Gallipoli Diary

by John Graham Gillam

JULY

July 1st.

On duty at depot at 6 a.m. I find one shell has pitched in my Supply dump during the night, leaving a jagged splinter a foot long, and 4 inches in its widest part. Ugh! those naval shells. At eleven o’clock shelling starts again, and we have it hot and strong for an hour and a half. The transports get it as well from the hill, and one ship nearly gets holed. Moon, one of the Signal Officers, riding up the beach has his horse killed under him, and he himself is wounded in chest and leg. Not seriously, but he looks pale and frightened. Very few casualties, as people keep under cover pretty well. During the shelling, this morning, one of the hospital marquees catches fire, but not through the shelling, and is burnt to the ground. A Turkish prisoner had dropped a smoking cigarette on some muslin. The marquee contained Turkish wounded, but I think that they were all saved. Joy of joy! Allah be praised! and glory be to God! a real plum cake and chocolate just arrived from home. What joy to get your teeth into a slice!

Evening.

Since noon the day has been quiet, and Asia has left us alone. Over Imbros the golden sun is slowly setting, and above, the clouds are a lovely orange red. A strong wind is blowing in from the sea, which is very rough, necessitating the suspension of the landing of supplies and ammunition. Casualties in Monday’s battle were 2,500, Australians and New Zealanders included. These, at Anzac, engaged enemy while the 29th Division attacked, in order to keep some of them away from us. They, however, made no progress their side, and were not expected to. Their casualties were 500. A Turkish officer who was captured said that if we had pressed forward all along the line we should have taken the hill, as reinforcements of one division that the Turks were expecting did not arrive. They have since arrived. However, this may have been a yarn. Last night was very quiet.

July 2nd.

I go up to Brigade H.Q. before breakfast, leaving my mare in the nullah in front of Pink Farm, where the Brigade Staff’s horses are stabled. The General’s groom, now knowing my mare well, gives her breakfast, good cool water from a well which has just been found there, oats from the Argentine, and hay from Ireland. As I walk up the trench I feel very limp and weak. Something is wrong with me. Half-way up the trench, I see part of the parapet which has been knocked down by a shell recently, and from there obtain a good view of our trenches and Sphinx-like Achi Baba. She is almost human, and in my imagination appears to be smiling at the vain efforts of our little, though never contemptible, Army to conquer and subdue her. I shake such thoughts off. I am run down, and in consequence imagine things worse than they are. Arriving at Brigade H.Q., I find the General and Staff up in the trenches, and talk to Brock, of the Gypy Army, the Staff Captain. He tells me all about the Sudan—how he has two months’ leave and is spending it on Gallipoli. What a place to spend a holiday! He reads my thoughts, and says, “People in Egypt do not realize what things are really like out here.” He then tells me that lately orderlies and others have been disappearing in a curious way. A driver last night was sent up the gully with two mules to fetch a watercart. Neither driver nor mules returned.

On the way back from Pink Farm I call on the R.N.D. armoured cars and see a friend. Then to the beach. While issuing, shells burst on the top of the high ground and back of the beach. Feel rotten, and so turn in for a rest. Sea very rough, and we are unable to land stores, etc. Rather cloudy day, cold and windy.

7 p.m.

Sixty-pounders on our right start firing again on to the hill, and Asia answers back with that 7·5-inch. Shells come screaming over to our cliff, and we have to take cover again.

Doctor has given me medicine, and I feel a bit better, but horribly nervy and jumpy.

Brigade coming back to-morrow.

My complaint is only bilious attack, and when one is like that, shells make one jump. Nearly everybody is getting jumpy, however, as we are so exposed and get no peace day or night. Several men and officers are being sent away for a rest. There is rumour that when the hill is taken the 29th Division is going to be withdrawn for a complete rest. Things will be much easier here when the hill is taken. At present it is awful. Oh! for tons and tons of ammunition. Buck up! you workmen at home. The army with the most guns and unlimited shells wins in modern war. You should see the damage the dear little French “75’s” make, and they pop off day and night. God knows what we should have done without them.

July 3rd.

Turks shell transport this morning, but no damage done. Feeling very run down and seedy, and doctor orders me away to Alexandria for a rest, but I do not think I shall go, as I should be fit in a day or so, if only they would stop shelling on the beach; we could then get exercise. Men fall ill day by day through having to continually lie in their dugouts and then go out in hourly fear of “Asiatic Annie’s” shells. It is much worse over in the French camp by Morto Bay.

The doctor says I have to catch the 2.30 boat for Lemnos. I tell him that I have decided not to go. He replies that in the Army you are under two forms of discipline—one when on the Active List, and one when on the Sick List; that I am on the Sick List, and that until an M.O. certifies that I am fit for active service my O.C. will be an M.O., whose orders I am bound to obey; that he has certified me as sick, for the Army cannot have men on the Peninsula who feel faint when they walk ten yards. This eases my conscience; I was beginning to feel like a man who was getting “cold feet,” and I tell him so. He tells me that a sick man always gets “cold feet” from shelling, and that it is due to his being a sick man more than to the shells.

