Gallipoli Diary

by John Graham Gillam

JUNE

June 1st, 11.30.

Rode to H.Q., leaving my mare at Pink Farm, where I met General Doran, our new Brigadier, with whom I walked to H.Q. Coming back along West Krithia road, met Mathias, Brigade Vet. Two shells whistle over us. Mathias says, “Here comes a shell,” to which I reply, “It’s come and gone, dear boy,” as they burst “plonk” in the middle of the road that we have to pass along. We make a detour and ride back over country.

Four officers, just come from England, arrive and have lunch with us.

3 p.m.

Ride with Foley to Morto Bay for a bathe. Bay full of French and Senegalese bathing. As we sat undressing, one big, burly fellow came up to Foley and said, “Speak English, how do you do?” and held out his hands. Foley was so taken aback that he shook hands. He then turned to me, and showing his teeth, said, “Tobacco.” Being rather afraid that he was going to bite me, I quickly took out my pouch and gave him a handful. Then a sergeant, also a nigger, came running up, and ordered him off, using most fearful language apparently, and away he went, running like mad. They are fine-looking men. Morto Bay looking very beautiful. I can imagine this a fine watering-place, after the war, with promenade, gardens, hotels, golf-links, etc.

Achi Baba looked a beautiful bronze colour, with patches of green. The Dardanelles show a deep blue colour, gradually blending into the purple of the Asiatic side, with its background of mountains. At the entrance, little mine-sweepers are on duty. The beach is full of naked black and white figures bathing, and the country in the background is dotted with French camps. The firing-line in the distance, and our guns popping off at intervals, and enemy shells now and again whistling overhead—such is the environment in which we have our bathe.

Foley suggests riding back through Sed-el-Bahr, which we do, and we were fortunate in doing so, as eight shells, beautifully placed, exploded just over the road that we otherwise should have taken, and at about the time that we should have been passing along it.

10.30 p.m.

Bit of the Turkish attack going on. Heavy rifle fire. “75’s” very angry, and beating all known records of rapid fire. Their song sings me to sleep. I am not afraid of shells when I am sleeping.

June 2nd.

After issue, go down on beach to our Train office, which is now dug in the side of the cliff. It has twice been moved, each time farther and farther round the cliff on the right of the beach looking seawards. When shelling is on, our Train office soon becomes full of passing officers, reminding me of a crowded pavilion at a cricket match when rain stops the play. Just as the pavilion empties as the rain stops, so does our Train office when the shelling stops. Then all the morning there calls a continual stream of officers—R.E., Ordnance, Supply, Artillery, and regimental—presenting their respective indents for transport, which the Adjutant has difficulty with, in mathematically fitting in the detailing of transport to satisfy their demands with available wagons. It is a job that requires tact and organization. Officers also call who come just to pass the time of day and exchange rumours, or beach gossip as we call it. The circulation of rumours is the best entertainment that we have, and though 95 per cent. of them are estranged from truth by a large margin, yet life would be doubly as dull as it is without them. They are always listened to with great interest, though, before they are heard, listeners know they are going to be miles off the target of truth. And if a man who has achieved a reputation for carrying with him the latest and most interesting “beach gossip” fails any morning in producing any, he causes really keen disappointment.

This morning we hear that the Turks are starved, have no clothes, are almost at the last gasp for ammunition, and only require one more hard knock before they retreat precipitously to lines which they have prepared well beyond the slopes on the other side of Achi Baba. The Navy then tell us that once Achi is in our hands we command the Narrows; Chanak Fort will be shelled to a pile of bricks and stones, the Fleet will make a dash up the Straits into the Marmora, and will arrive before Constantinople in three days. After a heavy bombardment of this city, the goal of our ambitions, we will attack the Turkish Army, now starved and demoralized beyond recovery. They will be beaten and will make unconditional surrender; the Peninsula will be ours, the Dardanelles will be open, Russia and the Allies will link hands, and the war will end six months after in glorious victory for our cause and confusion to our enemies.

