it into four, one for Divisional troops and one for each Brigade. While on this job at 7 a.m. I hear the sound of bagpipes coming nearer and nearer. It is the first time that I have heard bagpipes since I was on the _Southland_ with the K.O.S.B.’s. Sure enough it is the K.O.S.B.’s, “all that are left of them,” some three hundred strong out of the strength of eleven hundred that they landed with from the _Southland_. They come swinging down to the beach with one officer at their head, and to see them marching well behind the inspiring skirl of bagpipes almost brings tears to my eyes. Three hundred left out of a crack Scottish battalion, average service of each man five years. I ride up to Brigade again this morning and find all very quiet on the front. I hear that we were successful in yesterday’s and in last night’s battle, and that the Gurkhas have taken a large important bluff on our extreme left on the other side of the gully.

I bathe in the afternoon, and while enjoying the pleasure of doing side-strokes with the sea having a slight swell on, I hear that terrible rending noise of a 6-inch shell, similar to those that dropped near me the other morning, which “bursts with a bang at the back of the beach.” My bathing is promptly brought to an end, and I go back to my “bivvy.” I feel safer there, somehow, but why I should I cannot explain. But all who have been under shell fire will bear me out in the statement that even if one is in a tent one feels more confident under shell fire than if in the bare open, with the exception, of course, of when one is caught under it going to some definite place or finishing some urgent definite work. Then one’s mind is concentrated on getting to that place or finishing that job. But sitting down on the beach hearing the heavens being torn asunder by an unseen hand, as it were—the noise of the tearing developing into a mighty hiss and shriek, ending in a great explosion which shakes the earth under your feet and echoes far away into the distance, followed by the whine of flying pieces of hot metal, sometimes very near your head—is a most disconcerting and unnerving position in which to find oneself.

For the benefit of those who have been so fortunate as to never have heard a shell burst in anger, a slight description of it may prove interesting. The first thing one hears is a noise like the rending of linen, or perhaps the rush of steam describes it better. This gets louder and louder, and then, as the projectile nears the end of its journey, one hears a whine, half whistle, half scream, and then the explosion. If it is very near there is an acrid smell in the air. One’s feelings are difficult to describe. You duck your head instinctively—you feel absolutely helpless, wondering where the thing will burst, and as you hear the explosion a quick wave of feeling sweeps over you as you murmur, “Thank Heaven, not this time!”

Unfortunately, they have got the range of our beach accurately now, and are beginning to do real damage. The little shells that we had earlier did not frighten us much, but these beastly things make us all jumpy.

Several men have been hit to-day, and about a dozen horses and half a dozen mules killed. All are taking cover as best they can. If one hits this bivouac where I am now writing, this Diary comes to an untimely end.

I wish our aeroplanes could find this gun; it appears so close up to us, and if it takes it into its head to fling these beastly things about all day long, this beach will be untenable. A damned fool near me has just said, “If they go on much longer they will hurt somebody.” I chuck a book at his head.

In France they do get a chance of rest behind the scenes now and again, but here it is one constant “Look out!” and down we bob. After a bout of shelling one imagines shells coming. For instance, when an aeroplane sails over, people duck their heads, as it sounds just like a shell; and then also there are so many ships in harbour that one is constantly hearing the noise of escaping steam, sounding just like a shell.

One of our men has just had the side of his boot torn away; fortunately, however, only the skin of his foot was grazed and bruised.

Fifty horses have now been killed, and three men killed and a few wounded.

Had to go on duty at depot at head of beach. Shelling stopped. Finished duty 6.45. Shell immediately came, and I fell flat behind some hay. After that a few more came over and then stopped.

_May 14th._

Big gun started searching the beach with large high explosive shells at four, for two hours. Every one had to take cover. Aeroplane reconnaissance cannot locate gun, which is a damned nuisance. They come with a terrific scream and burst with a deafening explosion, most upsetting to one’s nerves. We all take cover behind the cliff. Not a soul can be seen on the beaches. All animals are removed to down under the cliff.

Casualties, twenty-three mules and three men wounded.

One piece of shell fell at my feet, and I picked it up, only to drop it quickly, as it was so hot.

After being under fire of such awful shells one laughs at mild shrapnel.

Getting very hot, but perfect weather.

Saw Laird for a few minutes and had a chat with him.

Not much time for writing to-day. Go up to Laird’s “bivvy” and have a long talk with him over old times. He landed on that first Sunday on “S” Beach, and though in the Engineers, had the experience of taking part in three bayonet charges. He was in a neat little dugout when I went up, and was busy looking for a scorpion. I helped him look for it, and it seemed so strange that after all these years we should meet on the Gallipoli Peninsula, and before sitting down to talk of old times should be looking for a scorpion that had got into his dugout.

