Gallipoli Diary

by John Graham Gillam

DECEMBER

December 1st.

A beautiful day, but very cold. Turks shell the beaches pretty heavily in the morning and afternoon with high explosive and cause some casualties. Quite a new kind of shell, I think, and from new guns. One shell hits our depot, smashing our clerks’ office, but fortunately nobody is hurt. Poign Destre, of the Munsters, a charming boy, comes to spend a few days with us. He was out on the parapet during the night of the storm and was carried back unconscious, but is now quite fit again. Times are rather anxious just at present. Troops arrive this morning to reinforce. Evacuation of stores and equipment proceeding full steam ahead.

December 2nd.

Drafts arrive for the 29th Division. A beautiful day and not too cold. Turks busy with shrapnel. Go up to Brigade H.Q. with Horne. While up there, Turks shell beaches. Suddenly they open fire with two guns and shower of 5·9 shrapnel along the new second-line trenches which we have just passed. We have not had this 5·9 shrapnel since October 27th. About forty shells come over in rapid succession, two at a time. I hope they do not pepper the beaches with them. The ground is still damp after the flood. We are warned to expect many of these floods and blizzards. We pass General Byng and Staff while up at Brigade. General Cayley still as cheery as ever. Everybody busy repairing damaged dugouts. Work of evacuation proceeding very well. I wonder if John Turk can see. We have the advantage of the piers and beaches being under cover.

December 3rd.

We now hear a rumour that we are not evacuating at all, and that only the 29th are going, but I do not believe this. We learn this rumour from Sergeant Jones, of Jones’s water dump. Every day rumours are circulated from Sergeant Jones’s dugout on “A” Beach. All day officers and men who pass call in here and say, “Good-morning [or good-evening], Jones; what is the latest rumour?” They are invited to sit down while Jones tells the latest and best that he had heard from all sources—trenches, Navy, and beaches. I have seen at one time in Jones’s dugout a Brigadier, Major, and two Captains and a corporal all sitting round the oil-stove fire while Sergeant Jones, at his table, is eating his supper. As an officer comes in, Jones stands up, saying, “Good-evening, sir; what can I do for you?” If it is water required, then that worry has to be settled; if it is an ordinary call at this half-way house, then the officer is invited to sit down by the fire, Jones adding, if he should be at supper, “You will excuse me going on with my supper, won’t you, sir?” One night he said to me, “May I press you to a plate of porridge, sir?” We do not look upon him as a soldier or an N.C.O. It is difficult to describe how we regard him.

He is popular with everybody, and all officers, after a while, fall into the same manner of dealing and talking with him. Personally, I feel my relations with him are as they would be to the landlord of a familiar roadside inn. “A” Beach now being deserted, all and sundry, with the exception of Jones, being shelled out, Jones has to remain there, for this beach is the only possible place for a water dump. Dugout and dump remind me of a lonely roadside inn where I call on my journeys between the beaches and the line. He gets shelled now and again, and has had some remarkably lucky escapes. Men have been killed right and left of him. But most of the drawing of the water is done under the cover of the night. Happily, for our Division the water question has been nearly solved by our Engineers finding wells behind our part of the line, although we still have to draw water by cart from Jones to augment the supply from the forward wells. Other Divisions, however, are not so fortunate. They continue to nightly draw water from Jones for the troops in the line and reserve nullahs by all kinds of receptacles, and cart it up on A.T. carts.

Scotch mist and drizzly rain all day. Hardly any shelling on our front or on part of Turks. More drafts for 29th Division arrive. We are now making a rest camp in one of the nullahs, where men can change their clothes in case the weather gets bad again.

December 4th.

A very calm day, cold, cloudy, and dull. All last night there was quite a lot of rifle fire and bombing. Starting at daybreak, Turks get very busy with shrapnel, of which they appear to have plenty. At midday they are bombarding our position very energetically. We reply, and the battleships join in. In the afternoon our neighbourhood is shelled with these new high explosive shells, one shell dropping in our Supply depot; but no one is hurt. Dusk, and all is quiet. A relief. Poign Destre leaves Peninsula. Lucky devil! We have shipped off to-day a lot of base kits, surplus baggage, ordnance stores, and even food supplies, by means of the A.T. carts and on the tramway running in the sunken trench. A.T. carts returning empty from the trenches have been bringing large quantity of surplus kit and stores away during the last few nights. Under the cover of the protecting mounds of earth they have been off-loaded on to lighters, which with no attempt to disguise their intentions have been towed out to supply ships, making fast on the side away from the enemy, their cargo being loaded by the ships’ derricks into the various holds. Very little of this work has been done so far, but it is obvious to all that we are evacuating in the near future. I can’t describe our feelings. Up to a short time ago stores were being busily unloaded day and night, and now the reverse is happening. It is as if a High Commander had suddenly shouted the order, “As you were.”

December 5th.

Heavy gunning all day by both sides—very heavy and continuous. From twelve to one the Turks give us a general bombardment, and we get our share in our little camp. Men’s cookhouse wrecked, but no one hurt; the cook happens to be at the depot a hundred yards down the gully drawing rations. It is evident that the Turks are now getting regular supplies of ammunition, probably direct from Germany. We are looking to Russia. If only she can come through Rumania and attack Bulgaria in the rear and cut off Turkey, Turkey is finished. We get rumours that she is through, and are rather looking towards her as a besieged city looks towards its deliverers. Snipers busy just now, on account of the exposed position of our washed-out trenches. Fresh drafts arrive for the 29th. Is it to be an evacuation for all, or is the 29th only going. If so, why do drafts arrive for the 29th?

December 6th.

A very beautiful day. Turks busy shelling us. We reply energetically. One continued roar of guns all day. Our beaches shelled midday and late afternoon. But very few casualties, the mounds of earth affording excellent cover, and all shells are high explosive, no shrapnel. Trenches are still in muddy state in low land. At night we shell their positions.

December 7th.

