Chapter VI: Part 6

Many reinforcements have arrived, and troops are everywhere now, covering the Helles plateau up to Pink Farm with their camps, dug-in in trenches called rest camps. There is not much rest for them to-day, for Asia as well as Achi is making them their target. As I assay to go up to Brigade H.Q. I find the West Krithia being shelled. It is almost impossible to ride across country on account of the camps, and one has to keep to the roads, so I postpone my journey to later on in the day. I get laughed at for this. But it is the first time that I have started to go to Brigade H.Q. and funked it. I reply that if they would like a nice fat shell in their tummies they can ride up the West Krithia road now. However, they are only ragging, and any man who looks for shells is a fool.

We are being shelled very badly from Asia to-day. They appear to have six big guns over there, somewhere opposite Morto Bay, and, no doubt, they have observation posts at Kum Kale or Yen-i-Shehr, and can see all that we are doing. We must make perfect targets. Their shells are reaching all over the Peninsula now, and one fell right over our “bivvy,” exploding in the shallow water of the sea, killing a quantity of fish. These shells from Asia are doing a lot of damage; every time they come, men lose their lives or get wounded, while the casualties among the animals are keeping the hands of the Veterinary Services full.

A 6-inch shell came right in the Supply depot this afternoon, but did not explode, yet it caused a sad casualty. It struck the leg of an A.S.C. driver, a boy of twenty, and severed it clean from his body. He evidently did not realize it, for he made an attempt to stand up and hold back his mule, which was bolting with fright, but, of course, he immediately fell back. Shortly after, he died.

They shelled us at intervals until dusk, just two or three at a time, and at intervals of half an hour or so, keeping us on tenterhooks. Phew! give me the nice deep trenches when this goes on, where one walks about in comparative safety. There is no cover on “W” Beach. You hear the distant boom, and then fall and grip the bosom of Mother Earth as a frightened child does its mother. Then—get up and go on with your job. But not so the A.S.C. driver. His order is to stand by his mule on “W” Beach, that bull’s-eye of a target, and I hope that many of these drivers are not forgotten when names are called to be sent in for honourable mention. Riding and driving their mules at the same time, they are prevented from hearing the horrid shriek of the on-rushing shell by the loud sound that the wheels of their G.S. wagons make, and only when they see and hear a nerve-racking explosion, or hear metal whizzing past their heads, making a sound like a propeller of an aeroplane, do they realize that they are under fire and in instant danger of being blown to bits. Yet they must not leave their mules. They must get the animals, wagons, and themselves under cover as soon as possible. As soon as possible! and that may mean ten minutes, and ten minutes of Hell.

I have not yet seen a driver leave his mules, but I have seen several wounded and one or two lads killed. But _c’est la guerre_—it is only the A.S.C. quietly doing its job. No glory and honour. But ask an infantry man in the line here if he would change places with an A.S.C. driver on the beach, and he will say that he prefers to stay in his trench and take his chance when the moment for the leap over the parapet comes. But the A.S.C. never talk much; they just do their job, and when cursed for this, that, and the other trivial matter, say, “Sorry; we will see if the matter can be improved.” “Improved!” We are the finest fed army in the world. Where is the room for improvement?

At dusk I go up to Brigade H.Q. with my staff-sergeant, and overtake a draft for the Hampshires on the way to join their battalions. I meet Usher, and he conducts them to their new trenches, and asks me to take Major Beckwith, who is just back, having now recovered from a wound in his leg, received on April 28th, after he had earned the D.S.O., up to Brigade; which I do, and I wait and have a drink with General Cayley. There are not many bullets about. Star lights go up continually from our and the enemy’s front line.

It is a weary walk back, and I wish that I had ridden.

Milward, Naval Landing Officer, came to dinner last night. He was the Landing Officer on the _Dongola_, and had the job of sending us off to our doom on April 25th. Also Warburton, off a submarine. He was with Holbrook when he got the V.C.

_June 16th._

Not very heavy shelling this morning. A few rounds near our depot at issuing time. No shells from Asia. The French have been touching them up a bit over there, and probably they are shifting their position. The French are hot stuff in getting on to the enemy’s positions.

No letters, no rumours, and life very monotonous. Large numbers of men going off sick with dysentery.

In the afternoon they start shelling again up the Krithia road, and again I postpone my visit to Brigade H.Q. until nightfall, and ride up this time. First time my mare has been to Pink Farm by night, and she does not like it at all. There are plenty of bullets by night, and but few by day. They continually flatten themselves against the ruined walls of Pink Farm. The Turk appears to enjoy sitting in his trench, cocking his rifle up, and spraying with bullets the road up which he knows transport will come.

Riding back, just half-way to “W” Beach from Pink Farm I see a bright flash to my left on the shores of Asia, and a few seconds after hear the deep boom of “Asiatic Annie,” a shriek, and a dull thud on “W” Beach. This is the first shell from “Asiatic Annie” sent over by night, and if we are going to get them by night our life will be pretty poisonous. No place on this little tip of land is safe from shells now, and this afternoon the ships lying off have to clear away. To see a battleship now is a rare event, on account of the constant fear of submarines.