Scorpions and snakes about three feet long are becoming more numerous here, but I believe they are harmless, except in self-defence.

_May 15th._

All was quiet on the front last night, but to-day there has been one long artillery duel.

I go up to Brigade H.Q. this afternoon, and go round by the road through Sed-el-Bahr this time, because “I don’t like them shells; run as you may, you can’t get away from them.” On the way I passed Ashmead Bartlett riding with a Naval officer. The latter came and had tea with us later, and said he was on the _Implacable_, and Ashmead Bartlett was “bivvying” there as well. He is a correspondent for several papers.

Several battleships which were moored at the entrance move off at nightfall now, after that feat by the Turkish destroyer which sank the _Goliath_.

There is to be a general attack to-morrow night, Sunday. Some of the Tommies do not like attacking at night; they say, “Let us get them in the open, by day.”

The knocking out of a sniper by some of the South Wales Borderers was described to me to-day by one of their officers. Two officers were standing up in their trench by a machine gun, one holding a periscope, when a bullet went through the sleeve of his coat, wounding the officer to whom he was talking. The first officer spotted a sniper bob down immediately after. He then got down in the trench beside the man working the machine gun, and pointed out to him the bush behind which the sniper had crouched. The machine gun was laid on to it. Then the man on the machine gun and the officer took cover, the man holding his hand up to the machine gun ready to pop off. The officer then cautiously raised the periscope over the trench and looked carefully at the lower mirror. He saw in the mirror a head slowly appear above the bush eight hundred yards away, then a rifle lifted. He said to the machine gun man “Fire.” Pop-pop, and the sniper rolled over dead on his side beside the bush.

_5.30._

Two Taubes have just come overhead flying at a great height. Anti-aircraft guns are firing and there is some good shooting, but the Taubes have turned and are going back to the Turkish lines. One of our aeroplanes has gone up.

A beautiful clear day, and one can see in detail the Asiatic side and the Isle of Imbros. No heavy shells to-day so far on this beach.

Invitations to lunch and dinner, etc., go on every day here, and it is a regular custom for men in the firing-line to invite men from the base (only four miles back) to a meal and vice versa. This campaign is quite unique in many ways.

_May 16th._

Perfect day again. Saw Brigade H.Q. and hear they are moving further to the left up in the firing-line, about half a mile beyond Pink Farm.

Hear that our wounded, and French and Australian, have been arriving in great numbers at Cairo and Alexandria. The British are now being sent to Malta. Hear that 20,000 Turkish wounded have arrived at Smyrna, and 12,000 at Constantinople. Put in divisional orders to cheer us up. Fancy a civilized nation sending round statistics of the result of their slaughter to cheer and exhort! Yet it cheered me. Strange how quickly one becomes bloodthirsty and savage.

Fighting proceeding on our right by French. No general attack being made to-day, idea being to strengthen line, push forward steadily by sapping, and then, when in strong position with three or four lines of supports, to make a rush. This will probably happen in a few days now.

Big gun has not been knocked out after all, for we had a dozen of the best over to-day, but I was up in front and so missed it.

Gurkhas on left have pushed forward well up to left of Krithia. Still a few snipers behind our lines on left of Krithia.

We had divine service this morning behind 88th Brigade lines. A service under such circumstances is most impressive, every soul there being within easy distance of a horrible death. It is a lovely morning, and as the soldiers sing the hymns with lusty voices, an accompaniment is provided by the screaming of shells overhead. But the singing continues unabated. Here one hears the same dear old tunes of our childhood, but under what different circumstances! At home, the breeze softly whispering in the trees outside the ancient church, with the shaded light glimmering through the stained glass and men and women mingling their voices in praise to God; and then, out here, the breeze murmurs as at home, the birds are singing and the sun is shining—but over the congregation, the bareheaded rows of khaki figures, even while they sing the same old hymns as of old, the Angel of Death hovers with naked sword. Then the benediction in level tones from the Padre and the service is ended. Surely the most impressive I have witnessed. For here in a double sense one stands face to face with one’s Maker.