So I proceed to catch the 2.30 boat. What are my honest feelings? I do want to stay and stick it out, and yet I want to go. There, I am quite honest about it—the two thoughts are equally blended. I go down to the beach along the Red Cross Pier, on to a lighter bobbing about in a rough sea, and then I wait. Sick officers and men dribble down steadily, each with a label attached to his tunic; my label has written on it “Syncopal attacks.” I look enviously at the labels on which are inscribed different kinds of wounds. By comparison with their inscriptions, mine reads like another title for “cold feet,” and I long to get up and walk back up to the beach.

We are towed away out to a little steamer called the Whitby Abbey, in charge of a good fellow, a “pukkah” Naval Lieutenant. I sit on deck and watch the land gradually get further and further away. Krithia looks but a short walk from “W” Beach, yet it is well within the Turkish lines. Never before did I realize what a little insignificant bight of land do we hold on the Gallipoli Peninsula, and Achi Baba looks impregnable. Tommies on board are telling each other how they came by their respective wounds. A few Punjabis, wounded, sit apart philosophically and say nothing. Officers in wardroom, mostly wounded, have tea and chat shop. I, not wounded, and A.S.C., sit in a corner by myself.

We arrive at Lemnos about 8 p.m. and enter the harbour that I was in last April. What a lot has happened since those days, and what ages it seems ago! We go alongside a hospital ship, the Sicilia, and our stretcher cases are taken off on to the ship. Have a look through the port-hole and see a very big saloon full of beds and doctors, orderlies and very smart and efficient nurses busily in attendance. Then we go nearer into the shore and get on to a pinnace, and go to a pier. Here three of us—namely Weatherall, Williams, of the Royal Scots, and myself—get into an ambulance motor and are driven inland, and arrive at the Australian hospital. Then we go into the orderly tent, and a sergeant takes down our names, etc., and religion. Religion! Let us talk of religion when all Huns are exterminated. Then a pleasant-looking Australian Captain comes in, diagnoses my case, and says “Milk diet,” which is entered in a book.

We are then taken to another group of three marquees joined together, full of wounded Tommies in bed. Then a Major Newlands, one of the leading surgeons of Australia, comes in and sees me, and after a cup of tea we go to sleep—at least, we are supposed to. Several of the Australians are chatting, and it is interesting listening to them. Suddenly one of the wounded stirs in his sleep and says “One, two, three, four; one, two, three, four,” several times, and finishing by “One, two, three, four,” and then a pause, and then “Five,” said with a sigh of relief. He sits up in bed, and making the row that one makes with one’s mouth when urging on a horse, he says, “Go on.” One of the orderlies goes over and gently puts his head back on to the pillow. He was fast asleep, and was going over in his dreams the taking up of ammunition to the trenches.

July 4th.

I and three other officers are in a ward with Tommies, for the hospital is overflowing. Orderlies bring around basins of water to wash, and then breakfast of bread and milk. Then the Major comes round and sounds me pretty thoroughly, and orders me to stay in bed until further orders.

Lunch: rice and milk. Very hot; nothing to smoke. Flies damnable, and I find myself actually longing to get back to work on the Peninsula. But I do certainly enjoy at present the relief of being away from shells and bullets and the horrors of war.

July 5th.

Awakened early by one of the wounded crying loudly for a doctor. The poor chap had been hit in the leg by an explosive bullet and had a pretty bad wound. He was in great agony, and amongst other things cried out, “What a war; and this is what they do to me!” and then he made a continual cluck with his mouth that one makes by putting one’s tongue to the roof of one’s mouth and drawing it away when annoyed.

During the morning he was pretty bad, and crying and groaning, but became quite quiet, cheerful, and confident when the doctor arrived. However, gangrene had set in, as he had been four days lying on the battlefield before he was found, and he died suddenly at twelve o’clock. A Tommy breaks the silence by saying, “Poor Alf ’as snuffed it.” We were all very quiet for a bit, after they came in and neatly rolled the body in a sheet, and, placing it on a stretcher, carried it away. But after a bit a cheerful atmosphere comes over us, and we four officers “ragged” round, the Tommies enjoying the fun. Why be morbid about death? We’ve all got to go through it. I am allowed to get up at two o’clock, and went and had tea on board the Aragon. This was the ship that my original Brigade Staff came out on, with the Worcesters and Hants.

The old associations that I had with the Aragon, through so many officers that I had become friendly with and who have now gone West, depressed me somewhat, and I was glad to leave. At every turn I am reminded of those days in April, and while walking along the upper deck I could almost see the ghosts of those cheery men who marched round and round of a morning to the music of popular airs played on a piano by a gifted Tommy.

I hear that “W” Beach was bombarded this morning. About five hundred shells came over, the heaviest bombardment the beach had ever had. The harbour and island have changed completely since I was here last; great camps, French and English, have sprung up on shore, and the harbour is full of French and English warships and transports and their attendant small craft.

