Chapter IX: Part 9

I am just about to leave, thanking them for their hospitality, when shrapnel burst outside overhead. I say to them, “Surely this hospital does not get shelled?” And they tell me that now and again a stray shrapnel does burst here, but that they are shelling a small column of carts passing along the beach, a small cluster of horsemen riding in Salt Lake, or a few men passing over the flat wooded country. No target appears too small for their shrapnel, even people bathing. The shore in the centre of the bay is within easy reach of their field-gun shrapnel, but as a rule they respect this Welsh hospital, though it is within full view and easy range of their guns.

I continue my walk and keep close to the water’s edge, for shrapnel now and again bursts not more than a hundred yards inland. I reach the Supply depot that I had seen from Lala Baba, and learn that we are now IXth Corps, that I have arrived at the Corps Reserve Supply depot on “A” Beach, that they get shelled regularly every day, also that Foley and Way are further up the road, towards the end of the promontory.

I walk up there and find them sitting in a small depot that they have formed, with a little camp of wagon-covers and ground-sheets, supported by logs obtained from a broken lighter. I feel glad to see them. O’Hara comes up soon after with Badcock, who is over from G.H.Q. to get transport in order, having been here since the landing. We make ourselves a little more comfortable during the morning; a bivouac for Way and myself is made of a tarpaulin stretched over balks of timber, forming a little house open at the sides. We are out of range of shrapnel, but I learn that high explosive and howitzer shells often come our way.

In the morning I see Cox, who has returned from Alexandria, and learn that the 88th Brigade are not to be in action to-day, for which I am thankful. We get ready to send up rations by A.T. carts and pack-mules to-night.

At 1 o’clock Way goes up to see his Brigade H.Q.—the 86th—on Chocolate Hill. The 87th and 88th are there as well, and D.H.Q. and other H.Q. of other Brigades, and the side of the hill must be very congested. I can see hundreds of troops sheltering on the low ground by Lala Baba across the bay.

_2.30._

The four battleships and all our guns on shore open a heavy bombardment on the Turkish position on the hills in front, and especially on Burnt Hill, and an hour later the gorse on that hill and on the low ground to the right of Chocolate Hill catches alight, and is soon burning like a roaring furnace, spreading like the fire on a prairie. At 3.30 I hear rifle fire and learn that our attack on Burnt Hill has started. The artillery simultaneously increases its range. The bombardment, however, does not ring so confidently as did our bombardment in the victorious battle of June 28th, nor does it appear to be so powerful.

I see the Yeomanry now marching steadily in open order across the Salt Lake. It is the first time that they have been in action. Several years ago I was a trooper in the Warwickshire Yeomanry, who are now with the rest marching into battle. The Worcesters, Gloucesters, Middlesex, Sharp-shooters, Sherwood Foresters, Notts and Derby are there, and I think several other regiments, all troopers and troop leaders on foot, their horses left in Egypt. Little did they think, when they trained on Salisbury Plain for cavalry work, that when the hour came for them to go into battle they would go in on foot as infantry. When they did their regular fourteen days’ annual training, some of their friends used to laugh at them, saying that they were playing at soldiers. What I see before my eyes now is no play. Yet they look the same as they did on Salisbury Plain. Ah! the real thing for them has come at last, though many of them only landed this morning, for I see a white puff of shrapnel burst over their heads. It is quickly followed by another and another, developing to a rapid concentrated fire. They run the gauntlet without losing their Salisbury Plain steadiness, except for an occasional bunching together here and there. Soon casualties occur and prostrate khaki figures can be seen lying on the sandy salt of the lake for the stretcher-bearers and ambulance-wagons to pick up—the harvest of war. At last they are at Chocolate Hill, where they nestle under its slopes for protection till further orders.

At 6 p.m. Way returns, and tells us that Chocolate Hill was “Red Hell” while he was there, smothered in shrapnel and flying bullets; that an officer in D.H.Q. has been killed quite near him, but O’Hara is safe. It was not safe for Way to leave until five o’clock.