We drink in minor rumours day by day that are given as irrefutable evidence in support of these prophecies; we are buoyed up in hope and spirits thereby, and ourselves spread the rumours to those of our friends who still remain pessimistic.

I go up to the Main Supply depot, and there, having by now been given a reputation for carrying good and juicy rumours, I cheer them up by the news that Achi will be ours by June 30th. Smart, one of the officers there, who was in the retreat from Mons, makes me a bet, and the stake is a nice ruler that he has on his desk. I promptly book the bet. I go up to Brigade and have tea, and supply them with the latest rumours.

June 3rd.

It is very windy to-day, and is blowing nearly a gale, and wind on the tip of this peninsula is an unpleasant element to be up against. In consequence, the beach is smothered with dust, and clouds of it fly in all directions, covering everybody and everything.

While issuing, shells burst on the crest of the high ground at the back of the beach steadily all the time, and nearer inland puffs of shrapnel are visible. They cannot reach us here with shrapnel, thank goodness! Shrapnel is so comprehensive. A lucky shell comes to within ten yards of our depot, kills a man, a passer-by, outright, wounds a sailor, and slightly wounds my butcher in the knee.

I ride up to Brigade with Phillips. General Doran shows us map of our objective, and carefully marks thereon where rations are to be dumped to-morrow night, for to-morrow is to be the day of an attack upon our part to take Achi. If successful, then the beginning of the end of the show will be in sight. No news from outside world, and a great scarcity of papers. Reading a paper about a month old is now a great luxury.

In the evening, Williams and Phillips and myself borrow a boat from an M.L.O. and have a short row round. It makes splendid exercise, and the scenes on shore are very interesting. Why did not we think of it before? When they shell the beach, all we have to do is to get into a boat and row out to sea, and then watch the fun. Surely a submarine would not trouble to torpedo us, and it would be a shell with our name and address on that would hit us. We pass a submarine—British—marked B9, a very small one. An officer is in the conning tower and says “Good evening” to us. We chat, and he invites us on board. Two sailors hold our little boat while we clumsily climb on to the submarine’s slippery back. We climb down a perpendicular iron ladder through a hole not much larger than a coal-shoot to a cellar under a street. Inside we find only one chamber, awfully cramped and small. At one end of this sleep the men, and at the other two officers. The chamber provides quarters for men and officers alike, and engine-room, ward-room, and ante-room, all in one, like Dan Leno’s one-roomed house. In Dan Leno’s words, “If you want to go into the drawing-room—you stay where you are!” I am shown the working of the engines, and try to look wisely at the intricate host of levers and brass things, but really can understand nothing at all of what the officer is talking about. I am shown how a torpedo is fired. You pull a thing out and she shoots. Phillips appears to know all about it though, but he doesn’t really. I look through the periscope, turn the lens round, and suddenly before my eyes I see “V” Beach and Sed-el-Bahr in vivid detail. What joy it must be to spot a Hun battleship and see her effectively hit!

The officer then invites us to sit down and call for drinks. I gasp; we never heard of such things on shore. An attentive A.B., smiling benevolently, brings along about half a dozen bottles and glasses. The officer apologizes for not having much choice. Is he pulling our legs? What perfectly charming beings these Naval fellows are! I choose sherry. Williams gets chatty about the Middlesex Yeomanry. The Middlesex Yeomanry always comes into Williams’s conversation when he gets chatty, but I can’t connect this regiment with submarines at the moment. I have two glasses, and we rise to go. Our perfectly delightful host expresses regret that we must go, and invites us again in the near future. Up the perpendicular iron steps we climb. Phillips, leading, puts his heavy boot in my face. It seems a long way up those steps. Up in the cool air, with the breeze blowing in my face, the deck of the submarine seems much narrower than when we first came on board. I look at the little boat gently heaving in the water alongside, and take one cautious step on to one of its seats, and with one foot in the boat and one on the submarine I turn to thank my host again. The little boat falls with the swell of the sea, and I promptly sit down very hard into her. All aboard, we row back merrily. Hear that two shells have arrived on the beach during our absence. Shells! Pugh! that’s nothing. We don’t worry about shells, now!