July 6th.

It is funny hearing the bugles again, and looking round the camps, one might be on one’s fourteen days’ annual training. I am very rheumaticky, but getting fit fast, but am going to be sent to Alexandria for a few days’ change. I hope to get back to the Peninsula before the 29th Division go, for I hear they are going to be relieved shortly, and I want to be with them at the end.

The 38th Brigade of the 13th Division has arrived here, and the rest of the Division is following. I think that is the Division which is going to relieve us. It is curious, because I was in that Division as Second-Lieutenant.

At five o’clock the motor ambulance comes for us, and we go down to the British Pier. They have made two piers, one for the French and one for the British, and they are the centre and hum of life all day and all night. Troops arriving, troops leaving for the Peninsula, wounded arriving back from the Peninsula and wounded being sent off, after a brief stay in the Mudros hospitals, back to the bases, either Cairo, Alexandria, Malta, or England.

And then, of course, stores and ammunition are continually being unloaded and reloaded, and all nations seem to be engaged in the work—black, brown, and white. It looks utter confusion, and yet I suppose it is not. The French seem to be much better at system than the British.

I think the Australian Hospitals are better than the British. They have first-class surgeons, and the orderlies are splendid.

The Australians are a wonderful race, and the physique of the men is splendid. Everything they do is done thoroughly. They lack discipline as we know it, yet have a discipline that is not so common with us, namely, a rotter and waster is not allowed to comfortably exist. They are an exceptionally formidable weapon, for when they fight they go on like wild men, never showing fear or attempting to go back. They perform the most extraordinary and hair-raising deeds that history can record, all the time to a flow of very sanguinary and strong language. What a superb Army! Admirable spirit; pride in their race and country and Mother Country. Cheery and merry all the time, having a very keen sense of humour.

As we came off in a pinnace, with lighters lashed on either side conveying wounded, the 38th Brigade of the 13th Division, part of the first of Kitchener’s New Army, were embarking on pinnaces and boats towed behind to go on board destroyers to be taken to the Peninsula. They were dressed in light drill khaki, with short knickers, putties, and helmets, and their packs, blankets, and ground sheet strapped to their backs, looking exceptionally smart and business-like. They are very fine men, above the average of the British Regular Tommy, and brigaded together appear to be troops of the high standard of our first line. One of course could only judge by personal appearance and the ordinary parade drill, which is as perfect as could be, but the near future will prove whether they have the fighting power of troops like the 29th Division. If so, then Britain has become the leading Military Power in the world, as well as the leading Naval Power.

We came alongside the hospital ship, the S.S. Neuralia, a fine boat of the British India Line. Arriving on board, we were welcomed by a nurse, and Wetherall, a Royal Scots officer, and myself were given a cabin, and after a wash we go down to dinner. Imagine our feelings when we were shown to a fine table daintily laid for dinner, waited on by Singalese dressed in white, long-skirted coats, white trousers, and curious wide-brimmed hats decorated with blue. Go to bed very early, but cannot sleep much.

July 7th.

Got up just before 6 a.m. and found that the ship had weighed anchor. It is a beautiful morning, and the sea and green hills of Lemnos look very fresh. We pass slowly through the Fleet, which looks very formidable, yet which at present is unable to help us on our way. So out of the harbour to sea.

The past seems now like a horrid dream, as one lives idly on board in every luxury that one could have.

At times I feel a shirker, yet when a medical officer sends one off the Peninsula his orders take precedence of an order of one’s superior officer on the Active List, and once you have left you are passed on from doctor to doctor and clearing station to hospital, and one’s future remains in the Medical Authorities’ hands.

Personally I am feeling much better, the fainting feeling having left, and the rheumatism nearly so. But war is so horrible that I wish it was all over. I’ve seen more of the horrible side than some of those in the fire-trenches, who sit comparatively safely there until the attack (this only applies to the unique situation in Gallipoli), and then with one objective in mind, namely to get another trench in front, they leap out and charge.

Most of them say the feeling is exhilarating and glorious, and those of the slightly wounded say they felt, when wounded while running on cheering, as if some one suddenly hit them with a hot stick. However, the risk I have run is not nearly so great as infantry run; but in future give me gunnery every time, they having the most thrilling and interesting work to do of any branch of the Service. However, let us hope our future will not hold war and its horrors in store for us.

July 8th.

This is an ideal ship for a hospital ship, luxuriously fitted with cabins and saloons. The ship is painted white, with a red band running all round and a large red cross in the centre on either side. At night a large red cross of electric globes is illuminated, and the great ship, lit up, makes a pretty sight. We had a burial yesterday, stopping, and a great hush falling over the vessel as the body was shot over the side and fell with a big thump and splash into the sea, resting on the surface a few seconds and then slowly sinking. I thought of the words of Prince Henry in “Henry IV,” Part I: “Food for worms, brave Percy,” but the word “fishes” should be substituted for “worms.”

A great number of wounded men sleep on deck, and, by Jove! they do look glad that they are out of it for a bit, although they want to get back after a change—some of them.