Dusk arrives, and the moon is rising. Major Badcock is going up with kit for D.H.Q. to Chocolate Hill on four little box cars, and I ask if I can go with him to see my Brigade H.Q. He gives me a lift, and off we go along the bumpy track from the promontory to the mainland, when, bending to the right, through clusters of trees and in and out of gorse-bushes and boulders, we arrive at last on the flat, growthless plain of the Salt Lake. Instead of being heavy going over soft sand, as I thought it would be, it is very good going over a hard, binding surface, and we get along at a fine pace, which in the moonlight, on such an occasion, is very exciting and enjoyable. Soon I see the shadow of trees and cultivation, and know that we are nearing Chocolate Hill, and almost at the same time I hear and almost feel the unpleasant whiz of many bullets overhead, about, and around. We stop, but the noise of the pulsating engines of the car drowns all other sounds, and we walk a little way in front and hear the regular rattle of heavy rifle fire. The spot where we are standing is receiving the benefit of the “overs,” many of which kick up the dust around us. Now and again shells scream over, but not many. We drive on to the trees in front, and dump our kit. At this point the bullets are flying fairly high, and we feel safer, though I expect all the time that blow of a sledge-hammer which comes with the hit of a bullet. We unload the kit by some trees, and some men near by are instructed to go on to the Division and tell them that the first batch of their kit had arrived, and one man is left in charge. We turn to go back, and I notice a wounded man on a stretcher being carried away, and I ask them to put him in the car. I offer him water, but he refuses, saying that he has been hit by a shrapnel bullet in the stomach, and water makes him vomit. His voice sounds familiar to me. I look at his face—I ask him if he is Howell of the Warwickshire Yeomanry—he replies “Yes.” We rode next to each other, years ago, as troopers. Many wounded are lying here, there, and everywhere, and we load up our empty cars with as many as we can, and steadily and gently go back. Firing dies down. It was only “wind up” on the part of the Turks. I leave Howell at the Welsh Casualty Clearing Station on the “B” Beach. He is quite cheerful. His experience of actual war started when he had landed this morning, and ends now as he lies wounded, waiting to be properly attended to, and he had trained and given up his spare time for years past for these few hours! He shakes me by the hand. After this war I do not think that people will be amused at the “playing at soldiers” of Yeomanry and Territorials.

Back at the beach I load the four cars once more with D.H.Q. kit, and off we proceed on a second journey. I am alone in charge this time, for Badcock has to go up to Corps H.Q. The full moon brilliantly lighting up everything helps us to get along at a good pace. On arrival at the trees on the other side of the Salt Lake, where we had dumped the first loads, I find no signs of this first batch, and a few men about appear to know nothing whatever about it. We go steadily along, feeling our way carefully, for there is no road, towards Chocolate Hill. I leave the cars two hundred yards from Chocolate Hill and walk the rest of the way. I pass men hard at work digging a trench. I arrive at the foot of the hill and find it congested with all manner and kinds of parts of units of an army. There are some infantry of our Brigade awaiting orders—mule-carts with Drabis sitting cross-legged unconcernedly thereon. Bullets do not appear to worry them. I believe they think that they are butterflies. A first-line dressing station is chock full of wounded, and the M.O.’s are hard at work attending to the cases. Signal stations are tap-tapping and buzzers buz-buzzing. I walk up the slopes of the hill, wending my way past dugouts all around, to my right and left and above, in which are H.Q. of various Brigades. I step over poor, broken dead men, lying nestling in the gorse, and curse from the bottom of my heart the rulers of the German Empire; and seeing an officer standing outside a dugout, I inquire for Major O’Hara, of the 29th Division. Am told that he will be back shortly. I then ask for 88th H.Q., and he comes along with me to help me look for them. We find them eventually, and I learn that rations have been received. I also learn that the day has not gone well with us, but that we will probably attack at dawn, and that the 88th will this time be in action. The Yeomanry, shortly after arriving at Chocolate Hill, had gone up beyond to our front line under a terrible fire, but in perfect order, quietly and orderly as if on parade. We had not advanced our position, which was the same as before the battle. The gorse is burning fiercely on my right, lighting up the immediate neighbouring country. Several wounded were caught in it and burnt to death before they could be rescued, but many were saved, and some gallant deeds were done in their rescue.

Sir John Milbanke, V.C., has been killed. Practically his last words were, “Great Scott! this is a bloody business.” We go back to the dugout of D.H.Q., where we find O’Hara and also Bray, the A.P.M. I had often heard of Bray several years before the war, for my brother-in-law was his pupil. He asks me if I am any relation to his pupil’s wife, and so we meet and are introduced.

I hand the kit over to Bray. I am instructed to go back and fetch up two of the cars loaded with tins of water from “A” trench. As I leave, a rattle of musketry again bursts out from the jumpy enemy, and bullets zip past, seeming to come from all directions. Parties which have been standing about in the open move for cover. I again load up my four cars with wounded, one case being that of a man who has just been hit in the leg while digging in the trench that I had just passed. Back at “A” Beach I apply for water at the water dump, and am told that it cannot be issued without a chit from the officer. “Where is the officer?” “In his dugout.” “Where is his dugout?” “Two hundred yards up the beach.” Arrive at officer’s dugout. Officer asleep; wakened up. “Can’t have water without chit from Corps.” I reply, “I shall get my water, and at once, please.” He replies, “What’s that?” I repeat. I am refused a chit. I politely explain that the reason he is peacefully enjoying his slumber undisturbed by Turkish bayonets is because our Tommies are in the front busy seeing that the Turks do not come over our line and rush the trenches, also that some of those Tommies want water, and that I have been instructed to take it to them.

The water loaded on two cars, the other two holding kit, off we proceed once more on our third trip, but, alas! the moon dips down into the sea. A shout from behind, and a car full of kit overturns in a trench. It is left with the driver till morning. On we go, first bumping into large stone boulders, then into large clusters of thick gorse, and two more cars are finally out of action in deep holes. On I go with the third car, groping our way across the Salt Lake, for it is now pitch dark, and at last, when near the advanced dressing station, flames spurt out from the bonnet of the car, and halting, we find something afire in the almost red-hot engine. We stop. I walk over to the dressing station. There is not much firing, only an occasional sing of a bullet and no shells.