_May 18th._

Our Brigade has now moved up about three-quarters of a mile in front of Pink Farm, and I go up this morning to find them. I ride up to, and leave my horse at, Pink Farm, and walk the rest of the way down past a ruined house, on over a small nullah, along the road past a battery up to a white house called Church Farm, where I think it is about time to halt and inquire the way. A few Tommies encamped in this house tell me Brigade H.Q. is two hundred yards further on in the trenches, and I walk on. I notice a Tommy walking in the same direction with a biscuit tin on his shoulder, which he has rubbed over with mud to prevent the sun glittering on it. I continue on in the direction indicated, and hear a few “pings” past my head, but thinking they are the usual spent bullets, take no notice. Suddenly something “zips” past my head, making a row like a huge bee flying at high speed; the noise being unlike the usual “ping” of a bullet passing harmless overhead, I conclude that I am being deliberately fired at by a sniper, and so bend double, and steering a zigzag course, jog-trot across the remaining fifty yards to a nice deep trench. On arrival, I inquire where Brigade H.Q. is, and am directed to a communication trench, which I go along and find myself at length in a square dugout with no roof, in which are General Williams, busy at work with a spade, Thomson, Farmer, and Reave. Concluding my business, and being instructed that the little ruined house in front of Pink Farm is to be the dump for rations, I say good-bye. Thomson says, “Now, Gillam, run like a bunny,” but, those bullets being a bit free at present over the trenches, I follow my own route back and walk along the hindmost trench, which I am told leads to a nullah which goes back in the direction of Pink Farm.

I pass Worcesters and Royal Scots in the trenches, and finally the trench dips down to a wide open space under cover, with a small brook running its course, out of which two nullahs run. This, I am told, has been officially named “Clapham Junction.” Unfortunately, a few shrapnel then burst immediately over “Clapham Junction,” and I therefore go to look for a waiting-room, refreshment-room, or booking-office in which I can take cover until the rain has stopped. I find a “refreshment-room” in the shape of an advanced dressing station, and two officers there very kindly give me breakfast. After breakfast I walk along the nullah, which I learn is now to be called Krithia Nullah, back towards the rear, and when the sound of bullets pinging away overhead ceases, I step out on to a newly made road, which is still under construction by the Engineers, and then come across the Manchesters again in a newly dug trench forming reserve lines. Walking back to Pink Farm, I mount my mare and canter back to the beach. Last night the Turks made a raid on the part of the line held by the Lancashire Fusiliers, endeavouring to capture a machine gun, but very soon gave up the idea. They lost heavily and left six prisoners behind.

Supply depot for my Brigade alone now working smoothly. We draw rations for the whole Division, men and horses, at six o’clock each morning by G.S. wagons. This takes two hours, during which the rations are carted from the Main Supply depot some three hundred yards inland from our depots at the back of “W” Beach, and sorted out to each of the three Brigade depots and the Divisional artillery depot. Breakfast at eight, and at 9.30 I go to my depot again and issue the rations to my units, meeting the Q.M.’s who have arrived with their transport. Receipts for the rations are then given me by the Q.M.’s, who cart them away to their own lines, where their first-line transport is encamped only a distance of three to five hundred yards away on the other side of the beach. At night they are taken up to the various ration dumps, and from there taken the rest of the way to the trenches either by hand or on pack-mules. At the forward ration dumps the work of redistribution is carried on under a continual flight of spent and “over” bullets, and standing there one is in constant danger of stopping one. Up to now several casualties have been caused, but mostly slight wounds. After five minutes one becomes quite used to the singing of the bullets, which sound quite harmless. It is only when an extra burst of fire breaks out that it is necessary to get into a trench or behind some sheltering cover. I ride up in the afternoon to Brigade H.Q., who have now dug themselves into a dry watercourse just in front of Pink Farm. I see General Williams and Thomson. Afterwards I walk up to the trenches where the Worcesters are, up beyond Church Farm, and across that open space. At Church Farm I am told that at this side of the building I am out of aiming distance from a rifle, and can only be hit by an “over,” but that at the other side of the building I come under range, and that it is not wise to loiter in that neighbourhood.