A very beautiful, cool day, but it is getting colder. Turks start shelling us early. Their shells are much improved and are evidently new. Horne and I start off to Brigade H.Q. after lunch, walking up our gully. We pass a boxing match in full swing. I do not think that the men know anything of the evacuation. I hear unofficially that it has been postponed indefinitely. Perhaps it is off altogether. We appear to be getting through the winter so well, that perhaps it might be as well to stick these storms and not give up this job of forcing the Dardanelles, which if successful would mean so much to the cause of the Allies. As we near the top of the gully, we hear the boom of a gun, coming from the direction in which we are walking. It is the first time that a shell for the beach has come from this direction. By its sound I know instinctively that the beastly thing is coming down very near us. I shout to Horne, “Drop flat!” and both of us fall beside a prickly gorse-bush as the thing bursts with a deafening explosion on the high ground on our right. We get to our feet and look back at the boxing match, and cannot help being amused at the way the Tommies have quickly cleared or lain down, with the instinct of “veterans of the beaches.” The combatants in the ring, who have paused, resume their match. The crowd again collects, continually being added to by a stream of men coming over the skyline from the next gully. This should draw Turkey’s fire; and sure enough it does, for as we reach the hill at the top of the gully we hear another coming. We duck behind a boulder as it passes over our heads and bursts twenty yards our side of the boxing ring. This clears the crowd and ends the match for the day. The Turks cannot see the gully, but know that men are collecting there by the procession of them streaming over the skyline of the promontory. As we walk on towards the 88th Field Ambulance, about four more shells scream over the hill to the gully, which by this time is deserted; and as we sit in the ambulance waiting for a friend who is walking up with us to Brigade H.Q., the Turks increase their range and send a few nice fat, juicy ones over to the beaches.

Leaving the ambulance, we walk down the slope to the Gibraltar road and meet Grant, our G.S.O.3, who has just come back from the trenches. He is in shorts, caked with mud up to his knees and thickly bespattered over the rest of his body, which gives evidence of the present state of the trenches, even though it is over ten days since the storm. He tells us that in fifteen minutes we are going to open fire with all guns on to the unfortunate Pimple. We continue our way up the Gibraltar road, when at four o’clock precisely the ships’ guns—with a roar that makes me jump, for I am again walking in a direct line from which they are firing—fire, and the great shells screaming overhead can be seen bursting with great violence on the insignificant geographical formation. Almost at once all shore batteries pour shells in rapid succession on to the small target of the Pimple, which disappears from sight under a great cloud of drifting dust and smoke of all colours.

Arriving at Brigade H.Q., we find McLaughlin on the roof of his dugout looking at the show through glasses, and we join him. As is always the case when John Turk is being bombarded, the bullets become free and frequent, and “overs” begin to fly about us. We have tea with McLaughlin and sit around the nice brick open hearth, in which a log fire is burning, and chat. The General and Brigade Major are up at Gun Hill observing the show. Heavy gunning is heard in the south all the afternoon; at night the Turk sends a shell over our way at odd intervals, but in our gully we are practically safe, for his targets are usually the beaches.

December 9th.

Yes; the evacuation of Suvla is now a reality. I hear to-day that we have now begun the intermediate stage of the evacuation. It has been a reality for some days. The storm only delayed it. We have just completed the preliminary stage. We hear that it will be but a few days now when not a British subject will be left alive here unless as a prisoner. The shelling to-day is in fits and starts. High explosive shells are searching the beach, bursting well and with a louder explosion than in past days. But West Beach is well protected, and the steady shipment of vehicles and ordnance goes on all day. At night, empty ration carts go up to the line to bring back men’s surplus kits, blankets, surplus ammunition, and the surplus part of the usual accumulation of baggage that a regiment takes with it to the trenches and to dumps just behind.

Horne, Elphinstone, Hunt, and I are on the beach all night, taking shifts in superintending the unloading of the carts as they arrive back full. They come back in a steady stream. The carts that have taken up rations, stores, special ammunition, such as bombs, etc., earlier in the evening, all return loaded with kits. We have a few men to help us, but hardly enough, and we therefore work ourselves to keep warm. It is a monotonous job. The Drabis appear fed-up, and we have to watch them carefully to see that they do not slope off with their loaded carts to their lines. Kipling once said “East is East and West is West, and never the twain shall meet.” Is this correct? I wonder. For our Tommies seem to work amicably with the Drabis. The white transport corporal, who is with us marshalling the transport, on receiving an order from me, shouts out into the darkness of the beach to the Indian jemadar, “Mahommed Hussan!” A voice answers back with a drawl, “Hullo”; my corporal shouts back, “Wait ’arf a mo, will yer?” and the voice answers “A-all ri-ight.” East—and West.

All night, lighters are being loaded up and towed out to the ships. Last A.T. carts unloaded at 5 a.m. We turn in at 5.30 a.m., ready for sleep.

December 10th.

A fine, cool day. Usual shelling with “hot-stuff” shells. Evacuation of stores going on apace. I think the 29th is to be the last off. Medical comforts in the way of champagne, port, brandy, and whisky are now going cheap, and I send them round to all the battalion messes, the two Brigades, and Divisional H.Q. They are not troubling to evacuate this stuff, and I am trying to get a full share for the 29th. Personally, I should like to give them champagne dinners every night, after what they have been through. No food being landed now, except a little bread and fresh meat. Instead of that, the reserve at the depot is being steadily reduced.

December 11th.

Last night work went steadily on—the loading up of lighters and the towing of these to ships, where the derricks, rattling away feverishly, emptied them. A surprisingly large quantity of all kinds of material has been evacuated, yet the beaches and the life thereon appear unchanged. All tentage and camps are to be left standing, and up to the last day as much transport as possible will move about on the top of the promontory. To-night the 89th Field Ambulance has left, together with some men on light duty. Also a large number of men from the 11th and 13th Divisions.

December 12th.