I learn that they are getting water now from a well, but want receptacles. I off-load my tins from the car into an ambulance-wagon, which proceeds up to Chocolate Hill, two hundred yards away. We wait until the engine is quite cool, and then grope our way back; dawn is breaking, and it becomes gradually lighter. Arriving at my “bivvy,” I fling myself on my camp-bed and am fast asleep in two seconds.

_August 22nd._

We did not attack at dawn, and so the 88th have not been in action. We are as we were—yesterday’s battle is not to be recorded as a victory for us. Machine guns again from right, left, and centre fired from behind great boulders of stone and hidden hillocks covered with gorse, and wave after wave of our men were mown down as with a scythe. Twice we captured the Burnt Hill, but twice were driven off, and Burnt Hill remains Turkish. The Yeomanry were unable to get to grips with the enemy: but for gallantry in that march from Chocolate Hill to our front line, four hundred yards in front across the open in the daylight, under a hail of shrapnel and machine gun bullets, their behaviour could not have been excelled.

Their officers represent the best blood of England, and their men good old country blood of the hunting and farmer class of Old England, with many a man of good birth in the ranks. How could such men behave otherwise than gallantly? To-night I take up the remainder of D.H.Q. kit to their new quarters, not so far forward as Chocolate Hill, to a rocky hillock covered by gorse, inland from the mainland, a distance of about a mile in a line with our promontory. The place, if found out by John Turk, will prove to be a perfect shell-trap, and shells bursting on solid rock will burst “some.” They will be foolish to stay there.

_August 24th._

To-day we had a terrific thunderstorm; forked lightning all over the sky and heavy rain, but it lasted only an hour.

We chose a new site further up the side of the slope of the promontory, yet under cover of a slight rise of ground. The formation of the land here is full of dips and rises, not noticeable from a distance, and thereby affording excellent cover, for which we thank Providence. We have to move, for the Corps Reserve depot is getting such an unhealthy spot on “A” Beach that it is shortly moving to where we are now.

All day long the battleships pop off at the Turks on shore, the row from the guns echoing and rebounding with deafening reverberation from the hills and sides of the promontory.

I go up with rations to our Brigade to-night—a beautiful night—with a convoy of mule-carts driven by the imperturbable Drabis, who merrily chant Indian songs. The moon at night simplifies our work considerably. By day it is dangerous for transport to go far afield.

_August 25th._

It is now four long, terrible months since we landed, and we are still on the low lands at the three landings. The positions in front of us are formidable, almost impregnable, and unless the Balkan States are drawn in on our side, never shall we open the Dardanelles. The task is now impossible for us, and we have lost our opportunity at the start by only landing with one Division. Our effort has failed, though we have made good our landing. The shipping here gets shelled as at Helles, and this morning a battleship was hit twice.

We can hear heavy firing down at Helles.

_August 26th._

Everywhere everybody is hard at work making dugouts. In the line our infantry are feverishly making a line of defence, digging night and day without cessation. “A” Beach gets shelled, but no shells reach our end of the promontory. Our battleships’ guns roar out continually all day, as if in sullen anger at the recent failure—at what I am afraid will be our last effort. My Brigade has moved over from Chocolate Hill, and is in the line on the low part of the slope of the high hills which form the left flank, next to the sea, of our position, and Brigade H.Q. is dug in behind a hillock in a gully which has been called Lone Tree Gully.

_August 27th._

A violent gale blowing to-day. Carver, Petro, and Phillips are now here as transport officers.

Work on the beaches now goes on feverishly, night and day. Each day a new sand-bagged dugout appears. Additions are made to the piers. Two off West Beach are complete. One further up, towards the end of the promontory, is being built rapidly and skilfully by a bridging party of regular Australian Army Engineers. I am told by their warrant officer that there is a regular Australian Army, but that it is being jealously guarded in Australia, and that really it is only a framework of an army. The bridging section, however, at Suvla is part of this. The fighting army of Australia and New Zealand is voluntary since the war, yet is superior in fighting qualities to the Prussian Guard.

Further up, towards the end of the promontory, two small beaches or coves are rapidly being turned into fitting order to receive the steady requirements of food, ammunition, S.A.A. stores, ordnance, etc., and piers there are rapidly being thrown out. At night, long convoys of A.T. carts and pack-mules form up loaded with rations, A.S.C. and Ordnance stores and ammunition, and proceed along the promontory towards the mainland. On arrival there they branch off in various directions to their respective destinations, just behind the line. Early on their journey they encounter the song of bullets flying from the Turkish line continually all night. I think that the Turks in the front line must be given so many rounds of ammunition and told to loose off in the air in our direction, not aiming at anybody, but firing blindly in the hope of a victim. Now and again a bullet does find a victim, but on going up regularly each night one gets so accustomed to the sound of their flight, that one walks on, taking no notice; although, if by any chance a rifle is pointing directly your way, even at a thousand yards’ range, it sounds as if it is fired close to your head, and almost simultaneously, “whizz-ping,” goes past you very near, and then unconsciously you duck.