I therefore get across the three hundred yards of open space as quickly as possible, and vaulting into the safety of the trench, I inquire where Battalion H.Q. is, and following the direction given, pass along nice deep trenches with sand-bagged parapets. Trench warfare in dead earnest has now begun, and for the first time I realize what it is like: an underground world, yet not an underground, for one can see grass, flowers, and trees growing, but only close to. Walking from Church Farm to the trenches, I see nothing but lovely country leading up to frowning Achi Baba, and near by, in front, rows and rows of thrown-up earth. No sign of animal life of any kind. Yet once in the trenches I found myself in a world alive with energy—men cleaning rifles, writing letters, washing clothes, making dugouts, laying cables. I pass dugouts, little rooms of earth dug out of the side of the trench; some are cookhouses, some officers’ bedrooms, some messes, and some orderly-rooms, with tables and chairs. All this world has been created underground, and unseen by the enemy, only a few hundred yards away, in the space of a few weeks; and this is trench warfare, materialized by spade and shovel, by hundreds of strong arms, night and day. I come at last to H.Q. Worcester Battalion, and am directed to the mess—a nice dugout roofed in by timber. Major Lang is sitting at a table reading letters from home. I ask for letters for Captain Bush; am told they have been sent down to the beach by an orderly; am offered a drink, talk about the heat, which is getting tiresome now, and hear that soon we are to be served out with pith helmets. I say good-bye and start back. I am in a maze, and have to be directed back to the trench that I jumped into. I vault out and, zigzagging, jog-trot, for I am told to go quickly back to Church Farm, and hear two bullets singing their faint song far away over my head. I come to a nullah, where I find horses and mules in dug-in stables in charge of Roberts, Brigade Transport Officer, just in front of the little ruined house in front of our Brigade H.Q., and arriving there, hear that Thomson has gone back to Hill 138 with the Brigadier. I go back to Pink Farm, mount my mare, and cantering along the West Krithia road, catch them up. On either side of the road are now dug rest trenches, organized as camps—the trenches not as deep as the front trenches, but sufficiently so to keep the men under cover. I trot along the road through one of these camps, and am soon pulled up by an M.P. with the sharp order, “No trotting, please.”

Sed-el-Bahr is to the immediate right of the beach, not in the photograph.]

I ride with Thomson to “V” Beach and the _River Clyde_ comes in sight, seen from the high ground near the lighthouse, which was the Turkish position on April 25th. I hear from him the events of that awful day. How, when the General and Costaker were hit, he was ordered to go back to the _Clyde_ and to take Reave. How he was on one end of the hopper, lying down, and Reave the other, and had to attract his attention and call to him to follow. Then they had to get back over dead bodies and the wounded under a hail of bullets, which zipped overhead or crashed against the hopper and sides of the _Clyde_ with a loud bang. He described the scenes on board the _Clyde_, and the cries of wounded; the arrival of messages on steam pinnaces, signallers at work semaphoring to battleships and transports. And there lay the _River Clyde_, now a haven of rest, with a solid pier built out from shore and alongside it, using its hulk as a harbour. “V” Beach, now a model of an orderly advanced base, under the organizing talent of the French, looked a different place to the “V” Beach that I saw last. We search for Costaker’s grave without success. Two huge graves are on the right of the beach looking seawards—the graves of those soldiers and sailors whose bodies I saw laid out for burial on April 27th, wired round, and with fine crosses erected on each. I ride back with him through the village, past the camp of the amusing Senegalese, and along the new road that leads to “Clapham Junction.” On either side rest camps have developed, composed of lines of trenches and dugouts, sheltered in trees and bushes.

I see several batteries of “75’s,” and one is in action.

Down a slope through trees, and over little nullahs covered with growing gorse-bush, over meadowland past the site of our old Brigade H.Q., till when within sight of our new H.Q. we come into uninterrupted view of Achi Baba, and Thomson then says we had better trot. On arrival, tea is ready, and a new cake has arrived. It had taken three weeks to come out, and yet tasted quite fresh. We have tea in the open, at the bottom of the dry brook, and afterwards I take my departure. On return to “W” Beach, over comes a big shell, and immediately all work is stopped, and one and all, General and private, make for cover. Drivers rush to their lines and untie their mules and horses, and trot, canter, and gallop to the safety of the shore at the foot of the cliffs right and left of the beach. We wait beneath the friendly, sheltering cliffs, and hear the swishing shrieks as the shells hurtle through the air, bursting on the beach and on the higher ground. Then, as one shriek does not end with the crash of an explosion and its noise continues, we look at each other with a certain amount of apprehension, until with a fearful rending it sweeps down on to us, helplessly taking cover on the steep sides of the cliff, and crashes with a deafening roar almost at our feet, as it seems, but really fifty yards away. Immediately there is a rush to more sheltered ground half-way up the cliff, and three forms are seen lying helplessly in the road. One is my staff-sergeant, with a scalp wound and badly shaken, and two are dead, mangled beyond description. Thank the Lord, my staff’s wound is not serious. Well, he is for Blighty now, and good luck to him!