Nothing of much account to-day. Everybody hard at work, dismantling and getting away all impedimenta. It can readily be realized what a vast amount of all kinds and conditions of stores and equipment this impedimenta represents for an army of 60,000 men who have been stationary on a small bit of land for over four months. The work goes on, punctuated at intervals by a few shells from the enemy’s batteries; but it is quite normal shelling, and I feel sure the Turks know nothing. They can see nothing. The Staff work is excellent. The beach each day appears unchanged. Many troops, beach details, etc., move off.

December 13th.

A cold south wind is blowing and makes us all very anxious. Is it going to develop into another storm which will upset all our well-laid plans and so place us at the mercy of the Turk? These are anxious days. We are now issuing rations from the forward reserve stock in the C.R.E. nullah nightly, and our dump on the beach is now clear. Medical comforts are liberal, and also milk, which the troops appreciate, but bread and meat are issued only in very small quantities. The rations at Hill 10 are untouched, remaining there to be issued should we have to hold the second line of trenches, which are now complete. Work is being carried on feverishly for completing the third line. All work on the low ground has to be done at night, but on the high ground, where nullahs and dips in the ground afford cover, work goes on by day and night. Meeting-places have been arranged, where the troops will concentrate before proceeding to the beaches on the night that they have orders to evacuate. They are termed “posts,” and are lettered “W,” “Y,” “Z,” etc., the letters showing illuminated through a dark background. Of course, all such posts are placed in positions which are under cover. Each unit is to be guided to the post allotted to it, there to await orders, which will be telephoned up to the post from the piers. An officer of the Evacuation Staff will wait at the post telephone for the message from the beach, after marshalling and checking the troops on arrival there.

I see Brigade H.Q. each night now, when I am up at the C.R.E. dump issuing the daily rations. Their H.Q. are now in the same H.Q. as the C.R.E. had. Next door is the Brigade H.Q. of a Brigade of artillery, the guns of which are in position near by in front, just behind and round about. While there, an officer told me that if necessary his guns will be putting up a curtain of fire over the Turks should they attempt to follow on after our troops have evacuated the first line. Their guns are being left in position for this purpose, and will be rendered useless after the infantry have passed back. Two medical officers and about twenty R.A.M.C. men have been detailed to remain at the casualty clearing station after all troops have left on the last night. Their duty is to attend to any wounded who may have to be left to fall into the hands of the Turk, they of course giving themselves up as prisoners.

If it is at all possible, pinnaces from one of the battleships will be ready to take them off, provided there are no wounded. Their tents are being lined with sand-bags as protection against bullets. The Turk will not shell them.

December 14th.

The time gets nearer, yet the aspect of the beaches does not change. Shelling is about the same, but getting rather bad, at odd, but fortunately rare, intervals. The days are now lettered, but the letter of each day is secret to all but a very few. All we know is that when the last night does arrive it will be “Z” night. I have a shrewd idea that to-day is either “W” or “V” day, so that the time is near. It will be hard luck if I collide with a shell now, after dodging them all these months. What of the schemes for evacuating the first line when all those in rear are clear away? The line for the last few nights will be very thinly held by us.

The second and third lines are thickly wired with barbed wire in front, which stands in fences 8 feet high. At intervals there are passages through these fences to allow us to pass through on our way to and from the line. On the last night these passages will be closed, and the only way to get through will be by barbed wire gates across the few roads. Officers will be on duty at these gates, and they will have fixed thereon telephonic communication to the beaches. The final evacuation of the front line will be carried out as is the present daily evacuation of troops, keeping to a strict programme. The officer in charge of the last party down a certain road will report his unit and name to the officer in charge of the gate. This will be checked by the list which the officer will have with him of the last parties down, and if correct the officer, who will then know that the last troops have passed through, will telephone this information to the beach, close and bar the gate, and proceed with the party to the next line and himself report to the officer at that gate, where the same procedure will follow. And so on to the beaches, the only way to which is by the roads. After the last parties have passed through the last line, then those on the beaches will know that all have passed safely through, and that there are three lines of trenches thickly protected by barbed wire between the beaches and the enemy. The last parties to leave will be hurried on board the waiting destroyers, trawlers, and ships; the skeleton framework of the Supply depot, the remaining stores which have been unavoidably left, will be set ablaze by the igniting of petrol-sodden hay. The remaining officers will make a bolt for the few remaining pinnaces. That is the scheme.

The British population of Suvla daily dwindles away, unbeknown to the ignorant Turk. Ammunition and ordnance and all manner and kind of stores and equipment are daily disappearing into the holds of the waiting ships. These ships are not more numerous than the ships which have lain in the bay in the safety of the boom since August 6th, so that from their presence our plot is not given away. To the enemy our daily life appears the same, and he gives us our daily ration of shells—now of good quality and effective—and no doubt is laughing at us, with the memory of the recent awful storm and the coming blizzards of a rigorous winter. If all goes well, if the well-laid schemes of our G.S. “gang not agley,” and no bloody rearguard action is forced upon us, it will be our turn to laugh in a few days. To-night the wind has changed to the north-west; we may hoodwink the Turks, but not the mighty elements, and we pray that they will be our allies in our task. If our enemies, then we must give ourselves up in unconditional surrender, hoping for no mercy.

Carver has just arrived from Helles on a mission quite apart from the scheme of evacuation. To our surprise he is unaware that we are evacuating, and tells us that all at Helles are also ignorant of the coming event. No preparation of any kind is being made to evacuate Helles. He leaves again to-night, back for Helles. The 86th Brigade and part of D.H.Q. are now moving off. I go to “Y” forming-up post, just at the foot of our gully, and view the scenes there. The beaches have been shelled this afternoon. If they but drop a few over this evening they cannot fail to claim many victims. Shadowy figures march up in perfect order and form up. Roll-calls are made, sharp commands issued: “Stand at ease!” “Stand easy!” whereupon the figures talk, lean on their rifles, or lie down resting on the ground.