I swear that I had only two sherries; but I am very empty inside, and the cool air, after a stuffy atmosphere—— Yes! even a Padre might feel like that.

June 4th.

I awake and rise early. To-day is the battle, and to-night we shall be probably feeding our troops in or beyond Krithia. To-day will probably be a great day for our arms.

I get my issuing over early, and ride up to Brigade H.Q. and see Usher, asking him if he has any further instructions. All the arrangements are complete, and I hope that I shall have to take the rations up to or beyond Krithia, for then we shall have tasted complete victory. I see General Doran, who is hard at work. Two officers of the Egyptian Army arrive and talk awhile with me. I learn that they have landed only this morning. They are dressed very smartly; polished Sam Brown, revolver, smart tunic and breeches and boots, but I think they are making a mistake. They look like the pictures of a military tailor’s advertisement. Most officers of the infantry dress like the men, to lessen the chances of an enemy sniper getting them. I get back to “W” Beach at 10.30 a.m. and see the Implacable and Albion coming slowly in, with destroyers and submarines all around each ship, jealously guarding them from submarines’ attacks. A French battleship, I think the Saint-Louis, is off “V” Beach. Destroyers are on the patrol, as usual, searching for the dreaded submarine enemy. Three hospital ships are now in.

11 a.m.

The French “75’s” start the music, bursting out into a roar of anger. Shortly after, all our shore batteries join in, and the 60-pounders make our ears feel as if they would burst until we get used to it. The bombardment increases; the battleships and destroyers now join in with all their guns. The noise is infernal, after the quiet that we have been used to. I go up to the high ground at the back of “W” Beach, lie down in a trench, and watch the show through strong glasses. Only a few are with me in the trench. Next to me is Beetleheimer, our liaison officer. He speaks Turkish like a native, and is a very charming and decent old boy. Tremendous shelling now going on, and it seems to grow more and more intense—hundreds of shells bursting along the Turkish positions. Turkish artillery replies furiously, mostly with shrapnel, all along our trenches. No shells come on the beaches. Hundreds of white puffs of shrapnel burst all along the line, and fountain-like spurts of black and yellow smoke, followed by columns of earth, are thrown into the air, ending in a fog of drifting smoke and dust.

12 noon.

The bombardment slackens and almost dies away suddenly, and I hear a faint cheer, but searching the line carefully with my glasses, can see no signs of life.

After a short pause the bombardment bursts again, even more intensely, and then slackens, and our guns increase the range. I can see three armoured cars on the right of our centre, which before I had not noticed, one behind the other, each one a short distance to the right of the one in front, moving slowly along the flat ground on either side of the Sed-el-Bahr road, and they actually pass over our front line and creep up to the Turkish front, driving backwards. They halt, and I see the spurts of flame coming from their armoured turrets as their machine-guns open fire. After about ten minutes I see the car furthest behind move back to our line, now driving forwards, and after a while the remaining two follow. Our shells burst thickly, smothering the Turkish first and second lines and all the way up the slopes of Achi Baba. I see our men in the centre leap from the trenches, and the sun glistens on their bayonets. I see them run on in wave after wave, some falling, and remaining lying on the grass like sacks of potatoes. I can see nothing on the left. Now I see the French on the hill on the right of our line, and the hill is covered with dark figures rushing forward. The din and roar continues, and I am called away to my dump.

2 p.m.

Rumour hath it that we have taken the first two lines of trenches. The armoured cars return to their dugout garage, one with one man wounded inside.

4.30 p.m.

Prisoners come marching down the beach under escort. Big, hardy chaps, in ill-fitting khaki clothes, and many with cloth helmets on their heads, looking rather like the paper hats I used to make when a kid.

6 p.m.

I go up to see the Quartermasters, to pass on instructions that rations to-night will be dumped at the same place as last, namely at the ruined house in front of Pink Farm—and so we cannot have advanced much. I meet a wounded R.N.D. officer, and he tells me that the French have been forced to give way on the right, and that his Division, immediately on their left, having advanced, are in consequence rather hung between the Devil and the deep sea. I stop and look through Butler’s strong telescope, and see in front of Krithia, before a green patch, which we on the beach call the cricket pitch, little figures digging in hard at a new line.