We find the animals—mules and horses—have been strafed rather badly. The lines that they are on are in very exposed positions as far as shell fire is concerned, and it was not possible to get many away, and in consequence the casualties among the poor helpless creatures were serious. Hyslop, our Vet., dispatched all that he could on their last journey with one pull on his revolver, pressed to their foreheads. As a pause came in the shelling, so he rushed out from his dugout and finished off those which were wounded beyond cure, going about the horrid task coolly and methodically, at intervals, being forced to rush for cover to save his own skin, but ever ready, when chance offered, to go back to his merciful task. Though we have been on this Peninsula but a few weeks, the Veterinary Services are efficient beyond praise, and the cases of all animal patients, suffering from the smallest ailments to the most serious of wounds, are dealt with by the Veterinary Officers with the same care as the Medical Corps bestows on human patients.

Looking back on the episodes that occur when the beach is subjected to shell fire, with the fear of getting hit oneself removed temporarily, the humour of them enters into our thoughts and conversation. What So-and-so looked like when he slid down the cliffs. “Did you see Colonel —— dive behind those boxes, or the R.E. General competing in a fifty yards’ sprint with his batman?” If it were possible to record on a cinema film these scenes that are instantaneously caused by the arrival of big shells, without recording the bursting of a shell or the occurrence of casualties, then a film could be produced which would rival in knockabout comedy any film of Charlie Chaplin’s. The French have been fighting this afternoon, and the “75’s” banging away for all they are worth. A very big battle has been going on on the right. Perhaps this is why we have been given a taste of shelling.

_May 19th._

I hear that General D’Amade has gone home, which we all regret. He was very gallant and brave, and was continually with his troops in the trenches. Big gun not very active to-day, thank Heaven. A couple came over, however, while Gregory and I were walking down to the beach. We both dived flat on the ground behind an S.A. ammunition-box—really no protection at all, but any cover is better than none. I got behind Gregory when we fell flat, as his “tummy,” being nice and large, made extra cover for me. I admit I considered only myself at the moment and not Gregory, and the temptation of taking shelter behind his massive form was one that on the instant I could not resist. I told him this, and he got very annoyed with me.

“W” Beach has now been officially named Lancashire Landing, after the Lancashire Fusiliers, who took the beach on the 25th of last month.

The Gurkhas in their last scrap of a few days ago took an important bluff on the left of Krithia, overlooking the sea, and this bluff has now been called Gurkha Bluff.

Just heard that one of our submarines has been up the Sea of Marmora. Not coming back for twenty-one days, it was given up for lost, but reported back safe and sound to-day, having sunk two Turkish destroyers and three Turkish transports. Commander awarded the V.C.

Aeroplanes very active now; tried to get a flight to-day, but failed. They go back to Tenedos each night, and come sailing over the sea back here after breakfast. It is too dangerous for the machines to remain on at the aerodrome here, on account of shell fire.

_May 20th._

Brilliant weather once more. It gets frightfully hot now in the middle of the day. After lunch, had a delightful bathe, and then went to Brigade H.Q. in centre of position. All quiet there, but French made ground to-day on right. French now doing excellent work. At Gaba Tepe, Australians heavily attacked last night by Turks in great force, supported by artillery, including 92 gun. Attack under personal command of Von Sanders. Australians hold their own, the enemy losing heavily, leaving heaps of dead on the field. They come on in the German massed formation, yelling “Allah!” and are literally mown down. I prophesy that Dardanelles will be open by June 30th, if not before.

Hear that they now have a Coalition Government at home.

We now have issued to us regularly in print one sheet containing “wireless news” and local news. The sheet is called the _Peninsula Press_. At times it endeavours to become amusing at the expense of the Turk, but it falls rather flat.

_May 23rd._

This afternoon I walk over with Jennings, Phillips, Williams, and Way to find Major Costaker’s grave, as there is some doubt as to where he has been buried. We had difficulty in passing through Sed-el-Bahr, as the French are very strict about others than French passing through, but an Australian military policeman came to our rescue and passed us through. The French have the advantage in having Sed-el-Bahr, for amongst the ruined houses are several untouched by shell fire, in which they are enabled to make very comfortable quarters. But the best quarters of all are in the large fort which looks over the Straits. The other fort that I have referred to stands back from the beach, on the right-hand side looking seawards. We have our photographs taken, sitting on the muzzle of one of the big Turkish guns at this latter fort; also, to the huge delight of the Senegalese, we take some photographs of their camp, and one of them insists on my being in the group. We meet with no success in finding Major Costaker’s grave, and I can only conclude that he is buried in one of the two large graves down on the beach marked “Gallant dead of the Dublins and Munsters and others.”