All the nurses are dears, dead keen on their job. I am not wounded, so I don’t like talking to them.

The badly wounded officers are in beds in a large saloon, and one can look over a balustrade and see them. They are patient, and they stick the monotony admirably.

One fine chap, a Captain, has a lump of flesh torn from his back by a bomb, and has to lie in one position. As I pass along the gallery overlooking the ward at all hours of the day I can see him, either calmly looking at the roof, reading or dozing, and always in the same position, in which he will have to lie for weeks. Bombs make terrible wounds. My friend Cox, of the Essex, is on board. He was the officer that I saw limping back after the battle on the Wednesday after we had landed, and we have some chats together about those thrilling days. He and his officers were on the Dongola, from which boat we landed, and I have mentioned how they played “The Priest of the Parish.” I never want to play that game again. A good percentage of those chaps have gone now. There are only two officers in the Essex who have not been hit.

Cox has been back to the Peninsula once, but is now going to Alexandria, sick. I am nearly fit, but bored stiff, and want to get back to my job. The sea is calm and it is a lovely day, and awfully peaceful and quiet on the ship.

The stewards are very attentive; they are natives, as are also most of the crew. I always think that the nigger makes a better servant than the white man. Colonel Bruce, of the Gurkhas, is on board wounded, and has his servant with him. A ravine up the gully that he captured is now called Bruce’s Ravine. This servant at the hospital in Lemnos was allowed to sleep on the floor beside his master’s bed, and if his master stirred in his sleep, he sat up watching him intently.

We all had to go before the Medical Board this morning, a R.A.M.C. General at the head.

We had another burial to-day.

July 9th.

We arrive at Alexandria at 6 a.m. and berth alongside about twelve. It is strange seeing the old familiar scenes again. At one o’clock a hospital train comes alongside, with all the carriages painted white with a Red Crescent on, not the Red Cross. Curious that our R.A.M.C. should use both the Red Cross and the Red Crescent! The Australian sick and wounded are taken off and sent on board this train, which leaves at three o’clock for Cairo.

At eight o’clock we go off in ambulance motor-wagons and are taken off to the German Hospital. It is a very fine hospital, now of course British, and we are put to bed and given cocoa.

One of the officers of our party is suffering from a nervous breakdown, and a brother-officer of his, an awfully decent chap, who had been wounded in the arm, takes charge of him just as one would a frightened child. In the motor-ambulance the nervous broken officer put out his hand quickly and made as if to rise, and the wounded officer with his unwounded arm linked the other arm in his with a reassuring look. I think little touches like that are very fine. In the hospital one officer is completely off his head, and has to have an orderly in attendance all day and all night. Last night he shouted out in great fear once or twice, imagining shells and Turks.

July 10th.

It is now 9.30, and I have bathed and shaved and had breakfast, and am in bed awaiting the doctor.

They are wheeling bad cases to the dressing-rooms. A hospital is most depressing.

Went out in the afternoon and did some shopping.

July 11th.

Very nice day. An Arab procession passes outside our hospital, headed by a band making a most infernal din. All blowing brass instruments as loudly as they can and beating drums, and all marching anyhow. Difficult at first to make out what the tune is, as it is such a discord, but on listening intently we made it out to be Sousa’s “Stars and Stripes.”

Procession consists of a whole convoy of wagons loaded with what looks like “Manchester goods.” What it is all about no one but the Arabs appears to know.

Found out afterwards they were going to a fair and they were taking goods along to sell. Went out in afternoon and called at Club. Saw Chief Padre of the Forces, Horden, and had a long chat with him.

Later saw Shuter, Captain of the H.A.C. “A” Battery. Curious running across him.

Called on Mrs. Carver at Ramleh for tea, and found several convalescent officers there and a few other people.

Lovely house and garden and hard tennis court. But give me an English garden every time.

Ramleh is very pretty, and is a very big suburb of Alexandria, stretching along by the sea. Very fine white mansions standing in lovely grounds. Also several lovely public gardens, beautifully laid out. Much more picturesque than the English public gardens. They have no railings or walls around, and consequently no entrance by gates; they simply join on and run into the neighbouring suburbs.

Passed a very fine Arab cemetery, full of magnificent mausoleums of marble which must have cost thousands.

July 12th.

Went out in afternoon into town. Plenty of troops about. Feel fit, and so applied to go back to Peninsula, as the atmosphere in Alexandria is not unlike the feeling of being in khaki in London with all your pals at the front.

July 14th.

Went before Registrar at twelve, and sent into convalescence. To report to-morrow morning.

July 15th.

Left hospital.