The drivers on the A.T. carts, however, worry about the bullets less than anybody, remaining sitting on their carts and chanting away contentedly.

To-night, trouble with water occurs, and I am up with O’Hara and Hadow, our Staff Captain, at Brigade H.Q. on the job. Our H.Q. now are at Lone Tree Gully, about four hundred yards behind our front line. One is quite safe there unless they choose to shrapnel it, but a gully in front was badly shrapnelled the other day, and the Royal Scots, being caught in it, were severely mauled. Further back on the road, though, for some distance one has to walk along through a zone of “overs,” and two found a target to-night in a sergeant and corporal on transport duty. As I walk along that road, I am always ready waiting for the sledge-hammer blow from the unseen hand, always hoping that it will be a Blighty one, through the soft part of the arm or leg.

A large proportion of our water has to be brought ashore by water-lighters, pipes leading from them to the shore. Tanks are filled from the pipes, and all kinds of receptacles filled from the tanks, such as petrol-cans, milkcans, fantasies, and goat-skins. The cans can be loaded on to the A.T. carts, while the fantasies and goat-skins are loaded on to mules, in each case two on a mule, one hanging on either side. The A.T. cart form of transport is much preferable to the pack-mule, for the latter is fond of bucking and throwing off his load, which on a dark night on convoy means great trouble.

The Engineers are hard at work finding wells, but such wells as we have cannot by any means supply even half of the requirements of water.

After we have turned in to-night we hear a heavy roar of musketry from Anzac, and soon the battleships and shore batteries join in. It is a clear night, and the roar of the musketry echoes over the bay remarkably loudly. I have never heard such concentrated rifle fire so loudly before.

It lasts for about two hours, and then dies suddenly away to the incessant crack-crack-crack of the regular nightly rifle fire.

_August 28th._

Gale still high.

To-day, I, with Foley, pay my first visit to a battleship, the _Swiftsure_. She is easily distinguishable from other ships by two large cranes in position amidships on either side. I had previously signalled to Fleet-Surgeon Jeans on board, sending an introduction to him given me by General Cayley, our Brigadier. A pinnace arrives for me; we skim over the calm water of the bay, smartly pulling up alongside the great ship. My quest was a case of whisky for Brigade H.Q., stuck up in dugouts in Lone Tree Gully, with no chance of getting any. This is the first time that I have been on a battleship, and as I climb up the rope ladder, I remember that I had read somewhere that in the days of Nelson one saluted the quarter-deck when one steps thereon. As I was first up I did not know whether it was correct, but I did so, and noticing some Naval officers following me behind also saluting, saw that I was correct.

They entertained us royally on board. I nearly had a nervous breakdown when they offered me a whisky and soda. Naval officers cannot be beaten as hosts.

A howitzer has been potting at us to-day, a good many of the shells going right over the cliff into the sea on the other side.

Convoy work again at night to Lone Tree Gully, and a chat with the General in his dugout. A lovely moonlight night, and calm again after a three days’ beastly gale.

_August 29th._

Go to D.H.Q. in the morning, who have now moved back to a gully alongside Corps H.Q., nicely dug in the side of a hill near us. Their quarters, as well as those of Corps, are built amongst the green gorse, which, with paths running in and out and terraces about, makes a lovely garden. Very nice conditions under which to work. I am writing this on the heights of the shale cliffs of the northern promontory of Suvla Bay. The sea is calm and a deep, lovely blue, suddenly changing to green at the foot of the rocks. Suvla Bay, with Salt Lake and the wooded and gorsed low land and the hills and the mountains in the background, are laid out in beautiful panorama. Achi Baba can be seen in the distance south, and I have been so used to seeing it from Cape Helles that the view is quite a novelty.

Off the bay are three battleships, supply ships, and trawlers, lighters, etc. An aeroplane is humming overhead, and our guns on shore are continually barking away, while little puffs of shrapnel from the Turkish batteries burst over and about the wooded low lands, Salt Lake and Chocolate Hill, where our front line runs, denoted by the crackle of musketry.

The view is most interesting, the brownish-green gorges—leading to the sea—with their clouds of dust denoting the industry within. Behind me, purple Turkish hills, every point of which is held by the enemy. Then in between our line and the hills the scrubby low-lying country, all buff and green, the cultivated land, and the olive groves. I look at it hopelessly—for I know now, as we all do, that the conquest of the Peninsula is more than we can hope for. All that is left to us is to hang on day by day. It is anything but a cheery prospect. Death in various forms walks with us always; the sad processions of sick and wounded—chiefly the former—move down to the hospital ships every day; we see all our best friends taken, one after the other—and to what end? The golden chances have been allowed to slip by; we can never win through now—so we have to “cling on” to the bitter end.

_August 30th._

A beautiful day again! Turkish batteries very busy all day. Shrapnel and high explosive shell, and also duelling between Fleet and land batteries. Otherwise all quiet, nothing doing. Brigade moves down from trenches to “A” Beach West, and news that we are to go to Imbros for a rest is circulated. Enemy aeroplane swoops over like an evil-looking vulture and tries to drop bombs on Fleet, but has no direct hit to record.