_June 17th._

Coming back from issuing this morning to my “bivvy” on the cliff, I hear ship’s horns tooting continuously, and running to the edge of the cliff I see a supply ship, which is lying immediately opposite, hoist a red flag, being the signal that submarines are about. Destroyers, mine-sweepers, and small pinnaces from shore put out to the transport and cruise round and round her. I see distinctly a shadow glide along on the water on the side of the ship farthest from us, looking like the shadow from a cloud in the sky, and then it disappears. Men on board are all around the ship, peering over the side. Then suddenly I see bobbing about in the water, like a big fisherman’s float, the red tip of a torpedo. Some one on a trawler shouts through a megaphone to the other craft, “Look out for that torpedo!” A small row-boat from the trawler puts out, rows up to the bobbing object in the water, fastens a rope round its nose and rows away, towing it after them. On nearing No. 1 Pier, the pier nearest to us, an M.L.O. standing at the pierhead shouts, “Is the pistol head on?” A reply from the boat says “Yes,” and the M.L.O. shouts back, “Well, take the damn thing away and sink it.” The oarsmen then head their boat out to sea, and, after some arrangement which I cannot see through my glasses, sink the torpedo.

Ordnance get to hear of this and are annoyed, for they would prize such a find as one of the latest German torpedoes. It was quite 15 feet long, with a red-painted nose and a long, shining, bronze-coloured body.

Later, we hear that the submarine had fired two torpedoes, and by being too close to her quarry, missed. By being too close, also, she was missed by the destroyers, for they, at the time, were making circles around the transport at about the distance of the usual effective range of a torpedo. Shortly after, the supply ships were driven off out to sea by the Asiatic guns. Our 60-pounder guns are firing hard over to Asia. I hope they have got the range of their guns. Our bivouac, unfortunately, is in the direct line of their fire, and as each shot is fired we can’t help jumping, and our “bivvy” shakes its flimsy walls.

Three shells from Asia pitched right into our hospital on the edge of the cliff on the left of “W” Beach looking seawards, killing two orderlies and wounding six, yet the doctors calmly went on with their work of bandaging and dressing. The hospital is on a bad site, for it is only divided by a road from the little village of marquees forming the Ordnance depot.

At 8.30 p.m. I go up to Brigade H.Q. with an orderly, and leave the horses at Pink Farm, and walk across that two hundred and fifty yards with bullets whistling more than usual, for to-night the Turks appear more energetic with rifle fire. It is an eerie sensation, walking across there in the dark when many bullets are about—walking very fast, almost counting one’s steps, and getting nearer and nearer to the little light on the side of the hill. Had a chat there for twenty minutes in the dugout with General Cayley and his Staff, and had a drink. Rather a nice picture, with the candles and the cheery officers sitting round; outside, the sound of bullets whistling continuously. I say good-night and go out, and find my orderly crouching pretty well down in a dugout, and he says he thinks we had better hurry out, as it is a bit hot, and as he says so, “ping” goes a bullet between us. But the bullets do not give me the fear that those horrible high explosive shells from Asia do. A moon is getting up, and so we are able to trot back smartly. The scene on the Krithia road at night is just what I imagined, in past life, war to be. The wagons trekking up to the trenches, with, of course, no lights, and troops of all kinds moving up and down. In the distance, star shells shooting up and sailing gently down, illuminating the country as light as day, and as one gets nearer to the firing-line the crackle of musketry gets louder and louder, and during the final walk of three hundred yards from Pink Farm to H.Q., the song of bullets flying past one makes one very much alive. Overhead, a perfect sky and myriads of stars looking down on a great tragedy with a certain amount of comic relief. These days we wish for more comic relief than we are getting.

_June 18th._

This morning Asia’s guns have not worried us so far, but the batteries in front of Achi Baba are very active, and are worrying the troops in the valley very much. The sound of bursting shrapnel reminds me of the spit and snarls of angry cats. Our artillery is quiet. Rumour says that another enemy submarine has been accounted for, but the one that came in yesterday morning is still at large, and consequently our Fleet is unable to come and help us. At two o’clock H.M.S. _Prince George_ is sighted off Imbros, surrounded by twelve destroyers and preceded by seventeen mine-sweepers. It was a very impressive sight to see—all these destroyers and sweepers jealously guarding the great ship from submarine attack.

She takes up a position opposite the Asiatic coast, well out from the mouth, and then opens fire with all big guns on the Turkish batteries on Asia in position opposite Morto Bay. We enjoy seeing the pasting that she gives them, her big guns rapidly roaring away and belching forth spurts of flame and buff-coloured smoke. Everybody imagines that every Turkish gun must be knocked out. After four hours, she leaves with her retinue of smaller ships. Half an hour after, one big gun on the Asiatic side opens fire on to “V” Beach, and simultaneously a heavy Turkish attack on our left starts, supported by a tremendous bombardment from Turkish artillery. The fight lasted all night, and ended about six in the morning. Their infantry left their trenches very half-heartedly, and our machine-guns accounted for a heavy toll of enemy casualties.

_June 19th._

We gave way at a part of our line last night, but regained the ground later in the early morning, and our line is still intact, and as we were. We lost heavily, but Turkish losses were enormous.

Captain Usher, my Staff Captain, was killed this early morning in the trenches by shrapnel, and I feel his loss awfully. He was always so charming to me. It’s the “good-uns” that go, as Wilkie Bard says. I am sure this war is too terrible to last long; it is simply wholesale butchery, and humanity will cry out against it soon.