Go down to the docks. Alexandria is a wonderful place now. Always one of the most cosmopolitan cities of the East, she has now added the responsibilities of a military base. Here, from her teeming docks, are fed the troops in Gallipoli and Mesopotamia—and here may be seen at all hours of the day and night great ships being loaded by chattering and chanting natives with food and munitions. Troopships also, swallowing up men or moving slowly out into the harbour; tugs, lighters, colliers, and the like, throng her watergates, and the quays present a vivid picture of bright colours, as the gaily dressed natives go about their work. Fussy trains puff alongside the ships and disgorge men, mules, and horses, in never-ending streams. Mountains of hay, bully beef, and biscuits are stacked along the quays, and the rattle of gear and the groaning of the great cranes fill the air with strange sounds. And above it all, the fierce sun glares down on the hot stones, and the pitiless, steely-blue Egyptian sky, inscrutable and cloudless, spreads overhead like a vast dome.

Leaving this hive of industry, I turn my steps to the Regina Palace Hotel, where I am introduced to an Italian family by Cox. Awfully jolly girls. Have some dancing. Meet Neville, of South Wales Borderers, a friend of mine in Birmingham.

Go for motor drive into the desert with Gregory.

July 20th.

Went out in the evening with Prince Adil in his yacht, Henderson and our French friend. The Prince provided food, consisting of cold dishes, cocktails in a Thermos flask, and whiskies and sodas.

It was delightful cruising about the harbour in moonlight and skimming along the water, heeling right over when we ran before the wind.

July 21st.

Ordered to join Seeang-Bee, a filthy little tramp, packed with troops. Fortunately for us, they are full up, and so I am told to go on board the Anglo-Egyptian, a cleaner boat. Find a draft of Gurkhas on board and a draft of Sikhs. English officers; fine lot of men. About a dozen officers all told on board. Sikhs a weird lot; now and again a mysterious chant, sung by them, comes up from the lower decks.

In the morning had quite a touching farewell at the hotel with all the Italian girls, the French children, and my little friend the Russian Cossack, aged five years, and their pretty French governess. I am getting to speak French quite well now.

July 22nd.

We were to start last night, but owing to submarine scare we have not yet sailed.

5 p.m.

The hospital ship Sudan has just come in, and the hospital train, ambulance-lorries, and motor-cars are drawn up waiting the wounded. I have been on board and have spoken to one of the wounded officers, who tells me that there have been two battles since I left, and that we have made further advance, in the centre of our line, therefore straightening it a little, but have lost very heavily. Also he told me that the 29th Division are leaving Gallipoli, and that one Brigade is at Lemnos or Tenedos.

6.30 p.m.

We sail, the Gurkhas and Sikhs giving their respective war-cries, something like that of the Maoris which the New Zealanders sing.

Two other boats leave at the same time, the Alaunia having 6,000 troops on board. We all steer different courses on account of submarines.

9.30 p.m.

The last post sounds, played excellently by a Gurkha, and I turn in, sleeping on deck on account of the heat. They are neat little men, these Gurkhas, something like the Japanese, dressed in wide hats, shirts overhanging the short breech, putties and black bandoliers; bayonets in black cases, and their native weapon, the kukri, in a black case.

Curiously enough, they are not British subjects at all. They are natives of Nepal, governed by the Maharajah of Nepal, and he is quite independent, except for having to pay a salt tax to China. I believe, though, that this payment has now stopped, or is about to stop. The Maharajah lends his male subjects who enlist to the British Government, and they train them as soldiers, in return having them to fight our battles when necessary.

Altogether there are about twenty battalions of 20,000 men, and since the outbreak of war the Maharajah has practically forced every able-bodied man to enlist. They are good soldiers, but absolutely lost without their white officers, for they are just like children.

July 23rd, 9.30 a.m.

Sea rough and ship rolling. Ugh! I do feel ill.

10.30 a.m.

Four blasts on the hooter call us all to boat drill, with life-belts.

July 24th, 8 a.m.

We are passing Rhodes on our starboard, and are, therefore, entering the danger zone for submarines. It is reported that there are two about. No destroyer to escort us, so I suppose we are safe.

Feel much better now.

Captain Koebel, of the Queen’s, on board; friend of Parnell. Since outbreak of war he has been with Egyptian Army, now going unattached to Gallipoli for his two months’ leave. Taking his holiday by going into battle.

7.30 p.m.

Had boat drill to-day. Gurkhas thoroughly enjoying it. Gurkha guards posted all round the ship on lookout for submarines, with orders to fire when one comes in sight. They are watching intently, and I really believe would rather appreciate the fun if one came along, so that they could show off their marksmanship. We do not arrive at Lemnos till five to-morrow afternoon, so we have still plenty of time to be torpedoed. Passing plenty of islands, but not a sign of a ship anywhere. Beautiful moonlight evening. Skipper playing chess with Captain Simpson of the Gurkhas. Other officers sitting about reading. Only fifteen officers all told—white officers of the Gurkhas and Sikhs, and a few unattached.

July 25th.

Three months ago to-day the landing, and Achi Baba is not taken yet.

2 p.m.

Entering Lemnos Harbour.

It is very hot now, and the water dead calm. The harbour is full of transports and warships, and on shore there are large camps in all directions.

July 26th.