At nightfall Brigade starts to embark, ready to sail at daylight. Officers have cabins, and so I am enabled to have a sleep. Am suffering from one of my beastly colds, however.

Nice to get away, after the disappointments of that worst of all months, August, when we had expected so much.

Sari Bair (well behind the Turkish lines) can be seen in the background to the left of the picture.]

_August 31st._

Arrive at Imbros at 8 a.m., and Brigade proceeds to camp on the low land by the sea. I mess with the General and Staff, and again parcels arrive opportunely with masterpieces of cakes and sweets, which are seized by the mess waiter and daintily served up at table.

Oh! the relief to get away from shell fire and the chill atmosphere of death in its crudest form.

SEPTEMBER

_September 1st._

Start off with my man Lewington on donkeys and a pack pony across the hills, over a stony, narrow path, with three little boys in charge of the animals. The way is sometimes over and sometimes round a line of irregular, conical-shaped hills, some almost mountains, covered with thick green gorse, large boulders, rocks, and small stones. The few valleys are beautifully wooded and dotted with vineyards growing luscious dark grapes, and also groves of fig-trees.

One gets glimpses of the blue Ægean now and again, and the distant Isthmus of Gallipoli and the Island of Samothrace, with the coast of Bulgaria still further off. After two hours’ trek, during which I felt as if I was a character in the Scriptures, we sighted the village of Panaghia, and we had a sporting trot down a narrow, sandy, steep path.

One little boy on a donkey, who joined us, raced me and beat me by a short neck. Poor old Lewington was hanging on to his moke with a pained but polite expression on his face, and heaved a sigh of relief when we arrived at the village.

We pulled up at the Grand Britannia Hotel, recently so named by a Greek. It is a little broken-down house, having on the ground floor a boot shop, and on the first and top floor two small bare rooms.

After a meal of partridge, omelettes, and honey, with German beer to drink, I am taken out to an empty house, and shown to a room furnished only with a bench.

My man slept on the landing and I in the room, and I soon fell fast asleep. At midnight I am awakened by certain creepy insects. I light candles and awake my man, and we conduct a massacre. Our landlord arrives on the scene much disturbed, and places my bed in the centre of the room, whereupon I turn in again and sleep peacefully for the rest of the night.

_September 2nd._

Awake in the morning with the sun streaming in and with the sounds of cocks crowing and chickens clucking. Looking out, the view of the conical beautiful hills makes me almost catch my breath, and, God bless my soul! a Greek peasant maiden, beauteous to look upon and fair of complexion, is feeding her pigs and chickens.

After breakfast at the Grand Britannia Hotel (sounds like the Ritz, London, doesn’t it?), Duff, of all people, rolls up with Munro. We all lunch together, and then roam round the village, buy a few things, and take photographs.

After tea, Duff goes on to Castra, by the sea on the other side of the island, and Munro and I go back to camp. It is beautiful riding back through the hills in the late afternoon. Perfect day and colouring gorgeous. Nearing camp we get a fine view of Gallipoli. All is so peaceful where we are, but just over that narrow strip of sea, war rules in its most horrible form.

Have dinner with Cox, of the Essex, who turns in at 8.30, and I go back to Headquarters and have an after-dinner smoke with the General and Staff, sitting round a little table in the marquee lit by candle-light.

_September 3rd._

Start off with Phillips on a donkey and pony respectively over the hills again. A gorgeous morning, and it is good to be alive. Peasants give us delightful grapes as we ride along. Sheep are grazing, their bells tinkling, with a few cows and bullocks, and now and again a covey of partridges rises.

Arriving at Panaghia, we have a bottle of beer, and then go on along the road to Castra, by the sea. Castra is situated on a high hill overlooking the sea, with a few fishermen’s huts on the beach.

The Isle of Samothrace, which is a cluster of mountains rising sheer from the sea, lies opposite. The sea is dead calm, and of a gorgeous blue. A few fishing boats lie in a tiny little harbour on the right of the little bay, which is flanked by hills. In the background are more hills and low wooded valleys, and we feel as if we had stepped into the Garden of Eden.

Duff is here, and we have lunch, after which Duff returns to camp. Phillips and I go up on the cliff and have a delightful sleep. Everything is dead quiet, and there is not a cloud in the sky. We are right away from the world, and the scene before us—that of the blue Ægean with Samothrace a few miles away—has not changed for thousands of years.

After tea, we have a bathe in beautifully clear, warm water, and no rocks. The evening closes in, and the colouring thrown by the declining sun on Samothrace is beautiful. A boat with a square sail comes sailing home, looking like “the return of Ulysses.”

After dinner we turn in and sleep on the floor of the veranda.

_September 4th._

Wake up early. A perfect morning, but a high wind. Scene beautiful. Talk to an old Greek, who has been all over the world, and in all the ports of England, and who has come home to his native island for the rest of his days. Try fishing, but catch nothing. After lunch, start back to camp on ponies, stopping at Panaghia for tea, arriving home at 6.30.