On the way back we sit for a while in front of Hill 138 and have a long look at the beautiful country lying between us and Achi Baba. Through glasses we notice some precipitous slopes in front of Achi Baba, and wonder how long the day will be before our troops will be storming them. Not a sign of the enemy can be seen: just now and then little white puffs of shrapnel, now from our guns over their lines, and now from theirs over ours. Now and again the French “75’s” bark out, bang-bang-bang-bang-bang-bang—bang-bang. About as rapid as a machine gun. The F.O.O. (Forward Observation Officer) watches the enemy as a cat does a mouse. Any sign of life in an enemy trench, such as the sight of shovels appearing over the parapet and earth being thrown up, a body of Turks moving across the open behind their lines, or a new communication trench that appears in course of construction, is immediately telephoned to the battery commander at the guns, and before it is possible to count sixty seconds, half a dozen shells burst near or on the target. No target appears too small or too insignificant for them, and ammunition is plentiful. A great pile of shells in boxes is tidily stacked against the walls of Sed-el-Bahr fort, and the stack steadily grows. We are not in the same fortunate position with our ammunition.

On April 27th, when I was at “V” Beach, I saw a “75” battery being hauled up from the shore. I was standing amongst some French soldiers, and one standing next to me turned to me and pointed to the guns, saying “Soixante-quinze, bon—eh?” He looked upon them with pleasure and almost awe. Then I did not appreciate their immense worth, but now I do. We strolled back in the evening, had a peaceful dinner, and at night, but for fitful bursts of rifle fire, all was quiet. Mowatt, my friend of Birmingham days, looks in to have a chat, but his conversation is rather depressing to us all.

If his theories are right, then we are stuck here in front of Achi till the end of the war—or driven into the sea. A listener to one of his arguments puts forward the theory that if we had effected a landing at the Bulair Lines, the Peninsula, being cut off from Turkey in Europe, would automatically have fallen into our hands; but that theory is immediately exploded by the knowledge of the fact that at present Chanak, on the Asiatic side, is the main source of supply, via Maidos on the Peninsula separated as they are from each other by under a mile of the water of the Straits, easily crossed by regular ferries. From Chanak we believe that the enemy receives nearly all his ammunition, stores, supplies, and reinforcements, which are ferried to Maidos and transported from there by pack-mules to their army on the Hill. We have seen convoys of pack-mules now and again on the slopes of Achi Baba, but they seldom show themselves, for fear of the heavy shells from the guns of the Fleet. But they must swarm over each night.

Mowatt says that if an army of ours landed at the Lines of Bulair, it would be flanked on either side by Turkish armies, one on the Peninsula and one on the mainland. Both these armies would be kept in the field by plentiful and safe sources of supply, and our army would quickly find itself in an ever-tightening vice, rendering it in a short time impotent. He argues that once it had been decided to land on the Peninsula we landed at the right place, but that the success of taking the hill might have fallen to our armies if the Australians had landed where the 29th landed, namely at Helles, on the tip of the Peninsula, and if the 29th had landed up the coast behind Achi, where the Australians had landed. The 29th, being a more tried and disciplined machine, would have conquered its way to Maidos, forming a line of steel behind the small Turkish Army (we are told its strength was about 30,000 men on April 25th), and this Turkish Army, being cut off in rear, would have fallen a victim to the oncoming gallant and all-conquering Australians and New Zealanders. The fall of Constantinople would not have been far off, the Straits would have been opened to the Allied Fleets. Another theory is that a landing could then have been effected at Alexandretta, north of Syria, and a march from there could have been made by a strong and overwhelming army of French and British to the gates of Bagdad, and that after the fall of Bagdad we should have been able to link up with the Russian Army. Then there would follow a sweep through Asia Minor to the coast of the Marmora and shores of the Dardanelles, the Fleet would dash up the Narrows to the Golden Horn, and, as the Arabs say, “Turkey mafisch.”

Mowatt appears to have studied the question logically, but it is the Staff’s job to think these things out and ours to do our job in our humble way.

However, he depresses us, and I shall have to go and have a chat to those Naval optimists again.

Sed-el-Bahr is a mass of ruins now, but, however ruined a village may be, one can always picture to a certain extent what it was like in its lifetime. Sed-el-Bahr must have been a very charming place before the bombardment, with its ancient fifteenth-century houses, orchards, and gardens. The fort, evidently fifteenth or sixteenth century, is a very picturesque and massive building, having spacious chambers with the roofs going up in a dome shape—more egg shape though, than dome—made of solid masonry, four or five feet thick. The walls also are just as thick, but the guns of the _Queen Elizabeth_ simply smashed through them like butter.