9 p.m.

Rifle fire still intense, and shore batteries going at it—all out. The battleships have gone home to bed.

Achi Baba looks more formidable than ever.

11 p.m.

Steady rifle fire going on. We have advanced some five hundred yards in centre, and are holding the ground won. The French have not advanced.

I learn that when our bombardment suddenly stopped, shortly after noon, and when our infantry raised a cheer, the enemy stood right up on the fire-steps of their parapets, preparing to meet their charge. Our infantry did not leave their trenches. Instead, our machine-guns got on to the Turks, waiting exposed, and bagged many by their fire.

June 5th, 6 a.m.

Steady rifle firing still continues, having gone on all night.

Noon.

Row to French submarine with Phillips, Williamson and Foley, and after pulling round, looking interested, are invited on board.

Phillips has one foot on the slippery back of the submarine and one foot on the boat, rocking in the sea, when a dog comes rushing along the deck of the submarine barking furiously. Pained expression on Phillips’s face a study. Dog held back by a French sailor.

Most interesting on board the submarine. Engines and mechanical gear a marvellous piece of work. Very interesting looking through the periscope. Two charming officers, having lunch in a dear little cabin, talk to us. Submarine four times as big as the British one that we went aboard two days ago.

Hear that Prosser and Wyman, friends of mine in the Hampshires, have been hit and are on hospital ships. Damned fine chaps! Hear later that Bush, of Worcesters, another friend and a splendid fellow, has gone, blown to bits by a shell while leading a charge yesterday. Fine man; he had been wounded, and had been awarded the Military Cross, at the landing.

Also the two Gypy officers, who reported at Brigade H.Q. when I was there yesterday, have gone, killed while leading their new companies.

This happens after every battle. One makes friends—such fine friends!—and one is always suddenly losing them, leaving such gaps as sometimes make one wish that one could follow them.

But it is against the tradition of the service to be morbid about it, and so we “carry on,” knowing that those who have gone West would, if they were still with us, be cheery, brave, cool, and efficient at their respective jobs.

4 p.m.

Go up to Brigade H.Q. with O’Hara—leave the horses at Pink Farm and walk to H.Q. Find them all up at an observation post, just behind the firing-line, which has moved forward after yesterday’s battle.

The C.R.E. 29th Division joins us. A most unconcerned individual. He goes on up across country. O’Hara waits a bit to give some instructions and then goes on, and I follow. After a bit across the country, with a few “overs” flying about (“overs” are bullets which have missed their target, but which are still travelling at a high velocity), we dip down into a gully and follow its winding path for about ten minutes to the observation post, where C.R.E. and the rest of the Staff have already arrived. Bullets fairly whizzing overhead. Usher tells me to step closer to the side, which I promptly do, on account of a few bullets which are on the descent. Very interesting there. Telephone and signallers busy, and orderlies arriving and departing. A few shells scream overhead. We all have tea, and chat. Thompson looks rather ill and worried. All the time we are having tea there is a constant “ping” of bullets over the dugout. Look through observation hole and have a perfect view of yesterday’s battlefield. The Worcesters advanced and are holding their position. They are exposed to enfilading fire as well as frontal fire from the Turks, but are digging in to protect themselves. They are very near Krithia, digging on that green patch of land which we call the cricket pitch. Krithia looks very formidable the closer one gets to it. Turkish trenches are very deep, with good dugouts for sleeping and very deep, wide communication trenches. Hence we hardly ever see a Turk. Their firing-line and the sleeping dugouts are actually boarded.

11.30 p.m.

As I turn into bed there is firing all along the line. Turkish counter-attack going on. Our casualties yesterday very heavy, but Turks’ colossal. The Goeben fired over to us to-day with not much damage; shells did not reach the beach.

I hear that Colonel Williams, or General, as I have up to now been calling him on account of his having acted as Brigadier of the 88th, up to the arrival of General Doran, was wounded in yesterday’s battle. On General Doran’s arrival he went to the 2nd Hampshires, his regiment, and took command. When the moment for the infantry attack arrived, they leapt over, and in an incredibly short space of time had taken their first objective. Colonel Williams, with his Adjutant, then followed over to make his H.Q. in the newly won trench.