Elphinstone is going off with his Brigade, as he is their Supply Officer. I make him up a box of the plentiful medical comforts, including a few bottles of champagne for his Brigade H.Q. to feast on while on board. I say good-bye to many friends in the Brigade, as the order to move down is telephoned up from West Beach to the officer at the receiver attached to “Y” post. Troops are called to attention, and in two deep they march down towards the beach, entering the safety of the trench that has been dug there, pass in safety behind the mounds of earth and the small, rocky promontory, and file along the pier in single file up a gangway on to a small paddle-steamer, which sails out to the bay to the waiting ship. I listen to the chatter of the Dublin Fusiliers, to their philosophical comments on the situation, and feel glad for them that they are seeing the last of this damnable campaign. One of them has heard “on good authority,” and tells his friend, “that they are bound for Aldershot.” I leave them and walk back. No shells come over. Inland I hear the steady crack, crack, crack of the rifles. I turn into bed. Our Brigade, the old 88th, alone of the Division is left in the line.

December 15th.

The wind is cold and blowing steadily from the north-east, yet the sea is not too rough for the getting off of stores. Lord Howard de Walden and General Percival, the Brigadier of the 86th Brigade, which embarked last night, are now on the beach as part of the regulating Staff of the evacuation programme. This Staff, controlled by General Fanshawe, is almost as efficient as could be, with the result that the last stage of the evacuation is working like clockwork. Every man is accounted for. No man can leave before his time, no man should be left behind. Commander Unwin, who gained the V.C. at the landing of April 25th for gallantry on “V” Beach, is in charge of conveyance of stores, animals, and men from the beaches to the ships, and night and day he is on duty on the piers. He stands over 6 feet and is broad in proportion, with the typical clean-shaven face of a sailor, and with a voice that roars orders through a megaphone, causing those who are ordered to jump about a good deal quicker on their jobs than they probably would do otherwise.

I go down on the beach with a Staff officer this morning after a few “Good-morning” shells have crashed on the beach roads and on the mounds of earth, and we call at the embarkation office, in a sand-bagged house, dug and built in the cover of a rock. There we find a few of the Staff hard at work. The weather has been kind, and we are up to time with the programme. We talk to two Yeomanry officers who are on the Evacuation Staff. Everything is working perfectly, and I feel confident that we shall succeed in evacuating long before the Turk discovers our absence. Ships, when loaded full with supplies and passengers, proceed to Mudros Harbour, where they are unloaded quickly, coming back the following night. No ships pass to and fro between here and Lemnos during the day, so that every morning that the Turk wakes up he notices no extra ships lying anchored or the absence of the ships departed. The view of the shipping lying in the bay inside the boom appears unchanged, as is the case of the beaches day by day.

Regularly at dusk we go up to the C.R.E. nullah and issue rations from the reserve supplies there. To-night we issue to the 88th Brigade only, and the work in consequence is quickly finished. The distance to the line is now short for the A.T. carts to take the rations up, for the best part of their journey is made empty, namely from the lines at the end of the promontory to our dump in the C.R.E. nullah. The journey back to their lines from the trenches is now made with empty carts, for all forward stores have been evacuated. There is no doubt that the Turk hears the carts approaching to the various cookhouses, for the carts rattle and the various parts of the harness clank loudly. Their sound is certain to be heard by him in his front line, for the nights here are so still. The Turk fires over towards the direction where he knows the roads lie, hoping to claim a casualty in mule or man.

The late two Brigade H.Q. are now uninhabited and closed, and whoever opens the doors of the several dugouts will be blasted immediately into eternity by bombs attached to the doors, seats, and cupboards. I see my Brigade close by our dump in the C.R.E. nullah, and the atmosphere is cheery and full of confidence. Crack, crack, crack the rifles in front sing away. I hear one bullet pass, but the few bullets that reach this nullah are spent in force and drop harmlessly to the ground.

Major Bailey, as cheery as ever, calls in our dugout when we arrive back, and we give him a good dinner of tinned roast fowl and champagne before he embarks with his Field Company. I go down again to “Y” formation post, and the scene there is the same as last night, shadowy columns of men arriving in good order, lying down to await telephonic instructions to proceed to the beach. The beaches are full of hundreds and hundreds of men moving in single file along the piers and up the gangways and on board ship, while at little coves near by lighters are busy feverishly loading with animals, baggage, and remaining equipment.

December 16th.

Still no change on the beaches. Still the same fitful white puffs of Turkish shrapnel over the wooded lowland. Still the “ration” allowance of Turkish high explosive on to the beaches. And yet tons and tons of stores and equipment have left, and thousands of men from here are now safe in the camps at Mudros. A light north-east breeze is blowing with bright sunshine, and it is very clear. The conditions, for our scheme, are perfect. Our second line is now crowded with troops, who remain well under cover during the day. Water for these is a difficulty, as there are no wells close handy and it has to be carted up to them daily from the beach. Five 80-gallon tanks are fixed in position along this line, which are kept full of water as an emergency. Our front line is but thinly held, and all who pass between this second and front line must keep to the roads, for the country is freely strewn with all devices of trip-bombs, which await the Turk should he discover what we are up to, immediately after we evacuate the front line, and come on to give us battle. As yet I am certain that he knows nothing, so well are our Evacuation Staff working. And the last night—“Z” night—is approaching very near now. I believe to-night is “W” night. I issue as usual, and visit Brigade H.Q. Take a stroll on the beaches after dinner to view the scene of men and animals quietly disappearing off the land that we have shed so much blood in conquering, and then I go off to bed.

December 17th.

Early this morning we have showers of rain, which are followed by a southerly breeze, quickly blowing them away. Brilliant sunshine makes the day quite hot. During the night I receive orders to issue two days’ rations to-night to the 88th Brigade and the rest of the Division, and afterwards to embark with all A.S.C. details along with D.H.Q. I am down on the beach in the afternoon getting our kits shipped off. At five o’clock the Turks open fire with two guns on to the beaches and beach roads, and the first few cause casualties. The shells are first-class, and burst with a deafening crash. One gun is on Sari Bair and the other is on the hills on the left of Anafarta. They continue until shortly after dusk—about 6.20 p.m. Five minutes after, the beaches are alive with men once more, and the work of evacuation proceeds energetically. This bout of shelling makes us anxious, as it would appear that our plot has been discovered. I go up to C.R.E. dump and issue two days’ rations to the 88th Brigade and the few remaining odd units. We leave the balance of the reserve supplies. They are too near the line to be burnt on the last night, and we leave them as a present of thanksgiving to our enemy, the Turk, who has “played the game” throughout the campaign. I say good-bye to the Brigade and express the hope that I shall see them all safe and well in Egypt, where I believe we are going for a good rest and refitment. Nobody can deny that the 29th deserve it.