_September 5th._

Start off again for Panaghia with Duff and Elliott, and have lunch there. After lunch we go off to another village, where an annual holiday is being held. Bands are playing and the inhabitants are dancing weird native dances, appearing very solemn about it. Parties are going round from house to house, visiting and partaking of refreshment, such as grapes, figs, wine and liqueurs. An old Greek invites us in, and his wife forces us to have grapes, melon, jelly, and liqueurs. I took a bite of cake and was nearly violently ill.

We came back another way through vineyards, where grapes can be had for the asking, olive groves, and fig-tree orchards.

_September 6th._

A fine day again, but windy. No news, but a rumour that Bulgaria is against us now, and that we shall be in Gallipoli for the winter. We go back to-morrow night.

We get up a concert, which takes place in the evening. We rig up a platform, borrow a piano from the Y.M.C.A., and make up a programme. I snaffle some champagne for Headquarters, and after a cheery dinner we go to the concert. We have some excellent talent, and everybody thoroughly enjoys it. It is a sight worth seeing—the platform lit by candles, and the Brigade seated around on the sand: some of those who took part in the landing, some recently in the fighting at Suvla, and new drafts who had not yet tasted war.

“The Defence of Lucknow” was recited by Lieutenant Butler, of the Worcesters, an actor by profession and a good fellow, and it went splendidly and gripped us all. New Brigade Major arrives, Wilson, of the Royal Fusiliers.

_September 7th._

Awake at five, and on becoming conscious of the fact that to-day I have to go back to that Peninsula, to remain there for Lord knows how long, I have the same depressed feeling, only more so, that one has in the days of school on the last day of the holiday.

At 6 a.m. Phillips and I and the Supply Section embark, and on a tossing trawler, bucking about like a wild horse, we undergo the misery of a four hours’ crossing in a very rough sea to Suvla Bay, where we arrive at 10 a.m. We lie off the _Swiftsure_ for an hour, and then two pinnaces come alongside, to take us on shore. Shrapnel is bursting steadily over the low lands, and one or two high explosives are now and again bursting on “A” Beach and “W” Beach. We land soon after 11 a.m., and on arrival back at our part of the promontory we find that our camp has been moved to the end of the long gully, where on the side of a hill D.H.Q. are dug in.

The contours of the country are curious. Great natural scars run down to a flat plateau washed by the waves. In these gullies hundreds of men and animals are getting what protection they can. The Engineers are building a road, on one side of which is a row of dugouts, artfully hidden by a row of great boulders. This is our advanced Horse Transport depot, and a pretty hot shop, as the Turks have the exact range. In front of the dugouts are the horse-lines, where rows and rows of mules and horses are packed into the throat of the gorge for shelter. A dry watercourse winds down the gorge, so the place will be impossible in winter; as it is, Death takes his daily toll of men and animals, while down the path comes a never-ending procession of sick and wounded from the front line, and very occasionally a prisoner or two. Up the same path, at night, the reinforcements march to rest in dugouts just behind the line until their turn to take over arrives. To the left of the gorge a huge rocky point runs out to the sea—this point also is a thick mass of men and animals, practically in the open, so limited is space. Truly an unfriendly and uninviting country. The hot dust is over everything—the flies torment, and shells take their toll of us, while we are powerless to hit back. The mouth of the gorge widens to the beach, where there are three tiny bays, which with the plateau form “A” Beach: Kangaroo Beach, with its lighter and pontoon quays, its sand-bagged dugouts, and the like; West Beach—the main landing-place, with rather better piers and offices; and Little West Beach, a sort of overflow to West Beach proper, embellished with a tram line for horse-drawn trucks, the Ordnance depot, etc.—all these places are swarming with men, and over all hangs the eternal dust!

Further along on the plateau from West Beach, and looking towards Lala Baba, is the Supply depot and the watering-places for the animals, all in the open, with no protection at all: a wonderful spectacle, if you like to think of it, and only possible because John Turk is short of ammunition. Here in the bare open the troops live from day to day, a few sand-bags only between them and death, and very few of the dugouts boast a real roof; blankets and waterproof sheets answer that purpose, and so it is not difficult to imagine the havoc wrought when shrapnel is about. To the north lies the bold, forbidding point, before mentioned, with the waves flinging their white manes in anger against its sides. Such, roughly, is Suvla Bay as I see it now, and I cannot say that it impresses me as a practical proposition.

Dug in on the side of a slope the others have built a house, or, as far as dugouts in Gallipoli go, a summer residence. The door faces the rise leading up to the rugged point, from the craggy back of which one sees the cliff-side dropping sheer to the sea.