At 11.30 an exceptionally heavy shell came over from Asia (a high explosive) and fairly shook the earth. Two minutes after, two more came, and every living soul rushed for cover. Then for three hours they pasted us: over they came, one after the other, with terrific shrieks and deafening explosions, throwing chunks of hot jagged-edged metal whizzing in all directions. All the mules and horses, as far as possible, were got under cover, and men rushed to their dugouts. Carver, Way, Davy, Foley, Phillips, and I were under cover of the cliff in our “bivvy,” which cannot be called a dugout, as it is simply a wide platform cut in and built up on the side of the cliff and in the line of fire, between the 60-pounder battery, twenty-five yards to our west, and the Asiatic battery. The 60-pounders soon opened fire, and then a duel began; and after one or two have pitched first over our “bivvy” into the sea, and one or two just short, we get nervy and decide to quit. Phillips and Davy made the first dash down the cliff, and the others said they would wait for the next shell. It came shrieking along, burst, and I got up and made a dart down the slope. I was down to the bottom of that cliff in thirty seconds, and found myself with the Divisional Ammunition Column people, and all amongst boxes of high explosive. Ammunition Column Officers are there, but I begin to think it would have been safer up in the “bivvy,” where the others still were, for they did not follow me. After a lull in the firing, I went up to the cliff, and half-way up they popped off again, and I was fortunate in finding a very safe dugout belonging to Major Horton, and he invited me in with Major Huskisson, Major Shorto, Poole, and Weatherall. And while shells still come over, first bursting on the beach, then in the sea, then on the top of our cliff, and then on the high ground on the back of the beach, we have lunch.

_7.30 p.m._

I am writing this in our “bivvy” once more, and aeroplanes are up spotting for the 60-pounders. They have just pooped off. One almost shakes the cliff when she fires. Asia has answered, but the shell has pitched on the east side of “W” Beach. The suspense of waiting for these shells is getting on the nerves of us all. What gets on my nerves more than shells is the losing of the “pukka” regular officers of this splendid Division, who are so cheery and manly, so reassuring to one and to each other. When they are killed, the stuffing and grit are almost knocked out of you. We four Supply Officers have now been under fire almost every day since April 25th, night and day, and a rest away from it all would be awfully welcome. Yet we pull ourselves together when we realize what the infantry have gone through and are still going through; I hate talking like this, it makes me think I am getting “wind up.” Fish is plentiful to-day, killed by Asia’s shells, brought in by enterprising Greeks and sold to Tommies. Excellent eating.

_June 20th._

Last night one Asiatic gun fired over to our camp one high explosive shell every half an hour, but everybody was well dug in, and no harm was done. I was sound asleep.

This morning Turkish artillery is very active, but Asia’s guns are not doing much. We are improving our “bivvy,” making it possible to do our work without much interruption. It is almost impossible to keep books and organize the feeding of an army with high explosive and other shells dropping around, Lord knows where next. At the Supply depot, however, we are very exposed, and it is very trying to stand there issuing day’s food and loading up the wagons with shells flying overhead, and therefore I am having a proper dugout made. We have had many casualties there now, and the Supply and Transport men have absolutely no chance to save themselves when standing in the open, with high explosives bursting near. We try and treat it humorously, but it is always a relief when the job is done.

This morning my staff-sergeant came to me and said, “The R.A. —— have taken ——” (shriek of a shell and a bang, during which we both looked over our shoulders) “them supplies to the gully, sir.” I reply, “All right,” and then we both duck behind a biscuit-box as another shell comes nearer. Not much use really getting behind a box, but it looks safer than nothing at all.

As Hyslop, our Canadian Vet., said, “Any hole looks good when Asia gets busy.”

This afternoon I walked along under the cliff to Gully Beach to see my Brigade, who have now gone into reserve for a rest. On the way we pass a Padre holding evening prayer and preaching a sermon. As I come back I learn that several shrapnel had burst over the cliff, two officers, one man, and a horse being wounded. A piece had hit the heel of the boot of the Padre as he was conducting the service.

I spoke to several officers of the Royal Scots who had been in the fighting two nights ago, during which the Manchester Territorials retired, evacuating two trenches, which the Royal Scots and one company of the Worcesters took back twenty minutes after. Colonel Wilson, O.C. Royal Scots, has been awarded the D.S.O. for this piece of work.

Bombs were used freely, and when the Royal Scots had got to the foremost trench, at one time Turks and British both occupied the same trench, the Turks hastily erecting a barricade in the trench itself to protect them from the Royal Scots, who, however, quickly drove them out by bombs. Steel assured me that the Turks were using explosive bullets, but I doubt this; but I do think that they reverse their bullets now and again. I notice that his face is pitted with little cuts, and I learn that he has suffered this through being in the front line with his regiment in the battle of June 4th, and on reaching their objective—the Turkish trench in front—while hastily helping in the work of building a parapet with sand-bags, was struck full in the face by a sand-bag bursting through being struck by machine gun fire. He is acting Adjutant to the regiment.

I hear that there is to be a French bombardment to-night, followed by an infantry attack.