We are now moored alongside the Seeang-Bee, which arrived almost simultaneously with us. She has 950 troops on board, drafts, and others returning to duty. No news from Gallipoli, except that things there are much as usual. After August, I hear, the weather breaks up, so that if something is not done in August, we shall have great difficulty in landing supplies and ammunition. The outlook is far from bright. Up to date the points are with the Turk.

An officious M.L.O. comes on board, and tells each of us in as imperious a way as possible our respective destinations.

I get on to the Seeang-Bee, and hang about waiting. I find Morris on board, who was at the Regina Palace Hotel with me.

At six o’clock the M.L.O. comes on board again, and after arranging for our departure, casually mentions that he had heard that “W” Beach was heavily shelled last night. He almost licked his lips as he spoke. He had never even heard a gun fired himself. An R.N.D. officer tells me that he has a great desire to chuck the M.L.O. overboard. This officer is quite an interesting person; went to France in the early part of the war in the R.F.C., had a spill which laid him up for six months, and now is in charge of a Machine Gun Section in the R.N.D.

We get on board a small steamer, Whitby Abbey, and sail over to the Aragon, the L. of C. Headquarters boat. A very nice boat, the Aragon, fitted out with every luxury.

At eight we push off, loaded to the boat’s limit with troops, mailbags, watercarts, sand-bags, and ammunition.

We pass through the host of transports and warships that now crowd the harbour of Mudros. As we pass each warship the sailors come running to the sides and cheer and cheer. Shouts of “Are we downhearted?” etc., freely pass between us, and this inspiring demonstration is repeated enthusiastically as we pass each great ship of war. It is very nice of them. I think they feel it a bit, being bottled up at Mudros. But it is all right; we shall win, even if the war lasts ten years. Stick at your training, you British Boy Scouts!

We leave the hills of Lemnos, as we did on that memorable evening of April 24th, three months ago, just as it is getting dusk, the sun quickly setting in the sea. A full moon rises, and on a calm sea we steam north.

They provide some food for us on board, bully beef and bread, and later we lie about and try to sleep.

A very nice R.N.R. officer on board stands me a drink.

Curiously enough, I came away from the Peninsula on this boat on July 3rd, and the same man stood me a drink, though he had forgotten. I suppose he regularly stands a drink to all officers coming and going.

At twelve midnight he is called up on deck, and I go too and find that land is showing dimly in front. Dark, depressing, mysterious land of adventure, heroism, and death, and a chill feeling runs through me. It is the reaction after having a good time in Alexandria, playing soldiers with the little Italian boys and my little cropped-haired Russian Cossack and their pretty French governess. Oh, that little French governess!

The officers and men crowd to the upper deck and bows, and strain their eyes to the black outline in front. The starlights are sailing up and down in the dark background, from the Ægean to the Straits. A distant shriek is heard, followed immediately by another, and two quick flashes burst over the beach in front, followed by two sharp reports, “c-r-r-u-m-p,” and the young R.N.A.S. officers, who have been training for months, at last are within short measurement of the real game of modern warfare.

Then the land in front resumes its still mysterious outline, until, as we get close, quiet figures can be seen moving about on shore working at the unloading of lighters.

We drop anchor and are informed that we shall disembark in the early morning, and so lie down again and sleep soundly till morning.

July 27th.

We wake at five and go on deck, and the old familiar sight of “W” Beach greets me, and I point out, to several officers who ask me, the various points of interest. At 6.20 the R.N.A.S. people are informed that they have to go back to Mudros, as they have come to the wrong place, and at seven o’clock, with Captains Nye and Koebel and Wilson, we go ashore in a wobbly lighter, which seems about to turn over in a rather rough sea, and we come alongside one of the piers.

“W” Beach had altered somewhat. Large cemented water reservoirs had been made by the Gypy Works Department on the high land near our “bivvy,” and it seems more congested and crowded than ever.

I take the officers up to our “bivvy” and surprise the others, who did not expect me, and I feel quite pleased to get back—the same feeling one has when one gets home to the family after a few weeks’ holiday. We have breakfast, and I hear that the 13th Division are on the shore, and that several of the officers of the 13th Divisional Train are just along the cliff, and so go along to see them. I found Frank Edey there, a friend of many years’ standing, and this was the third time during the war that we had run across each other unexpectedly. I was three months with the 13th Division at Bulford, so it was nice seeing them again. They are leaving soon for some unknown destination, further up the coast.

I find that “W” Beach has been heavily shelled on the 5th July, seven hundred coming over in four hours. They are mostly high explosive shells, and make a nasty mess of any victim which they find. To people working in the various administrative departments, where they are continually walking about in the open, the continual exposure to high explosive shell fire is wearing on the nerves, and cases of nervous breakdown here are becoming more and more frequent. In spite of the most heavy shelling, the administrative work has to go on, and at high speed too.

I hear bad news about my old mare. She was killed by a shell while I was away, on July 5th. She had been an awfully good pal to me, and we had some good times together, and I think that her name should be put in the Roll of Honour.