On inspecting it and making arrangements for the attack on the second objective, he came back to his old H.Q. to telephone the result, an orderly accompanying him. Half-way back a Turk leapt up from behind a bush, ten yards away from him, and fired his rifle, the bullet instantly killing Colonel Williams’s orderly. Colonel Williams drew his revolver, took deliberate aim, and the Turk, also taking deliberate aim, levelled his rifle at the same time. For a second an old-time duel might have been taking place, in the middle of an historic battleground, which was lately No-man’s-land. Both fire; the Turk falls dead, and Colonel Williams is wounded in the left arm. That Turk was a brave man, but I think Colonel Williams is a braver.

June 6th, 7 a.m.

Shells come over on east side of the beach from a four-gun Turkish battery, and big stuff too, about 6-inch.

7.30 a.m.

More arrive in middle of our camp on the west side of the battery. We take cover under a cliff. I, wanting to get down to Train office, go up a cliff and am just about to descend the steps when the shriek of one is heard, by which I could tell it is close to me. I fall flat into a hole on one side of the cliff, and it passes over the cliff and bursts on the beach, killing gunner sergeant-major. Ugh! how they shriek.

Heavy firing continued on left all night. We lost a trench, but regained it. A Turkish Padre is a prisoner on the beach to-day. He looks rather a dear old chap, with quite a benevolent expression.

6 p.m.

I go up to Brigade with Carver in the afternoon, leaving our horses at Pink Farm. My old mare knows Pink Farm well now. When I dismounted to-day and let go the reins, she walked over to the tree that I always tie her to, under cover of the farm, quite on her own.

At H.Q. bullets are zipping over more frequently than I have ever known them to do before. Waiting to see General Doran, who should I see strolling calmly across the country but my friend Dent, of the Inniskillings. The last time we had met was at a gramophone dance at some common friends’ home in Edgbaston. We have a chat about those days, and ask each other for news of the partners we used to dance with. All the time, “ping-ping,” bullets fly about, but as he does not seem to mind, I take my cue from him and try not to mind either. Besides, it would be rather nice to get a cushy one in the arm.

11 p.m.

We are being shelled by a battery from Kum Kale. This is the first time we have been shelled at night. They do not reach our side of the beach, and, as Phillips says he “can read the mind of the Turkish gunner” (he is always saying this, and I have great confidence in him), and that we are off the target, I go to sleep without anxiety.

June 7th.

Heavy gun with high explosive kicking up a devil of a row all day, but not reaching the beach, bursting in the valley on the way to Brigade H.Q. Plenty of artillery duelling all day. Asiatic battery fires on transports and hits one several times, setting her alight, and she now has a heavy list on. French crew rush to boats and clear off quick. British torpedo destroyer goes alongside, puts crew on board the transport, and they put out the fire. All transports move further out to sea, and Turkish battery shuts up.

I have to feed the prisoners, and a party of them come up to our depot under a guard to draw rations. Transport is provided by two G.S. wagons. There are ten of them in the party, and one of their N.C.O.’s. They fall in in two ranks, and wherever I move they follow me with their eyes. I then motion to their N.C.O. to load up a certain number of boxes. He gives an order in Turkish, and they load up in remarkably quick time. They are then fallen in by their N.C.O., and one of them who is rather dilatory is pushed into his place by the others. Marching in front of their G.S. wagons, they go back to their barbed wire enclosure. They appeared most anxious to do the right thing. Many of them were raggedly clothed, with their boots almost out at heel. No shelling during night.

June 8th.

Hardly any Turkish shelling this morning. Went up to Brigade H.Q. While there, Usher, the Brigade Major, shows me the wires that were received and sent to and from the Brigade H.Q. during the battle of June 4th, and they make interesting reading, telling a grim story in short, pithy, matter-of-fact sentences. Troops now consolidating line and making it firm. The Lancashire Fusiliers successfully took a trench last night, and straightened the line somewhat. Askold popping off on the Asiatic side to silence Turkish batteries.