I go back and have a last meal with Horne. Our camp will be deserted to-morrow, yet if an enemy aeroplane sails over, no change will be noted. Our dugouts are left standing intact. I, with the details, go down to “Y” forming-up post, and there meet, as on previous nights, parties and companies of men arriving. I call the roll of my men, and am instructed by the Adjutant of the C.R.E. to fall my men in behind the D.H.Q. party when the order is telephoned up from West Beach. A wait of three-quarters of an hour. We hope no shells will arrive. Horne comes up to say good-bye to me. I wish him good luck, not envying him his wait of forty-eight hours.

To-night is “X” night. The order from the beach arrives. All are called to attention. We march off, through the Main Supply depot, down into the trench, over the open space of West Beach, along the pier. A short pause here, of ten minutes, and then in single file we pass up the gangway over the sunken ships which act as a breakwater to the little harbour, and so on board a paddle-steamer. In half an hour she is full. It is a lovely moonlight night. We steam out into the bay, come alongside a small steamer, and file on board her. I go up on deck and view the scene of Suvla Bay by moonlight. I can hear the crack of the rifles from inland—and also voices from the beaches; now and again a torch is flashed as a lighter crunches upon the beach. With a soft swishing sound, a lighter glides past us to some other ship. The whole bay and foreshore is bathed in moonlight, and as I look, all those eight months of hardships, gloom, and danger pass in review before me. A feeling as of a great burden being lifted off my mind comes over me, and a sense of extreme gladness that at last the long-drawn horror is past—and what horror! “Never again!” I think to myself. “Never again!”

I look towards Anzac and notice that the whole sky is aflame—the stores are alight. Probably a stack of supplies which has caught fire by mistake. And then, as I look, a curious mist arises, low at first, off the sea—as if with an invisible hand, a cloudy cloak is slowly draped over the whole Peninsula. First Suvla, then Anzac and the coast line become blotted out, and I see now nothing but a grey mist. Suvla Bay and its horrors, its hopes, and disappointments are lost to my sight for ever—for by the time the mist has dispersed the ship has moved away.

December 18th.

After a good night spent on the floor of the wardroom, lying on my “British warm” with my cap as a pillow, I wake up about 7 a.m., wondering where on earth I have got to. I hear that now delightful sound, the pulse of ship’s engines, and know, with a happy feeling, that I am sailing on a ship to the friendly waters of the harbour of Lemnos. No breakfast is to be had, for all troops, officers and men, except myself, have embarked with rations. Stupid of me to forget myself, when it was my job to see that all troops went off with rations. I explore the ship and cadge a topping breakfast of eggs and ham off one of the crew. I go into his cabin and eat it on the Q.T. At twelve o’clock Lemnos heaves in sight, and at one o’clock we enter the harbour. It is all but five months since I was here last, and the camps have doubled and trebled their size, and doubled and trebled their number. As we pass the French and British battleships, Monitors, and destroyers, the respective crews come to the sides of their ships and gaze with interest at us. But there is no demonstration. When I last passed these ships, five months ago, the crews cheered us, and cheered again as we passed out to war. Now they look on, gaze at us, and say nothing. It seems almost a reproval. We take up our moorings amongst other small ships which have come with troops from the Peninsula, and after a brief delay are transferred with baggage to the Southland. Ah! this means sailing for Egypt, probably. Egypt! It will be like sailing home. The Southland was the boat which was torpedoed early in September. I go and look at the damage that was done. A great hole was torn in one of her holds, and it was lucky that she was able to reach Lemnos, fifty miles away from the spot where she was hit.

We learn that the 86th have passed to Helles, and soon we are to follow. Good Lord! This is the unkindest cut of all. So we are not done with it yet. Well, I don’t suppose the Turks will let us get off scot-free this time. I draw food for the men on board, and at 7.30 p.m. go down to dinner. The last time that I dined in this saloon was in those days in April, just before the original landing. The officers of the K.O.S.B.’s were dining here then, and their bagpipes played them in to dinner, many for the last time in their lives. We have a merry dinner-party with champagne. After, I enjoy the luxury of a hot bath and then turn in.

December 19th.

It is topping being on board a nice ship again and back once more to civilization. I row round with the skipper in the morning to one or two ships in harbour, and after lunch go over in a pinnace with some officers to the shore, calling on the Aragon on the way, where General de Lisle and Colonel O’Hara join us. Firth, O’Hara, and I, on reaching the land, walk up to a village inshore and buy eggs. It is delightful being able to stretch one’s legs without having to carry one’s ears at the “right engage” in expectancy of the whistle of the enemy shell. We have great fun purchasing eggs from old Greek ladies—six from one, twelve from another, and so on. When loaded up with them we get back to the pier, on to a waiting pinnace, and so out to the Aragon, where O’Hara entertains us to tea. We learn that we are not to be on the Peninsula long—only a matter of three weeks—and then we and the R.N.D. will be relieved and taken to Egypt. And so the sooner we are back there, to get it over, the better. We get back to the Southland and have a cheery dinner, which we make the most of. To-night is “Z” night, and as we sit talking after dinner we wonder how the work is proceeding. Last night everything went satisfactorily—no shelling—and news this morning shows the Turks have spotted no change.

December 20th.