It is wonderful how the country in our possession to date has changed. Roads are being made everywhere. Pipes lead from wells to troughs. Piers run out from beaches. Sides of cliffs have little dugouts and little houses and terraces, with names given them, such as “Sea View” and “Lancaster Terrace,” such names being officially recognized. Also camps and horse lines are everywhere. Big gun has been shelling “V” Beach to-day; “Y” Beach is now known as Gurkha Beach.

_May 24th._

Perfect day after ten; very heavy rain earlier. My job to draw supplies from Main Supply depot for Division. Rotten job, which starts at six. Brigade not moved.

Hear that Italy has definitely come in. This closes a channel of supplies into Austria and Germany, and is bound to tell in a few months.

Japanese bomb shells experimented with in Australian trenches at Gaba Tepe. They are fired by a trench mortar and have a range of four hundred yards. They have a small propeller to keep them straight, and explode with great violence, blowing trench to bits.

The first one tried fell beautifully in a Turkish trench at two hundred yards’ range, and exploded with great violence. Turks started kicking up a fearful row, and about fifty rushed out like a lot of hornets. Machine gun turned on them and scotched the lot. Great request now on our part for Japanese bomb shells.

News now arrives that two submarines from Germany have got into the Mediterranean through the Straits of Gibraltar, and that they are making for this part of the world as hard as they can go. Most of the Fleet and transports in consequence move off at nightfall for Lemnos Harbour, off the village of Mudros, where our transports concentrated before the landing. Looking out to sea from the beach, the feeling of loneliness engendered by the departure of the shipping is curious—yesterday I looked seawards and the ocean was dotted with warships, transports, etc., pinnaces darted to and fro, all was hurry and bustle, during which one had a comfortable feeling that at our backs were our Naval comrades, ready to help at a moment’s notice; now, less than half the shipping lies off the coast than did a week ago, and a feeling of loneliness, almost of fear, comes over me.

Hindu as well as Sudanese labourers now working on the beach. All the time that they are carrying anything on a cart, with six pushing, one of them, evidently in authority, walks alongside laughing and gesticulating, singing something in a Gregorian chant, to which the others answer by singing three words in a monotone. This goes on all the time and causes much amusement to the Tommies, who of course imitate, whereupon the coolies laugh and sing all the louder.

We have now built a bivouac of boxes on the cliff edge, the right side of the beach looking towards the sea, and from there we obtain a fine view of the scenes on the beach and the road below at the foot of the cliff, which is gradually being widened, built up, and extended round to “X” Beach.

_May 25th._

Woke up in our new “bivvy” this morning. It is very nice up here now, overlooking Imbros. From my bed I see the _Swiftsure_ fire a shot into the water. I get up at once, and looking through my glasses, see her fire another, this time between the _Agamemnon_, which is moored close by, and herself. Torpedo destroyer comes dashing up, and immediately makes big circles round the two ships. A tiny little pinnace slips out with only four sailors on it, and rushes round and round the _Swiftsure_ like a little pup defending its mother. A bugle sounds several times, and men in white swarm out from all kinds of places and stand to stations on the decks.

A submarine has been sighted right among our shipping; it had darted like an evil fish between the _Swiftsure_ and the _Agamemnon_, and the _Swiftsure_ had kept it off.

At one o’clock news arrives that H.M.S. _Triumph_ has been torpedoed off the Australian landing at Gabe Tepe, and it is a terrible shock to us all, coming as it has so soon after the sinking of the _Goliath_. A good many lives were saved—nearly all the crew. No doubt it was hit by the same submarine that attempted to finish off the _Swiftsure_ and _Agamemnon_ this morning. We are all naturally anxious at further developments.

A Turkish battery is shelling the aerodrome on the east side of “W” Beach. Some very good practice is made and one machine is damaged.

This afternoon the same thing starts, and one shell pitches into the sea. If they move their gun five degrees right, they have the range of our “bivvy” nicely.

_May 26th._

It is another perfect day, and it is absolutely ideal at our “bivvy” on the cliffs overlooking the south-west tip of the Peninsula. The sea is perfect, yet while admiring the view we hear the old familiar whistle of a shell, and one comes right over us, “plonk” into the sea. Another soon follows, and we have to go beneath the cliffs, and our aspect of the peaceful view is immediately changed. Shelling lasts half an hour, and after lunch we can come back.

Go up to Brigade H.Q. this morning, and find that South Lancashire Division have been merged with the 29th Division. Laird, quite fit and chirpy as usual, in a topping little dugout near by. Reinforcements arrive to-day, and I show them the way up. One chap asks if there is a chance of his getting into the firing-line. I answer that he will be in the firing-line in half an hour, and, poor chap! he looks queerly at me. He will get used to it, though, in a day. He asked the question as if to show that he was longing, after months of training and waiting, to get there, but had rather a shock when he found it was so near.