_June 21st, 6 a.m._

There is a fearful bombardment going on; every battery on shore is concentrating its gunfire on a Turkish redoubt on the Turkish left, called the Haricot Redoubt, and also on the trenches. The Turkish batteries are replying furiously, but without effect, though “Asiatic Annie” is rather nasty, her shells falling around the French batteries. One cannot see the effect, because of the dust that the shells are kicking up, which is blowing right down to the beach. The 60-pounders on our right, twenty-five yards away, are joining in with a deafening report; only one is in this action. The echo of her voice plays ducks and drakes around the coast and the few transports about, getting fainter as the sound dies away. French battleship at mouth of Straits firing heavily. Destroyers continually patrolling around her.

_11 a.m._

The infantry attack by the French has started, and there is a report of heavy musketry all along their line.

_12 noon._

I can see the French advancing under a perfect hail of shrapnel over the ridge behind De Tott’s Battery. They are lost to view, and now I can only see hundreds of shells bursting and hear an undertone of musketry. I can see nothing now but dust and smoke.

_4 p.m._

On duty at depot. Fighting died down. Howitzer from Asia firing our way, but cannot reach us. Shells bursting about Hill 138.

News that the French have done well and advanced quite a good way.

_6 p.m._

Asia fires on submarines off “W” Beach and nearly hits one. They clear off for half an hour and then come back.

Perfect weather, and fine day for flying. Aeroplanes doing good work, whirring about over Achi Baba and Asia.

_7.45 p.m._

The Turks are counter-attacking our right in force, but the French, with the support of the “75’s,” are holding the ground which they have won to-day. Roar of guns growing louder and louder.

If the French manage to hold their own, it will considerably lessen the morale of the enemy, and the hill should be taken in the near future, and our own job will be half over.

_8.30 p.m._

Battle still going on. On beach Tommies singing “There’s a Little Grey Home in the West.” Sun just going down behind Imbros, making most lovely colouring. Sea dead calm: most peaceful scene, looking out to sea, but when one turns one’s back one sees a great battle raging three miles inland. Extraordinary contrast.

_June 22nd._

Very hot, but perfect day. French attack successful yesterday. They took two lines of trenches, and so have shortened and strengthened our front. Walked with Phillips and Birch (second in command of another submarine that has just arrived) to Gully Beach, overland. All quiet on front. Turkish artillery dead quiet, but French “75’s” now and again popping off. See Brigade H.Q., now in rest on the side of cliffs, and also Essex Regiment. Hear that Revel, of the Essex, has died of wounds. Ripping young chap. Had a cheery chat with him up at Brigade H.Q. two weeks ago. The 29th Division officers are falling fast now, and we feel their loss terribly. A Taube came over this morning and dropped three bombs, but only hit one man, wounding him slightly, but killed nine horses. I thought I saw the bombs drop quite clearly, as I was watching through glasses, and it was surprising the time that they took to drop. I may have been mistaken—the Taube was about over me—but I thought I saw a pencil line, as it were, drawn against the sky. Nasty suspense waiting for the things to reach the ground.

O.C. of the West Lowland Territorial Engineers killed by shell at gully yesterday. Very fine chap.

_8 p.m._

A quiet day. Rumour that we are to expect asphyxiating gas dodge, and that we are going to have respirators served out. Unfortunately, the prevailing wind is down the Peninsula and in our faces, and we are barely four miles from the Turkish trenches. Beautiful evening, and the sun setting behind Imbros is making most exquisite colouring.

_June 23rd, 10.30 a.m._

Turks very quiet. French “75’s” now and again firing. Very hot, fine day. Rode last night to Gully Beach with Carver, round by road on cliffs on “W” coast. Beautiful moonlight night. Wagons trekking up and down, and now and again a sentry challenges with his bayonet pointed to the breasts of our horses, which we rein in, at the same time shouting “Friend,” answered by “Pass, friend; all’s well.” I should like to feel that it really was “all well.”

Enemy aircraft brought down yesterday, falling in Turkish lines.

French losses in recent battle, 2,000.

To-night I ride again with Carver to Gully Beach, which is now the home of the 29th Division H.Q.

The steep cliffs on either side of the gully are honeycombed with dugouts, each with a little light shining, and in the declining light, with the moon hanging overhead, shining on the sea, it is a very beautiful sight. We had a topping ride back along the road on the edge of the cliff overlooking the calm sea, lit up by silver moonlight. We could see quite plainly enough to canter, and cantering by moonlight in such beautiful surroundings is a unique pleasure.

_June 24th._

To-day has been very hot and arid, very fine, and the sea dead calm, but artillery duels have been going on all day.

As the French were so successful in their last battle, having captured those trenches and the Haricot Redoubt on their left, thereby straightening and shortening our line, I think there is going to be another general attack for the hill to-morrow, preceded by an exceptionally heavy bombardment. If successful, then the danger of asphyxiating gas attack for the present is over.

Went up to Brigade H.Q. with Phillips. Beautiful moonlight, and all quiet on front. Had a nice gallop back on West Krithia road, but my mare nearly ran away with me; a bit dangerous going, as there were so many shell-holes about. Pink Farm and West Krithia road get so badly dusted with shrapnel all day and every day now, that I usually go up by night or early morning to H.Q.