Suvla is Turkish once more. All troops left without a casualty. The evacuation proceeded all day yesterday. The scenes on the beaches appeared as normal as ever. At nightfall all stores that had been intended to be evacuated had been safely shipped. All that were left were the skeleton stacks of supplies, waiting to be set alight, useless ordnance, and the supply of emergency ammunition. The beaches were shelled as usual in the day. Night fell, and those left on the beaches, except the Evacuation Staff, were hastened on to the waiting ships. At dusk a few Monitors and destroyers quietly slipped into the Bay, standing by in readiness for a Turkish attack.

The ration carts that were left were promptly shipped, not a mule being left—in fact, every hoof was safely embarked. Then began the last stage. In succeeding waves the remaining troops fell back in perfect order to the forming-up posts. In a steady stream they were hastened off on to the waiting ships, until at last the supreme moment arrived. The message was telephoned to the line that all troops behind those few men who were waiting a few yards from the unsuspecting Turk had left Suvla for good and all. Here and there a man fired his rifle as a farewell salute to our gallant enemy, but no man was permitted to fire without an order. With their boots wrapped in sand-bags they crept back, down the communication trenches, out on to the roads, past the first gate, which was immediately locked, the news of their passing being telephoned to the beaches. Past the second likewise, then the third, and then straight to the beaches; finally on board, and hurried off with great dispatch when the Evacuation Staff knew from their statistics that Suvla Bay was free of every Britisher but themselves. Hastily A.S.C. officers run round the frameworks of the Supply stacks in the depot with lighted torches, and quickly the supplies are ablaze. Then a rush is made to the waiting pinnaces, which merrily puff out to the battleships. Meanwhile the officers detailed to wait at the casualty clearing station are picked up by pinnaces, for no rearguard action has been necessary: the Turk was lying ignorant of it all in his trenches, crack-crack-cracking his rifle. If he had only known! At last not a living Britisher was left on Suvla or Anzac; every dugout, nook, and cranny was searched, and it was with great interest that the Evacuation Staff viewed the scene from the battleships as daylight broke. The fires burnt fiercely and quickly; Turkish shells came over as if to hasten the destruction of the fire. Complete success had been the reward of the excellent work of the Staff.

Still the Turk did not know that we had left. He saw the tents of our hospitals standing, but the deserted appearance of the beaches must have made him wonder. The morning wore on. Puzzled, a few venturesome Turks peeped over the parapets of the trenches. Nothing happened. They climbed over the top, walked over No-man’s-land into the deserted trenches, and the secret was discovered. We had evacuated—lock, stock, and barrel—under their very noses. Down the roads they came in small parties. A few muffled noises were heard, by which the watchers of this strange drama from the battleships knew that the bombs that we had laid cunningly were claiming victims, fighting our battles for us without our being on the field. And so they came to Lala Baba, and some German officers, with a characteristic insult to their brave ally, hoisted the German flag as a token of a German “victory,” though the honours of the day were with the Turk. He, however, had won not by beating us, but by our being beaten by Nature—the impregnable fastnesses of the mountains of Suvla Bay and the Gallipoli winter storms. How a Turk could allow a German flag to be hoisted is beyond comprehension. One day Germany will fall shamefully to the dust in the eyes of her Oriental ally, and Turkey must beware of that day, on which she can expect no mercy.

The last crowded ships arrive at Mudros Harbour. The shore becomes thronged with Australian troops, who, more fortunate than ourselves, are bound for Egypt, while we, after lunch, embark on the Partridge, and sail off with our General once more for the Peninsula. It is a chilling, depressing voyage to Helles, a journey made by me now for the third time. I hope it will be my luck to make it yet a fourth time, for that will be after the war. We have a meal off rations that we have brought with us. The boat is crowded with troops, and they do not seem very cheery. Night falls. At eight o’clock we see in the distance the starlights sailing up and down inland, on the Peninsula, though it is hard to discern the outline of the shore. Soon the lights of a hospital ship are discernible ahead. Suddenly, two flashes are seen, one after the other, from the Asiatic side; two booms of guns are heard, about fifteen seconds after, followed by two piercing shrieks, and the shells burst with a bright flash of flame on “W” Beach. And so we are in it once more. Shortly after, we see the dim outline of the shore. We heave to and anchor off “V” Beach. After a wait of half an hour, lighters come alongside, on which we get and are towed to a pier running out from “V” Beach, which now, in addition to being protected from the strong currents of the Dardanelles by the River Clyde, is protected from the outer sea by a sunken French battleship, the Massena. In consequence, the water inside the pier is like a millpond, while outside a heavy swell washes against the sides of the two ships. I am on “V” Beach once more. It does not seem to have altered much since I left on August 20th last, but appears perhaps more orderly than it was then. More light railways are about.

Foley is there to meet us, and it is good to see him safe and well. Up to a fortnight ago, he tells me, it was very quiet on the Peninsula—in fact, they have been playing football matches in the aerodrome, and on shore, in a large dugout, the band of the R.N.D. have been giving concerts. But lately two guns from Asia have been throwing over at odd intervals of the day 8-inch Naval shells, and life on the beaches is becoming jumpy again. Also some new guns have been placed in position on the slopes of Achi Baba, which have been worrying the rest camps further inland. He tells me that the Turkish ammunition had improved in quality. This was what we had found at Suvla, due to Bulgaria’s entry into the war as our enemies and the opening of the road from Germany to Constantinople. The war will not end before this road is cut by the Allies. We shall never succeed now in forcing the Straits, and so this road will never be cut in this manner. We must, however, hang on to this end of the Peninsula, and I pity the troops who will be detailed for duty to do so through this winter. It will not be the 29th, for shortly we shall again be leaving, and this time for good. Three weeks, I think. Three weeks only on “W” Beach, the bull’s-eye of a target. C’est la guerre! As we march up on to the Helles Plateau we notice fires burning in the distance up the coast of Suvla—the Suvla Supply depot and other stacks still burning.