The roof of corrugated iron slopes at the same angle as the slope of the ground in which we have dug. For walls, the dugout earth forms the back wall, and the side walls are built of biscuit boxes. We spend the day improving on this. Immediately in front is our Supply depot, divided into three dumps, one each for the 86th, 87th, and 88th Brigades. At dusk the pack-mules and A.T. carts form up, and we load on to the set of mules or carts allotted to each unit the rations and fuel. The transport then moves off by Brigades to the front, the mules led by Drabis, the carts driven also by Drabis, and the whole escorted by Indian N.C.O.’s under a white N.C.O. Q.M.S.’s Transport N.C.O.’s, guides of the units, and the A.S.C. Transport Officer accompany them to the respective battalion and dumps, situated a distance of two hundred to three hundred yards behind the front line. In some cases convoys proceed direct to the regimental cookhouses. The transport dares not show itself by day. To-night our Brigade arrives from Imbros, and is to spend the night in De Lisle’s Gully, some short distance to the left of the road that leads to Lone Tree Gully, but up the hill rather, and so our rations go there. Water has been put there for them by Carver last night. We watch this water question closely. It needs careful handling and foresight. A man can go hungry much longer than he can go thirsty, and water is far more difficult to transport by sea than food. Imbros is the source of our supply, and water-tank lighters are filled there and towed over each day.

The water dump is on “A” Beach, and all the Divisions that are being supplied from this promontory draw from this dump. An able man, one Private Jones, is in charge. Though before the war an L.C.C. school-teacher, he appears to be the one man in the world who could be chosen to be the most efficient and tactful organizer of the difficult task of satisfying an army of 30,000 men with their daily requirements of water, from a limited source, and by means of a limited supply of receptacles, steadily diminishing in number.

At seven I go up with Carver to the H.Q. of the 86th Brigade. Instead of walking up the road that leads to Pine Tree Gully, we bear off to the right, and pass along a lower road through the wooded, gorse-covered low lands for a distance of about a mile and a half inland, until bullets are merrily singing their song of war overhead. “Zi-i-ip” goes one between us. A pause in the conversation, and Carver says, “That was not pleasant,” to which I agree, but adding, “If hit, it means Blighty, my boy, the Savoy, and theatres, or ‘Finish,’ as we say in Egypt.”

We come to a wide space in front of us, and to our left is high ground, rising in one place to about 30 feet. Carver tells me that we are at Brigade dumping-ground. A.T. carts are packed here in readiness to bring the baggage back to the beach for the 86th Brigade, as it is their turn now to go to Imbros.

He searches for his Staff Captain in the dark, and I go up to the bushes in front and talk to Baxter, the Quartermaster of the Munsters, and a few other officers who are sitting down on a rock. As I stand there I hear close to my ear “zi-i-ip”—an unseen hand appears to strike a bush with a big stick on my left. Baxter says, “You are standing in a place where bullets keep dropping. You should sit down. One just passed your head.” I am always sensitive as to how to behave on these occasions, with men whose lives are always passed in the trenches, and so I reply “Did it?” I heard the thing plain enough, and sat down promptly. I have learned to take my cue as to what to do from such men, and they are always right. Many a man has been hit by totally disregarding the necessity of taking cover, believing that others may think he has “cold feet,” and he wishes to prove that he is brave by bravado. He forgets he is more useful to his country alive. There are many times when he must take risk, so it is wiser for him to reserve his bravado for those times.

I sit down, and a minute after, “zi-i-ip” again, and thud into the bush. Baxter tells me that it is only this corner which is dangerous, but that they are sitting there because it is a nice seat and the only one handy for waiting. If you walk about the rest of the space, the bullets are flying high and one is safe. This happens all over the Peninsula, owing to the curious formation of the land. At one area of a certain spot, bullets may hit the ground regularly on or near that part, while a few yards away they fly high. Soon one becomes familiar with this peculiarity and acts accordingly. It is because some Turks may be on a rise, others on the ground. They generally fire at nothing in particular, but straight in front of them. All night they fire away—crack, crack, crack, crack—and must waste a lot of ammunition.

Carver, having finished his arrangements, calls me, and we walk back a short distance over a small rise, threading our way along a path no doubt used not long since by Turkish farmers; descending a slope, we pass to the right by a little hill not more than 30 feet high, and make towards a light, which is 86th Brigade H.Q. We are walking up to the door, and can see General Percival and Thomson sitting in the mess-room dugout. When we are four yards away from them the General says, “Good evening, Carver,” when Carver, to my astonishment, using a fearful oath, disappears into the earth. The light from H.Q. mess dazzles my eyes somewhat, and I stop dead, still looking at the place where Carver had performed his pantomimic vanishing trick, when he again appears, looking foolish. He had neatly stepped into a dugout, which, I found out after, was waiting to be filled in, and we had not noticed it on account of the light in our eyes. We go in and chat, and I tell them of the joys and beauty which they are to taste and see on Imbros.

Back to the beach, where I find our Staff Captain, Hadow, arrived. The Brigade is arriving, hundreds of dark, shadowy figures quietly falling in in platoons and marching off inland. I talk to Mould awhile about the eternal topic—water—and then turn in.

_September 8th._

To-night I go up to Brigade, this time a different way across country, following a guide who has been down for rations and tells me he knows a quick way. We pass in and out of boulders and clumps of gorse, down the rocky gully where D.H.Q. were for a few nights, past clumps of trees, over grass, over an open space with more pinging bullets than ever, at last to H.Q., and find them all sitting in darkness, and the General rather anxious about the non-arrival of two of his battalions, who have missed their way and are having a country night ramble all over the place, groping about in the dark.