_June 25th._

It is now exactly two months since we landed. Turkish artillery has been fairly active to-day. It has been very hot, but a beautiful day, and is now a most beautiful night, with the sea dead calm. We are having some nice bathing. The fly pest is worse than ever, and is frightfully worrying. The attack is not to come off to-morrow, after all, but Sunday.

To-day the _Lord Nelson_, escorted by destroyers, went up the West Coast and bombarded some target behind Achi Baba. Shortly after, a column of smoke arose behind the hill, and evidently the _Lord Nelson_ has made good practice. She was shelled by a Turkish field battery, but only two shells burst immediately over her, and hardly did any damage.

_June 26th._

I rose at 5.30 a.m. and, getting my mare saddled, rode over to the other side of the beach and woke up Butler, the Quartermaster of the Worcesters, who had promised to give me what he called “a personally conducted Cook’s Tour to the first-line trenches.” We had some hot tea and biscuits and a tot of rum, and then we mounted and started off. My mare was full of the joy of life and very fresh.

As we went over the crest on to the West Coast road, mist was hanging low on the cliffs and at the foot of Achi Baba. Above, the sky was cloudless. The words of Omar came to mind—

Awake, for Morning in the bowl of Night
Has flung the Stone that puts the Stars to flight.

I wish the stone would put the Turks to flight.

We rode to the gully, and then down on to the beach; there a priest was preparing an altar on biscuit-boxes, and about four hundred troops were waiting to take Holy Communion. We rode up the bed of the gully, and it was the first time that I had been right up. The Engineers had made a good road up, winding in and out between high, irregular cliffs, covered with gorse, and passing little gullies running out of the main one, to right and left. All up, for about a mile and a half, the sides are honeycombed with dugouts for troops to rest after a spell in the trenches, for Battery H.Q., and signal posts, etc. We passed the H.Q. of the 86th Brigade, the latter being dug-in in a charming spot a mile up from the beach. Thompson, my late Staff Captain, was seated on a terrace high up the cliff, shaving, and shouted “Good-morning” to me. Arriving at the head of the gully, we dismount and hand over horses to a groom, with instructions to him to take them across country to Pink Farm. We meet Harding, the Q.M. of the Royal Fusiliers.

We climb up the right side of the gully—a most beautiful spot, which would delight artists—and enter into a trench, over which bullets whiz, and now and again shrapnel. Passing along the trench for some way, we turn to the left, and go for quite a hundred yards along the communication trench, leading into a maze of trenches, but we are enabled to find our way by directing sign-boards, such as “To Reserve Trenches,” “To Support Trenches,” “To Fire Trench,” and names of units marked on as well.

We at last find ourselves in the Reserve, and have a chat with the Essex. Then we wend our way and pass along an uninhabited trench, an evidently disused communication trench, and come on what is literally the emblem of death grinning at us. We see a grinning skull, with almost all the flesh rotted off it, a bundle of rags, a hand, and two lower parts of legs with boots and puttees intact. Such a sight in earlier life would have filled me with horror. But I look upon such sights now as one would look upon a ruined house.

We come to a dugout in the support trenches, and are asked to wait, as two men have just been hit by shrapnel. Two R.H.A. men tell us that at the end of the next communication trench there is a Naval 12-pounder gun that had opened fire that morning on what was thought to be a poisonous-gas factory in a nullah in the Turkish lines, and that a Turkish battery had found our gun out and was shelling it. The two men who happened to be here had been hit. Shelling seems to have ceased, and one R.H.A. man said to the other, “Come on, Bill; if we are going to get ’it, we are going to get ’it!” This sounded good philosophy, and so we followed them. One of them shouldered a sack of food, and the other two jars of rum. Round the corner we passed the two wounded men—one wounded in the arm and the other badly in the shoulder; but both seemed quite cheerful about it.

We went along the communication trench, on and on, until I really thought that the damn trench would lead into the Turkish lines, and then it gradually got shallower and shallower, until we found ourselves in the open, but under cover of a rise, which was more or less protected from Turkish fire. Then, suddenly, we came on this 12-pounder gun and saw three gunners crouching in a dugout. The two gunners who were leading the way went off down another trench hastily, pointing the way for us to follow to the fire-trenches, and we nipped over that open space in double-quick time, I taking a heap of used cartridges in my stride, and at last we found ourselves in the well dug-out front-line fire-trenches, where we found the Worcesters. We had a chat with the officers.

Shortly after our arrival, shelling began again with that 12-pounder for a target; they put salvo after salvo over at the place we had passed. It was rather interesting watching the shelling from our part of the trench, and the sergeant-major seemed to be thoroughly enjoying it.

We have a look at the front trenches, which are very well made, with high parapets of sand-bags, iron loopholes, and periscopes, and nice little dugouts for officers’ messes and for men to sleep in, and kitchens, larders, stores, etc. All the time bullets whiz over or thud against the sand-bags, but one feels quite safe there, although only a hundred yards away from the Turks. It is a bit dangerous going along the communication trenches by day, as in places one can be seen, and from there can see the enemy, they being so shallow. We soon got back along the beastly long communicating trench to the Reserve, another one farther along to the one we came. Then to the support line, and up out into a nullah, and following that along we came to the open place into which several nullahs ran, known as “Clapham Junction,” which often gets shelled pretty badly, and always under fire from “overs.” Thence on to the main Krithia road, and across country to the Pink Farm, where we found our horses waiting. They were shelling the West Krithia road, and so we cut across country to the West Coast road, and cantered home in fine style, arriving back to breakfast at 9.30 a.m.