My friend Dent, of the Inniskillings, hit last night by a spent bullet in the gully, but I think not seriously. Grogan, of the K.O.S.B.’s., a delightful chap, was killed by a shell on June 4th. Such a splendid fellow!

My mare, looking very fit now, gets quite frisky when I ride out to the front every morning, and is getting better at jumping across trenches.

June 9th.

Blowing a great gale down the Peninsula, and the dust is perfectly awful. I have never experienced such a wind, and yet an aeroplane goes up, but for a bit is absolutely stationary, and soon has to land.

Turks in a very strong position on the left. Country lends itself naturally to defences. Ride up to line with Phillips and Way. Coming back, Way’s horse lashed out at my mare, kicking me in the shin, making a nasty place. My leg is now bandaged, and I limp rather badly.

Very little firing to-day. Asiatic battery woke us up at 5.30 a.m. and tried to bombard transports, all shells falling into the sea.

Rowed out to sea and went on board submarine B10 with Phillips, and saw North. Actually had a drink. Also they have a gramophone, and it was absolutely gorgeous listening to familiar music, carrying us back to our past peaceful existence once more.

As we go up on deck to take our leave, a torpedo boat circles round us, a signaller wagging to us. The signal is taken by one of the crew of the submarine, transmitted to the commander, and reads, “Anything we can do for you?” He replies, “No, thanks. Any news?” and the torpedo-boat destroyer signals back some news that has just come through of progress made by our force in Mesopotamia on the road to Bagdad. We are told that daily torpedo-boat destroyers come along and offer to do little jobs for the officers on board the submarine, and sometimes send over delicacies, such as roast fowl hot, etc.

June 10th, 5.30 a.m.

Shells popping off at shipping again, and one hits the beach. Also the Turks in front get very busy, for four hours bombarding our position. I believe that they really think that they are going to push us into the sea.

5.30 p.m.

I walk along the road at the foot of the cliff towards “X” Beach. The road is now a good one, and the transport is making continual traffic up and down. It is very convenient, for transport can move not only under cover from the enemy, but in safety to a certain extent, for up to now but few shells drop over the cliff on to this road. I know a place, however, from which they can shell this road and the slope of the cliff, and that is on their extreme right overlooking the sea. From there they can look along parts of the road and side of the cliff, which is in view of their trenches; though other parts, by the coast, jutting out a little for small distances, are under perfect cover, and, in fact, quite safe.

Passing the Greek Labour Camp, I continue my walk to “X” Beach, which is about half as wide as “W” and a quarter as deep. Instead of the ground sloping up gently at the back, as is the case at “W” Beach, it rises at a steep angle to the top of the cliffs. Unlike “W” Beach, it comes constantly under shrapnel shell fire, but receives very few heavy shells, and is far more under cover than is “W.”

The road to Gully Beach, at the foot of the cliffs of “X” Beach, is not finished yet, and is in a very rough state. Just before I reach Gully Beach I come upon Brigade H.Q. dug in at the side and foot of the cliff. The battalions are “dug in” in as much regimental order as possible along the sides of the cliff, which are higher here than further down the Peninsula, and more under cover. Shells now and again burst, shrapnel chiefly, on the top of the cliff, and a few come over and fall with a big splash into the sea, but none burst on the slopes of the cliff. I hear, though, that one man yesterday was cut in half by a shell while bathing. A horrid sight!

This camp on the slopes of the cliff is now the Rest Camp of the Division, and while two Brigades are in the line, one Brigade is at rest. At rest, that is, from bullets, and, if they keep under the cliff, from shells, but not at rest from digging fatigues. The road has to be made, and so have the dugouts on the side of the cliff. They get good bathing though, and bathing out here beats any that I have ever struck.

I talk to the only two officers left of those who were with the Worcesters in England. They appear very breezy and bright.