Coming back, I pass the Hampshires, and an officer asking me the way, I direct him to H.Q.

_September 14th._

The past days, since I last entered up my Diary, have been so monotonous that in a fit of sulkiness I threw it on one side, saying I would not record another day’s events, for nothing happens. The monotony knocks Helles sideways. I go up every morning to D.H.Q. at the top of our gully to take instructions. I see the Main Supply depot to arrange drawing the day’s supplies. I wire the strength of the Division to G.H.Q. I read papers three to four weeks old; I answer letters of the same age. Some days I go up the slope opposite our bivouac, and, climbing down the cliff on the other side, have a topping bathe. I strafe flies by the thousand—they are a damnable pest. I watch the battleships pooping away, and at odd times have to duck from a Turkish shell. At dusk I superintend the loading up of rations and water, and go up to Brigade H.Q. for a chat. The atmosphere of their company, however, always bucks me up.

Our guns poop off at odd intervals each day, and ammunition appears to be becoming more plentiful. The Turks are continually busy with shrapnel over Chocolate Hill and the low land, especially at Hill 10, where we have several batteries, and now and again the beaches.

“C” Beach, on the other side of Lala Baba, over the bay, however, gets it far worse than we do. However, generally speaking, I do not think that the Turk fires as much as we do.

Well, I will continue the Diary: things cannot go on like this for ever, and the best thing to do is to accept the life as it comes and treat everything as a matter of course—even shells. All of us who have been on here any length of time feel that our time to get hit will eventually arrive. Personally, I prefer the sledge-hammer blow from the unseen hand—namely, a bullet from a rifle.

I have been feeling very seedy the last few days, with the common complaint that men are going sick fast with now.

I went up to the Brigade to-night, but felt very ill when there, and was glad to swallow a strong brandy which the General offered to me. Coming back over the gorse, bullets seemed freer than usual, thudding into the bushes on my right and left. I felt sick and faint, and sat down waiting for an empty mule-cart returning on its way to the beach. One soon came, with two men of the Essex, and I was thankful for the lift home. “Pukka” original 29th men of the Essex, and good fellows.

About a dozen motor-lorries have landed, and I have managed to snaffle four of them to draw supplies from the Main Supply depot to our divisional depot, both now at this end of the promontory. Transport at this end of the promontory, if not too congested, only gets shelled at very rare intervals during the day—not sufficient to stop its work. Motor-lorries make the time that we take in drawing much shorter, and I wonder that they were not at Helles. Before, we used A.T. carts for this drawing here, and it took up practically the whole morning.

We do not have such good targets as the Turks have. To them we are laid out as a panorama, and to us they are dug in out of sight on the slopes of rocky, almost impregnable fastnesses.

To-day we have heard the boom of guns from the south, and there must be a heavy bombardment going on there.

The weather has broken, and we get a strong wind blowing each day now, frequently developing into a gale. A cold wind is now and again thrown in, and at nights we get a little rain. It is very rough, and difficulty is being experienced in landing stuff.

Told that good news will be published to-night.

_September 15th._

Heavy rain before breakfast this morning. Clears off later.

Everybody busy digging in. Can see new airship going up at Imbros. It has not yet made an active trip. _Prince George_ is firing with a heavy list in order to get long range. Probably firing at Chanak.

_September 16th and 17th._

Each day the battleships, at odd intervals, fire at various targets on shore—first, a small hill rising from the high ground on the Turkish right, which we have named the Pimple, and on which Turkish batteries are in position; next on Anafarta and Burnt Hill, behind Chocolate Hill; next on to the slopes of Sari Bair. Our batteries on shore occasionally fire off a few rounds. Owing, I suppose, to the fact that there are hills in front of us, the sound of guns firing is louder than it was at Helles. When our 18-pounder batteries on shore fire, the noise of the report is very much like a door upstairs banging loudly on a windy day.

I am getting much fitter, and think it is because I manage to get a bathe now and again.

There is a good place where I bathe and often visit, not so very far from our dugout. It is a little cove, plentifully besprinkled with huge boulders and protected on all sides. We walk up the rugged slope opposite our dugout to the top of the cliff. Then there is a difficult descent down the sheer face of the cliff to the water’s edge. It seems so odd, to be on this little patch of rock where we seem to leave the war miles behind us. Then we hear it muttering and grumbling in the hills above and behind us—sometimes, when least expected, a battleship looses off with a roar that shakes the crags above us—but we are safe, quite safe, as no shells can reach this spot; and so, in the midst almost of this welter of blood, disease, and death, quite light-heartedly we proceed to the most peaceful of pastimes—bathing.

I go up to H.Q. after dinner and enjoy the walk, feeling ready for bed when I return.

_September 18th._

It has been very quiet this morning. The work of getting supplies on shore, carting them up to the Main Supply depot, and from there to the several divisional depots, goes on now day and night like a well-managed business. The Main Supply depot is rapidly accumulating a reserve of supplies for us to fall back on should bad weather set in and prevent us landing on some days. I learn that we now have sufficient preserved food in the Main depot to feed 60,000 men and 5,000 animals on shore for a month, and soon there will be stores for six weeks.