On arrival on the high ground on the left of “W” Beach looking inland, I turn into the same dugout which used to be our home in the early days of this “round in circles” campaign. Matthews is there to welcome me, and a new officer named Harris. As I turn in, I think of our old dugout at Suvla, now occupied in all probability by sleeping Turks. How strange! During the night I am awakened at intervals by loud explosions. Only Asia firing on “W” Beach at intervals. One bursts on the slopes of our cliff, and large lumps of earth fall on our tarpaulin roof.

December 21st.

I am awakened by a few shells bursting on the beach. After breakfast I meet our new C.O., Colonel Huskisson. I dined with him in Ritchie’s dugout in May last, when he was O.C. Main Supply depot. I learn that the beaches get shelled now heavier than they were ever shelled before. During the morning I walk inland with Bell along the light railway system, which runs from the beaches and branches in several directions over the Helles Plateau, for a distance of about a mile. Mules pull small trucks up from the beach to the high ground behind the beach, where the mules are unhitched and the trucks, with their own momentum, run down the plateau, which is on a gentle slope. Bell’s idea is to have a Supply depot at the end of the railway on the plateau, and to issue from there to Horse Transport, which will come up one wagon at a time. Should transport collect in any spot on this plateau it immediately draws shell fire. I am struck by the way transport goes about in daylight and under observation from the enemy, certainly not in long convoys, but in single wagons or two or three together. Achi Baba looks more formidable than ever, and bleaker. In fact, the whole tip of the Peninsula looks far more cheerless than when I was here last.

A strong southerly wind is blowing this morning. This afternoon we have rain, and as night falls our “rest trenches” are sloughs of mud, for hardly any work appears to have been done on a system of drainage and the men have no roofing whatever. In fact, at Helles corrugated iron is practically nil, although at Suvla we did have a small supply. Do they honestly believe that they can hang on this tiny tip of land during the winter?

Just beyond the end of the railway, the ground is thickly lined with camps, consisting of rest trenches. These now lead right up to the system of deep trenches forming our front line. Behind where I am standing at the end of the railway, at a distance of three hundred yards, there stands a very large hospital of tents and huts. This could be destroyed utterly by Turkish shell fire in half an hour, yet it stands untouched. No large bodies of troops or transport are allowed to collect or pass near, of course, but small parties of two or three may pass by. D.H.Q. is about two hundred yards behind, dug in, in trenches. On their left is the West Coast road, overlooking the sea. The 87th are in the line, and a part of the 86th, the remainder being in rest camp trenches. The 88th have of course not yet arrived. Our artillery are practically in the same positions that they were six months ago.

December 22nd.

It is quite calm now and a fine day; thus we are given an opportunity of digging the mud out of the trenches and to work on a system of drainage. But we want roofing badly. Unlike “V” Beach, now a perfect harbour, safe against almost any sea, “W” Beach at the first heavy swell becomes impossible for landing any supplies. Engineers are busy as usual on the piers, not on construction, but on the work of repairing the damage done by each spell of rough sea. The storm that we experienced at Suvla did not spend its fury on Helles, though they felt the outskirts of its force here—so much so that the flimsy piers off “W” Beach were almost washed away, and for the time we depended on the courtesy of our French Allies to land stores and supplies on “V” Beach. No. 1 Pier here, however, is fairly safe, for we have two small ships sunk at the end, set at an angle, forming a breakwater; but they are too small to make the harbour as secure as the one at “V” Beach. We should have sunk ships six times as large. All along the shore off “W” Beach lighters lie three deep, washed up by past spells of rough weather.

The scheme of having our divisional Supply dump inland has fallen through, as it is too near D.H.Q. and would be sure to draw shell fire, which is becoming more and more frequent and effective. We draw at dusk from Main Supply depot, and at night issue from our divisional dump in an unsafe spot on the far side of the back of “W” Beach, having to be careful not to show too many lights. Asia keeps us on the qui vive all day, and too much activity on the beach will always draw a spell of shelling. A cloudy evening. At 11 p.m. the 88th Brigade arrive.

December 23rd.

It is a fine, cold day. We now walk about on the beach with our ears always listening for the sound of a gun from Asia or Achi Baba, upon hearing which we get ready to fling ourselves to the ground or dive into a dugout. I go along to the H.Q. of the 86th and 88th Brigades, both built in the side of a cliff just this side of “X” Beach and almost opposite our D.H.Q. Their dugouts are delightfully cosy little houses; they are practically safe from shell fire and form a great contrast to Divisional H.Q., dug a little way to the right in trenches which are in full view of the enemy and in danger of a shell dropping plumb on to them at any moment.

The day drags wearily away. There is nothing much to do but bookwork, making up accounts, and visits to the Main Supply depot. It is an extraordinary thing, but almost every time I stroll over to the Supply depot from our office on the cliff, over comes a shell either from a howitzer on Achi or “Quick Dick” from Asia. I prefer the howitzer. It gives you a chance to quickly look round for the nearest dugout and dive in. Whereas “Quick Dick,” with its boom-whizz-bang, is on you before you can count two, and leaves you almost gasping, wondering that you are still standing alive instead of flying through the air in little bits. Each day victims are claimed. I thought my Q.M.S. had “got it proper” to-day, but I saw him do a marvellous head-dive behind a mound, protecting dug-in stables, which saved him. It makes everybody living on the beach very bad-tempered. At night they drop them over at intervals. But we are one too many for Asia by night. One can distinctly see the flash of the gun and can count twenty-three slowly before the shell arrives. The French are very clever over dodging these night shells from Asia. A man perched up on a stack of hay watches Asia intently. He sees a flash, blows loudly on a trumpet, and everybody gets to cover like rabbits. Result: remarkably few casualties. Of course, the flash of the gun does not tell whether the shell is addressed to “V” Beach or “W” Beach, and one cannot fail to at times be amused, in spite of the grimness of it all, for the lookout man on “V” Beach might see the flash and give a mighty blast on his trumpet, whereupon all rush for cover, and twenty-three seconds later the shell swishes over, not to “V” Beach at all, but to “W” Beach. The Turkish gunners appear to have their tails very much up, no doubt through the evacuation of Suvla and Anzac. And enemy airmen are very daring, swooping right over our lines and at times dropping an odd bomb or two. Men and transport move about as freely as ever, though, which is such a contrast to Suvla; though, of course, our line being further inland than it was at Suvla, the enemy have difficulty in reaching the transport with shrapnel. If not, probably our transport would not be so reckless. The roads at the foot of the cliff can no longer be used, having been made impassable by being washed right away in parts.