We are hard at work building our men’s bivouac, which is in the form of a funk-hole. We are digging it in the side of the cliff, from the top, and it will be entered by about ten steps leading down on to a terrace, which will run on the outside of the house, dug into the cliff’s side, under a sloping roof made with a sailcloth. It will be so situated that, should shells come our way, they will either burst on top, where our old bivouac still is, or fly over the cliff and burst in the road below or in the sea.

We are modelling ours on a bivouac of some R.N.D. officers about fifty yards further up the cliff-side. On their terrace they have all their meals, including dinner at night, which is a luxury, with the sound of the waves washing against the road below and the view of Imbros in the distance. In their dugout house at night they go to sleep with more feeling of security than I have at present.

I share a tent with Phillips. Just as I am turning in, Way comes in to say that Asia has just started sending over high explosives. None reach us, but they make a devil of a row, and I fall asleep feeling rather uncomfortable.

June 12th.

Woke up at 5.30 a.m. by shelling, shells from Asia nearly reaching a big transport that had come in overnight, on the opposite of our “bivvy.” Wind and flies as bad as ever, and it is getting very hot. Dust smothering everything. Turks reported to be sick of the war, and rumoured to be individually seeking a chance to give themselves up. But it is still a long, long way to Achi Baba. That must be taken first.

Cliff on the west side up to Gully Beach covered with troops, looking like a lot of khaki ants from a distance; all back resting. They have to keep well under cover of cliffs, as they would soon be shelled. Major Lang, Worcesters, killed in the last battle. He was the officer I saw in the trenches when I went up for Bush’s letters. Bush also killed. This side of the war is the most difficult to bear.

Just heard that Brigade are moving back to trenches after three days’ rest.

June 13th.

Perfect day; wind dropped, but still a slight breeze. Have got into our new “bivvy” on side of cliff. Went up to Brigade H.Q. in front of Pink Farm. All well. Hear they are moving forward to-morrow three hundred yards. Creeping nearer to our goal. General Doran gone back to England, ill after last battle. Lieutenant-Colonel Cayley, late O.C. of the Worcesters, now Acting Brigadier-General. “Asiatic Annie” popped off and dropped shells nicely on Krithia road, on spot that I and my mare had passed five minutes before, and she sends some nasty ones.

Also she is dropping high explosives in French camp in Morto Bay. I don’t think I shall bathe there for a bit.

5.30 a.m.

French aeroplane falls into sea. Pilot and observer can be seen sitting on top of wing. Destroyers come to the rescue, and also several motor-boats. Officer picked up and aeroplane taken in tow.

June 15th.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

June 16th.

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

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

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

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

June 17th.

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

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

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

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

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

June 18th.

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

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

June 19th.

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

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

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

7.30 p.m.

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

June 20th.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

June 21st, 6 a.m.

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

11 a.m.

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

12 noon.

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

4 p.m.

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

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

6 p.m.

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

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

7.45 p.m.

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

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

8.30 p.m.

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

June 22nd.

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

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

8 p.m.

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

June 23rd, 10.30 a.m.

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

Enemy aircraft brought down yesterday, falling in Turkish lines.

French losses in recent battle, 2,000.

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

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

June 24th.

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

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

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

June 25th.

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

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

June 26th.

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

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

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

I wish the stone would put the Turks to flight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

June 27th.

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

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

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

June 28th.

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

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

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

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

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

11 a.m.

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

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

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

4.30 p.m.

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

6 p.m.

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

8 p.m.

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

June 29th.

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

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

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

11.45 a.m.

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

7 p.m.

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

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

9.30 p.m.

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

10 p.m.

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

June 30th, 1 a.m.

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

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

2.30 a.m.

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

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

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

12 noon.

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

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

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

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

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

3 p.m.

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

5 p.m.

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

5.30 p.m.

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

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

6 p.m.

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

7 p.m.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The lightning frightens our horses somewhat, and blinds us after each flash. It is incessant, and lights up the Peninsula in detail, but no thunder follows. We hope that Asia will let us go home in safety. She does, but half an hour after we arrive home, and when everybody except night-workers and guards and pickets have turned in, heavy shells come over, and at the rate of two an hour they continue all night, and so our night’s rest is not as good as it might be.