Not much artillery fire came from the Turks during the day, but the “75’s” were steadily plugging them in.

_June 27th._

The attack is to take place to-morrow. I rode up to Brigade H.Q. this morning. They were shelling a bit, but not much.

To-day is very quiet, but we are steadily sending shells over. Asiatic battery seems to have been withdrawn, but there is a very big gun somewhere that sends a 6-inch over now and again to the neighbourhood of Pink Farm, but it does not reach the beaches.

In coming back from H.Q. this morning, shrapnel began to burst over Pink Farm and behind, and I made my mare do her best gallop away, and, in order to keep off the road, cut to the right across country. We got amongst a maze of disused trenches, which she absolutely refused to jump; and to top it all, she kept getting her legs entangled in telephone wires laid along the ground, causing me to continually get off to disentangle her. She is an awful fool over these things, and those damned shells seemed to come nearer and nearer every minute. When I _did_ get on the road, I made her gallop as she has never galloped before.

_June 28th._

A beautiful summer morning. This morning is the morning of a battle. We are going to try to take a Turkish redoubt on our extreme left, and to push our line forward on the left, so as to curl somewhat round Krithia. We call the redoubt “The Boomerang Fort.”

H.M.S. _Talbot_ comes in with destroyers and mine-sweepers, and a Monitor—the _Abercrombie_, I think—and they take up positions off Gully and “Y” Beaches on the West Coast.

A bombardment begins at 9 a.m., as I am issuing rations, the _Talbot_ and two or three destroyers hurling over their large shells in an enfilading fire on to the Turkish trenches and the redoubt, while all our guns on shore, with the help of the French heavies and the now invaluable little “75’s,” join in the concert.

At 10 a.m., issuing finished, I take my glasses and walk along the cliff, taking up a position on the side of an extra piece of high ground, and sit comfortably there with my back to it. Two 60-pounders behind me are firing away at the same target, at which all the guns on land and sea are concentrating their awful fire, a target of not more than fifteen hundred yards of the Turkish line, with the little redoubt at the back. Shells—large, small, black, yellow, and white—burst in hellish confusion and awful chaos, while Turkish batteries, raised to fury, reply, first on to one battery, then another. But their fire seems controlled by a flurried brain, for the shells burst harmlessly, high in the air, or, except over our first line, of which they have the range, accurately on no targets at all.

Destroyers pour in broadsides, then swoop round, making a circle, and take up a new position, letting forth viperous rounds of broadside once more. A captive sausage-balloon on a tramp ship sails high in the air, well out to sea, spotting for the _Talbot_ and the destroyers. It is by far the most terrific and mighty bombardment that I have seen, and, I think, appears to be so because of the large amount of artillery concentrated on to so small a target.

_11 a.m._

The bombardment in no way seems to slacken, but I clearly see the range increased, and hear the officer behind me commanding the two 60-pounders, which are in action just near, to increase the range. I watch carefully, and as the smoke and dust quickly clear away from the redoubt and Turkish front line, which had been subjected to this terrible ordeal for two solid hours, I hear a roar of musketry, mingled with the excited, rapid reports of machine-guns. I actually see, in one part, a line of blue spurts of flame, a curious effect, caused by the dark background of gorse and trees. And then the sun reflects on hundreds of small metal discs, and I see leap as one man from our trenches rows and rows of khaki figures, each equipped with a small shining disc fastened on to his back. On they run, and swarm up the redoubt like packs of hounds, and strangely—though perhaps I am too far away—I see none fall.

The scene has passed: I have seen a gallant charge, made in the old style. In five minutes it is over and become glorious history. The bombardment continues, and the scene goes back to one of bursting flame, yellow, green, white, and black smoke drifting away in the strong breeze to the sea. The 60-pounders behind me steadily plunge and recover as their charges are hurled forth on their destructive journeys, with an ear-splitting roar. Suddenly over the din I hear a familiar and fear-striking sound: it is the deep boom-_s-h-r-i-e-k_ of “Asiatic Annie,” and her sister follows quickly after, and they are endeavouring to get at the 60-pounders just behind and silence their efforts. The 60-pounders take no heed, but go steadily on. They are hard to hit, and are well dug in. I am directly in the line of fire, and what missed them might get me, and so, after one shell bursts damnably close, I abruptly slither down the slopes of the cliff into the arms of two smelly Greeks, who have been sitting below me, shouting now and again gleefully, “Turkey finished!”

Our camp gets a bad shelling. Two passers-by are killed, and one of our transport men is buried in his dugout, and when dug out is found dead.

_4.30 p.m._

Have been at work on supplies; the firing has died down somewhat. Wounded are arriving, and the stretcher-bearers are nearly dropping with fatigue and heat as they carry their heavy burdens along to the dressing stations on the beach. Prisoners are arriving. I count a hundred, all looking frightened out of their lives; I heard we had captured four hundred prisoners, three lines of trenches, the Boomerang Fort, one four-gun battery, and twelve Maxim guns.

_6 p.m._

We are again bombarding heavily, and I hear my Brigade is attacking, but cannot see anything but smoke and dust.