Warham, the servant of Storey, of the 13th Division Train, was blown up by a shell yesterday in his dugout along the cliff. He was a good chap, and for a short time had been my servant at Bulford.

There has been but little shelling our way to-day—in fact, everything seems extraordinarily quiet.

At 6 p.m. we go down to the breakwater to bathe, and I find Frank Edey there, and other Bulford pals. And then, wonder of wonders, whom should I run into but my friend of many years, the versatile Gordon Findlay-Smith. The last time that I saw him was in Piccadilly Circus on December 22nd, while motoring. We looked at each other in amazement, and then burst out laughing. He has been here ten days, and is in a beastly place which is shelled every day, namely the Ordnance depot.

8 p.m.

The night falls quicker now, but with the same lovely colouring, and a full moon is shining.

July 28th.

See my friends of the 13th Division this morning. At twelve noon high explosive shells come over our camp and kill six fine horses.

4 p.m.

On duty at Main Supply depot, and ugh! beastly high explosive shells come over. One bursts in Ordnance depot and blows two men to bits. Very glad when I am off duty, but I would rather be here than in Alexandria.

My Brigade has been away at Lemnos resting, but comes back to-night. Nothing much has been done since the battle of June 29th, which I saw, except the French have straightened their line in accordance with our move.

Everything is very quiet; even the French “75’s” hardly fire a shot; but something big is afoot. Three of our companies have their horse lines dug in at the foot of the cliff in the lower road, half-way between “W” Beach and the bakery, past the Greek camp; and the cliff, which is higher than in most places, affords almost perfect protection for the animals. Officers and men live there, but it is not a very sanitary spot to live in, what with the manure and the flies and the heat. Occasionally, to make the atmosphere more savoury, a dead horse or mule is washed ashore, after having floated about for several days.

Most of the animals which die or are killed are towed out to sea and there sunk, either by the firing of bullets into the carcass or by stones fastened to their legs. Many carcasses are, however, in spite of all precautions, washed ashore, causing great unpleasantness to all near who are living dug into the cliff-side. One such decaying carcass this morning, lying on the water’s edge half submerged, aroused the ire of a Staff Officer, who immediately strafed the officer living in the cliff-side nearest to the place where it lay. He was politely told that “The Navy are responsible for everything up to high-water mark,” and of course could strafe no more. But the poor old Navy have their hands pretty full, keeping the seas open for we on shore, and it is rather hard lines on them to add to their heavy responsibilities the keeping of the shores and beaches clear of washed-up carcasses of poor old mules and horses who have died for their country.

Now and again a dead mule or horse is buried on land, but we still, after over three months’ effort, are holding such a small bit of land that room is very scarce and a burial-ground for animals is out of the question.

July 29th.

A hot day, rather gusty and dusty, and of course not a cloud in the sky.

My Brigade is back from Lemnos, and is along the cliffs of the West Coast with H.Q. at the mouth of the gully or the now famous nullah. West Coast cliffs now absolutely honeycombed with dugouts, arranged in terraces as far as possible. The whole tip of the Peninsula is alive and teeming with troops and followers of all nationalities—British, French, Senegalese, Greeks, Arabs, Sudanese, Hindus, Gurkhas, Punjabis, and Sikhs.

13th Division now moving off the Peninsula.

Poor old Findlay up to his eyes in ordnance; fortunately he was away when shell burst in his compound yesterday. He says, “Gott strafe the Kaiser!” from morning to night.

Only half a dozen high explosive shells come over our way to-day, but inland Turkish artillery has been fairly active, but nothing much doing on the front. Aeroplanes busily humming overhead. Beaches very busy, with all kinds and manner of work day and night.

Meet Fulford, pal of Birmingham hockey days, a few years ago, and again of Salisbury Plain days of 1914, now a chaplain in the 40th Brigade, 13th Division. Having tea with him to-morrow. He tapped me on the shoulder on “W” Beach, saying, “Thanks very much for the gloves, Gillam.” I borrowed a pair of gloves from him on November 14th, had lost them, had sent him another pair, and he had forgotten to write and thank me. I had not seen or heard from him until to-day.

Observation balloon up, captive to a steamer off the Gully Beach, but little or no artillery firing on our part.

13th Division of Kitchener’s Army have had their baptism, but in defence, not attack; Turks had a taste of what Kitchener’s Army is like.

I believe in after-years the name of Kitchener will be wreathed in a blaze of glory that will dim the lustre of all other famous names in our history. Not only will we beat the enemy with the splendid troops his genius has created, but if his spirit still endures in the nation after the war, we shall defy the world for all time, and in that way form an impregnable barrier to the mad ambitions of other States.

July 30th.

Ride my new horse to-day along to the gully (nullah) and see Brigadier-General Cayley. Awfully pretty at the gully, with cliffs honeycombed with H.Q. and terraces leading to them. Brigade now almost up to full strength again, and Tommies enjoying bathing and domestic duties. Tommy is a most lovable animal sometimes. Met Panton, who is now D.A.D.M.S. to Division. He was wounded in the leg in May, but is now quite fit. Talked of those early days. Also see Fulford again. Come along top road on cliff with Major O’Hara and Major Collier as far as “X” Beach, when we ride down and finish the ride back to “W” Beach walking along the lower road, for much traffic was passing and going. Heavy shelling on “W” Beach from high explosive gun on Achi, but most burst into the sea. Plenty of fire to-day.