December 24th.

It is delightful weather and we continue our life, preparing the figures and accounts to draw the rations at night, and arranging for their issue. Usual shelling all day. In the afternoon, as I walk across the plateau to D.H.Q., an enemy aeroplane comes swooping over. I am near a party of men marching and hear the pop-pop of a machine gun. Almost immediately after, I hear the swish of bullets and see them kick up the dust round about. At first I can’t make it out. Then it dawns on me that the daring aviator is actually firing on the troops near me. I notice that instead of having a cross painted on his machine he has a square, which is the sign of the Bulgarian Flying Corps.

I go back to tea with Farquhar in his lines, dug in trenches on the cliff-side over Corps H.Q., situated further round the cliff from our dugouts. As we are at tea, four enemy machines sweep over to “W” Beach, and shortly after I hear the sound of dropping bombs as they circle round and round. Our anti-aircraft guns (not plentiful) endeavour to bring them down, but they circle round unconcerned, and having discharged about thirty bombs, swing round and make back for their lines, keeping out to sea off the coast.

I get back to the beach and find that their bombs have caused many casualties. To my great sorrow I learn that Cox, of the Essex, has been hit clean with one, and also a friend of the same regiment, both being killed instantly. They had come down from the rest camp to purchase some luxuries for the canteen for Christmas Day. After sticking it all this time to be killed like this, just two weeks before the time when the Division is to be relieved for good, is really far worse luck than met Algy Wood, of the same regiment. And now there are no more of the original Essex officers left.

It has been rough to-day, especially at Imbros, which has a very exposed harbour, and in consequence it has been possible to issue only a very small percentage of fresh meat. It is bad luck, for to-morrow is Christmas Day, and I should like to have given the Division a full issue of fresh meat. However, a consignment of Christmas puddings has arrived from Lady Hamilton’s Fund and will be issued. We were promised many other luxuries, such as oranges and other fruits, but these have not arrived, owing to the difficulty of transport by sea. And so, for the majority of the men of the Division and all troops inshore, bully beef will take the place of the customary roast beef and turkey.

December 25th.

It is very beautiful weather. We do the best we can for the troops in the way of supplies, but it has to be bully beef and Christmas puddings for their dinners. The Turks are unusually quiet. I believe they know that it is our Christmas Day. We have a Christmas dinner in our dugout and a very cheery time. One of the cheeriest Christmas dinners I have ever had. Parcels from home pooled helped to make a good spread, and one can make excellent rissoles from bully beef.

December 26th, 27th, 28th, and 29th.

Visits to Brigade and to D.H.Q. and journeys to and from our dugout office and Main Supply depot are the order of the day. Usual shelling, far more trying than any we have ever experienced before. Enemy aeroplanes now and again try to come over, but are driven back by our planes. Cold but fine.

We have to send in an estimate of transport required to cart baggage back from battalions to beaches. This no doubt means we are off shortly. I hope so, as I am getting fed-up with this Diary. But it seems strange to be making plans to get off again, when we have only just arrived back.

December 30th.

To-day we hear the news secretly that we are evacuating Helles altogether. They are having a conference at Corps H.Q. this morning on the plans. I am sent for by the Engineer officer in charge of works on the beach, and he questions me closely on the plans that were followed at the last evacuation. But I can tell him little or nothing beyond what I personally observed. I am afraid that we shall not be able to get away supplies and stores so easily as we were able to at Suvla, and quantities will have to be left. For the beaches are under close observation from Yen-i-Shehr and Kum Kale, and now that we have already hoodwinked them once, the second evacuation will have to be done very carefully. Therefore our only chance of getting away stores is by night, and animals, guns, and personnel must come first. The first thing, therefore, is to get up forward supplies in sufficient quantities to last out the remaining days, and I receive orders to get these up for the 87th and 88th Brigades, for again we are to be last off.

I expected this second evacuation. Nearly everybody expected it. We have been told that IX Corps would relieve VIII Corps, but to those of us who experienced the Suvla storm, the idea of hanging on here after Suvla and Anzac had been evacuated was impossible to consider. But this evacuation we think will be a very different matter, with the Turks expecting us to endeavour to make it. Transport will be the difficulty during these last few days, but fortunately the tramway comes in handy to-night in getting up rations to the 86th and 88th Brigades, and we manage successfully. We draw the rations from the Main Supply depot in bulk, apportion them out to units, and load them on the trucks on the line in the centre of the depot itself. Mules then pull them to the slope, down which they run of their own accord to the plateau with men acting as brakesmen. Those trucks which have to be pulled further inland are pulled by mules up a line which runs still nearer to the trenches. The rations are off-loaded on arrival at their destination, and man-handled over their remaining journey. By this means much more horse transport is cut out, which can in a few days be evacuated. But before then this transport must be used solely in getting back surplus kit. We put up the first batch of the reserve supplies.

An arduous night, and we get to bed in the small hours of the morning. All day we had intervals of howitzers from Achi and Asia’s shells. Not much longer now, thank God!

December 31st.

The last day of a damnable year. Honours in favour of the enemy. Luck all against us. But our turn will come before another year is out. In the morning the Turks heavily shell our front line reserve areas; and D.H.Q., of course, being only just in rear, get it badly. All day the beaches suffer. Life on the beaches is like a game of musical chairs. Instead of sitting down on a chair when the music stops, you promptly fling yourself behind cover when a shell arrives. I am a perfect tumbler now, and after the war will give exhibitions of the many different antics that one performs when dodging shells. A New Year’s dinner, as cheery as the Christmas dinner, but broken by visits to the Main Supply depot to send off the rations by tram, and then to bed.