_8 p.m._

It has now quietened down somewhat, but Asia is sending shells over to the 60-pounder battery once more.

_June 29th._

Early I ride up to Brigade H.Q. I find they have moved forward. I ride on past Pink Farm, to the little nullah beyond, and there find a trench has been dug leading out from the end of the nullah which I am told leads to Brigade H.Q. The trench, recently dug, is quite 8 feet deep, and roomy enough for pack-mules to pass along and men in single file to pass back in the opposite direction. All the time bullets were pinging and hissing overhead. The trench finally ended in a junction of several trenches leading in various directions to the firing-line. Dug in the sides of this junction was our new Brigade H.Q., on the level of the bottom of the trench, and taking advantage of a rise in the ground in front, affording perfect cover, except from a direct hit; on the left was Twelve Tree Wood, the scene of a bloody fight in the early days, but now used for artillery forward observation posts. Farmer, our Brigade Major, was very busy, looking ill and tired. Orderlies and telegrams were constantly arriving. The Signal Office was working at full steam—dot-dash, dot-dash, incessantly being rapped out on the buzzers. When I see the signallers at work, the scene in a London telegraph office always comes to my mind, and I contrast the circumstances under which the respective operators work. Farmer is continually being called to the telephone. Officers on similar errands to mine are waiting. It is like being in a City office waiting for an interview with one of the directors.

Not very bright news came from the Royal Scots; they were badly cut up yesterday, losing all officers, except Colonel Wilson and a subaltern. Steel is dying; he was a great pal of mine, was very decent to me before the landing, landing at the same time as myself. Captain Tressider, who arrived a month ago, is dead. On our left, however, complete victory for British arms.

On coming back, part of the communication trench is rather exposed and a sniper was busy after me, using all his five cartridges, but the bullets sailed harmlessly overhead. But the risk we Supply Officers take is not 100 per cent. of what infantry go through. A battery is sending high explosive shells over from Achi now, but they are bursting on the east side of this beach, and after firing a dozen shells they only slightly wounded a goat.

_11.45 a.m._

I was sarcastic too soon. Asia has just fired over an 8-inch, and it has passed over our “bivvy” with a horrible shriek and exploded in the sea. They would not be able to do this if our Fleet were here, and so we say “Strafe the submarines!”

_7 p.m._

All has been quiet on the front to-day, but two big guns from Asia and one 18-pounder battery have been worrying the French, and our 4.7 on the hill by De Tott’s Battery and the big French guns have been replying. The effect of the Asiatic big gun, when it hits anybody, is terrible. I picked up a jagged, flat piece of metal to-day, ¾ inch thick, 9 inches long, and 3 inches wide. When these shells burst on our beach, these pieces of metal fly in all directions, some reaching a hundred and fifty yards away.

The remainder of the Lowland Division is landing to-day. Just two more Divisions, and I believe we should very soon take Achi Baba, providing we had better supplies of big-gun ammunition. We put in two bathes to-day. We are most fortunate in getting sea bathing, as it keeps sickness down. We issue eggs now and again to the troops to endeavour to keep down dysentery. All ranks get a chance of plenty of bathing, sooner or later. Asia is very busy firing on the French batteries; later, at dusk, they fire on hospital ships, but finding out their mistake, desist. Evidently they are Turkish gunners, and not German.

_9.30 p.m._

A great gale has sprung up, and our canvas-sheet roof looks like coming off. The dust is awful. Lightning is playing over the sky and makes a very fine sight; curiously, there is no thunder.

_10 p.m._

The gale is terrific now, and I call out to our servants to come and hang on to our canvas roof, which is anxious to sail away. After strenuous effort, with dust choking us, and all of us swearing and then laughing, we secure the roof and turn in.

_June 30th, 1 a.m._

A shriek and a loud explosion awaken us, and Carver says it is a high explosive howitzer from Asia. It has passed over our “bivvy” and exploded on the beach. The ordinary long-range shell seems to miss our “bivvy” on account of the angle of trajectory.

But when a howitzer fires the trajectory is such that it could easily get our “bivvy.”

_2.30 a.m._

We are awakened by our roof blowing off, and up we have to get again and fix it. The gale fortunately is dying down, although the wind is pretty strong.

When we awoke this morning we were told that they had put several shells over in the night, and one in the Main Supply depot has unfortunately killed a man.

The result of the battle two days ago was good, the 29th Division pushing forward about three-quarters of a mile, and Krithia should soon be ours. The Turks counter-attacked last night in mass, but very half-heartedly, and lost heavily. This morning four hundred Turks were seen coming up in front of the French on our right, but the French “75’s” got amongst them, and they ran and ran for quite a mile, with the French shells bursting all amongst them, two a second. I should say very few of those Turks were left. The 60-pounder on the cliff got in a few as well. Three 60-pounders are out of action, waiting for new springs from England, and they have been waiting a devil of a time. The Turks are wonderful fighters on the defensive, with the geographical advantage all in their favour, but absolutely lack dash in the attack.

_12 noon._

A French battleship is coming in with the usual escort of destroyers and mine-sweepers, looking like a duck with her ducklings. Evidently she is going to punish Asia.

The smell of dead bodies and horses is attracting the unwelcome attentions of vultures from Asia. They are evil-looking birds, with ugly heads and enormous wings, and circle round and round overhead. Sometimes Tommies pot at them with their rifles, but get into trouble for doing so.