COAST LINE, CAPE HELLES.

A VIEW OF THE GULLY, CAPE HELLES, LOOKING TOWARDS THE ENEMY LINES.

I think the 13th Division are going to attempt a landing up the coast soon, but news is very scarce. Whatever is on is being kept very secret. Hear that about five enemy submarines have been caught out here in nets stretched between two drifters, and blown up on contact. Only a rumour though. The Navy keep very “mum” about these things. I think one submarine has actually been brought into Malta.

Aeroplane falls into the sea; pilot and observer safe, and both picked up. It glided down beautifully.

I learn that a French ship was torpedoed while I was away, but none of the crew was drowned, and ship was empty of supplies.

Findlay-Smith came to dinner. Awfully amusing hearing him grousing about the shelling, just as he used to grouse in the old days about such a thing as a train being held up between Clapham Junction and Waterloo. It is topping dining in our “bivvy” listening to the gentle wash of the waves, and after dinner enjoying the view of the sun setting behind Imbros, while we smoke and have coffee. Guns from Asia seem to have been silenced. Cannot see any signs of life on the plain of Troy, which looks pretty peaceful meadow land! Can see it in detail from here. They must have observing stations there, and see all that we are doing, and hence the shelling of “W” Beach.

Farmer, Neave, and Balfour, of the 88th Brigade Staff, have been sent home invalided. Hear that there is to be a new landing further up, but when, I don’t quite know, and that this time we shall land quite six Divisions. I predicted in the early days that 250,000 men would be found necessary to make this job a success; and troops which have come and gone, and are coming, nearly reach this figure. It is surprising what a little bit of land we are on, just as if it was a small corner of the Isle of Wight.

Fancy being able to take in at a glance our front lines and the Turkish lines, Krithia, the West Coast, the Dardanelles, and Asia’s mountains, and the formidable position of Achi Baba, with its supporting ridges on either side. That is what we can do with the naked eye from the edge of the cliffs on either side of “W” Beach. And over three months have now passed since we landed.

July 31st.

While issuing this morning at depot, high explosive shells come over from Achi. They burst in different places, searching the beach. One bursts near Way’s depot, and one man and two mules are hit, the man badly. Next one on aerodrome. An interval of two or three minutes passes between the arrival of each shell.

Shortly after the one had burst near Way’s depot, I, standing with issuers, drivers, G.S. wagons, A.T. carts, N.C.O.’s and ration parties all around me, hear the shriek of one coming straight at me, for it shrieks too long. Those who say that, if killed by a shell, one never hears the shriek of the shell that hits one, are quite mistaken—that is to say, when being shelled by one, two, or three guns at a time. In a bombardment, of course, the din is so deafening that you can’t tell which shell is addressed to you and which is not—and after a bit you don’t much care. A deafening explosion and dense smoke, dust, and stones, and I find myself locked in the arms of a transport driver with my face buried in the stomach of a fat sergeant, and mules kicking all round. Not a man hit, and the shell five yards away. The nearest I have ever had. It had burst in a mound of soft earth and right deep in the ground, and that saved us. I look up, and all the others get sheepishly to their feet, and I get out another cigarette and smoke. I smoked six of them hard, and tried to be facetious and to pretend that I did not care, but not one man there could have been in a more miserable cowardly funk than I was, while waiting for the next, which, however, gave us a long miss.

Later in the morning we got a few high explosive shells from Achi. One pitched clean on the roof of our signal offices, which is a timbered erection, sand-bagged, and proof against splinter only. There the clerks work, tap-tap-tap and buz-buz-buz to and from all over the Peninsula, messages being sent and received every minute, almost all the day and night, like a central telegraph office in London. Down came the shrieking thing: a deafening report; splinters of timber, torn sand-bags, dust, stones, and smoke fly into the air, and then silence. A pause, and men rush, not away, but to the ruined office. Nine men and one Signal Officer have been killed outright. Several wounded are carried up the cliff to the hospital. Operators immediately get to work connecting up the severed wires to new instruments. Improvised tables are put in position. In half an hour a wire is sent off to G.H.Q. that all is “O.K.,” and tap-tap, buz-buz is heard once more, tapping and buzzing busily away, not for a weekly wage, but—for the King. It was a near thing for old Findlay in his office, twenty yards away.

I rowed to a submarine this afternoon and went aboard. Delightful sitting on deck and chatting to the Captain. He has just heard good news from Persia, and we are all cheery. Go up to Brigade H.Q., Gully Beach, and have tea, and chat to battalions in rest on cliff-sides. While away, hear shells from Achi screeching overhead for “W” Beach, and feel therefore quite safe. The Ordnance had it this afternoon.