Flies, ordinary houseflies, are beginning to be awful pests here, simply myriads of them. People in England do not know what a fly pest is. They make a continual hum as they fly round, there are so many of them. One of our officers named Jennings gets very annoyed with them, and when trying to get a sleep in his dugout of an afternoon, has a few minutes’ indulgence in Hate, not against Germany, but against the flies, murmuring to himself “Gott strafe the flies!” over and over again.

Ritchie, my old H.A.C. pal of the Goring days, who was on the _Arcadian_, turns up at Supply depot and invites me to dinner in the near future. It does not seem so very long ago that we were having a pigeon-pie dinner in our barn at Stoke-on-Thames, when we were both gunners in the H.A.C.

Late in the afternoon shells come whistling over our bivouac once more, well overhead, and burst in the sea near to Supply ships. About fifteen come over, and the transports weigh anchor and clear out of the way, taking up moorings again behind the _Majestic_, which is lying about a thousand yards off the centre of “W” Beach. Evidently the Turks are being “spotted” for at Yen-i-Shehr, where no doubt they have many observation posts which are in telephonic communication with Chanak, further up the Straits, which in turn is in telephonic communication with Turkish H.Q. on Achi. What more ideal conditions for laying their guns could be wished for? It is fortunate for us that their artillery and ammunition are scarce. Were the full complement of artillery against us that the Germans would provide to an army of the same strength as that of the Turks, I think that we should, as things have developed now, pack up and be off within one week, and not even the dear little “75’s” could save us.

The field bakery is in working order now, in a little gully further up the coast, and we are having most excellent bread each day—not a full ration, about 40 per cent. being made up by the biscuits.

It consists of three Bakery Detachments of six Bakery Sections each, a total of twenty-four ovens, and is capable of making bread for sixty thousand men. The ovens are made of curved metal; the troughs are in a large marquee, where all the mixing of the flour and ferments is done. The bread supplied on the whole is good, but of course, under the conditions in which the men are working it is difficult to turn out bread of the quality that one expects in London. Baking goes on practically the whole of the twenty-four hours. The whole bakery is under cover, and cannot be seen in any way by the Turk, though the gully in which it has been placed can be shelled, should the Turk become aware of its presence.

I dine with Ritchie at 7.30 p.m. in his dugout under our cliff, between our position and the bakery. Five other officers are there; amongst them is Major Huskisson a charming “Gypy” Army A.S.C. man, who is in charge of the Main Supply depot here, and also a man who was in the _River Clyde_ at the landing and who saw Colonel Carrington-Smith killed. Ritchie is O.C. a Labour Corps, camped on the side of the cliff around his dugout. We play bridge after dinner, and I actually have a whisky. First game of bridge I have had since we landed, and it is weird playing in such surroundings. Outside, a perfect moonlight night.

Elsewhere I have mentioned the Isle of Imbros by night. But really it is next to impossible to describe the beauty of these Greek islands, unless one is a poet or a painter. To my mind, Imbros is the most beautiful of any of the isles in reach of the Peninsula. But to-night, as it seemed, she surpassed herself in beauty. The sea lies like a sheet of liquid silver under the rays of the moon. There, like a precious gem, lies Imbros, sleeping on the face of the waters; her deep valleys and gorges, running down to the sea, are aswim with purple shadows, and her rugged mountain crests stand out violet and clear-cut against the star-spangled velvet of the skies. Her feet are wrapt about as with a snowy drapery, woven of the little foaming crests of lazy wavelets lapping around her. From behind her the feathery night clouds appear to swathe themselves about her, and her mountain peaks seem like a coronet set upon the dusky brow of some beautiful goddess of the night. All is silent, and she sleeps peacefully upon the waters, awaiting the coming of the fiery god of the morning, who, dashing across the sky in his chariot of flame, will awaken her with a burning kiss—driving the purple shadows from her valleys and filling them with a swimming golden glory which shall make her seem even more lovely by day than by night. Truly is she a goddess upon the waters, a rival almost of Aphrodite herself.

As I go back to bed, walking back along the foot of the cliff, rifle fire is rattling away on our left. I climb up to our “bivvy,” being challenged several times, and turn into bed.

_May 27th._

Woke at 6.30 this morning, feeling very refreshed, and find it is a beautiful morning. The view is perfect from our biscuit-box “bivvy.”