The smell of dead bodies is at times almost unbearable in the trenches, and chloride of lime is thrown over them. I know of no more sickly smell than chloride of lime with the smell of a dead body blended in.

In the fire-trenches the Turks will not allow our men to bury the dead unless a special armistice is arranged. In consequence, in the dead of night our men volunteer to creep out, tie a rope round a body which may be too near them to make the atmosphere bearable, and then rush back, haul the body in, and bury it in the trench, or they will soak the body in petrol, go back to their trenches, then fire into the body—the white-hot bullets soon setting the petrol on fire, and the bodies in this dry climate quickly get cremated.

Several barges were sunk by last night’s gale, and one pinnace set on fire by last night’s shelling.

_3 p.m._

The French battleship is now firing on Asiatic batteries very heavily, and it seems impossible that any one could live under her fire.

_5 p.m._

Asia starts firing light shrapnel over, which we don’t mind at all. As long as they do not fire that heavy stuff, which is on you before you can duck, they can pop away all night.

_5.30 p.m._

Asia firing heavy stuff on French lines. Now they have pitched one bang into the hospital. I—thinking every minute one will pitch in our depot—hurry up everybody, and they work with a will, taking cover when the shriek comes. Now they fall on the beach and splinters fly around us—it’s damnable! The corporal at 5.45 reports forage finished, which is a relief, as we can get to our dugouts.

On the way across to my dugout I hear the shriek coming, and there is no place to take cover, and the suspense is a bit nerve-trying. With a terrific bang it falls in the hospital, but the hospital is now clear of men.

_6 p.m._

Safe in our dugout now, and one passes over us into the sea. Now they are falling on the beach. Nearly everybody is under cover.

_7 p.m._

Shelling stopped, and we are allowed to have some rest.

As Williams has to go to Brigade H.Q., I offer to show him the way, the H.Q. having moved forwards.

We start off at 8.30 p.m. and ride at a good smart trot, as we are a bit nervy of Asia sending one of those horrible big shells over. But all is quiet, and we arrive at our Brigade dumping-ground, about three-quarters of a mile in front of Pink Farm. (Pink Farm is practically razed to the ground now by shell fire.)

We leave our horses with an orderly, who ties them up under cover and takes cover himself. Stray bullets are flying over now and again, and we get down into the nullah and go along it up the communication trench. After about half a mile of it, we pass an R.A.M.C. orderly, who says, “Keep your heads low, sir, as you pass that point,” pointing a little farther along, “as there is a sniper watching there.” Of course he is wrong, suffering from “wind up,” and what he thinks are snipers’ bullets are “overs” passing through a gap in the side of the trench. We hurry along, heads well down, as bullets are pretty free overhead. After another half-mile we come to Headquarters. The Staff are just finishing dinner in their dugout—beautifully made by the Engineers. The Brigade Major is at the telephone, and later the General gets up and talks over it. D.H.Q. are speaking at the other end, discussing some G.S. point, just as if two business men were discussing the price of some contract.

After the General resumes his place at the head of the table, the Brigade Major on his left-hand side, next the Signal Officer, on his right hand, the Staff Captain, the Brigade Machine Gun Officer and a Major of the R.N.D., who had recently arrived. Williams and I are seated at the other end. The dugout is lit by an acetylene lamp, and Miller, the Staff waiter and chef combined, is standing, acting butler.

Outside the “ping-ping” of bullets goes on incessantly.

Sitting there round the table, smoking and chatting, I could not but compare the scene with that of the after-dinner coffee and cigars at a dinner-party, when the ladies have gone to the drawing-room. The conversation is also witty and bright, with no mention of war.

Miller is a character of his own. He is as dignified as a real butler would be, and yet a Tommy of the old school, through and through. But instead of black cut-away coat and side whiskers, he wears khaki trousers rather hanging over his ankles, and a grey shirt open in the front—for the heat is excessive—and sleeves rolled up. He always embarrasses me, for every time I happen to look his way he catches my eye and beams benevolently on me. I suppose it is because I look after the Tommies’ tummies. Lightning now begins to play about the sky, which gets rather cloudy, and then “L” Battery, just to our right, barks out suddenly. That arrests my thoughts and brings me back to reality. “Y” Battery starts, and then the darling little Soixante-quinze, and bullets begin to fairly hiss over. A hell of a shindy! Our mission over, we rise to go. We salute the General, who says good-night, and off down the trench, keeping our heads very low instinctively, though really it is unnecessary.

Lightning is now flashing all over the sky, and what with the flashes and roar of the batteries near by and the pitch darkness that comes immediately after a lightning flash, the walk back along that trench, one whole mile of it, was most weird and Dante-esque. Now and again bullets hit the bank on our left, but most of them are going over. We pass troops coming up, and later see a man sitting down at the side of the trench, and finding that he had been hit in the wrist (lucky devil!), we take him along with us. Arriving at the nullah, we find another man who has been hit at the dump, in the leg, and we send them to the dressing station behind Pink Farm.

We see the transport is all right at the Brigade dump, mount our horses, which have been tied up in an awful tangle, making us use some “’orrid language,” and then “forrard away.” Off we go back, with “overs” pretty free around, and Turkish shells screaming over, well on our right.