Gallipoli Diary

by John Graham Gillam

NOVEMBER

November 1st.

Last night was very rough, and several lighters were wrecked on the beach. We also lost a destroyer, which ran on the rocks just off West Beach. No loss of life.

A cool summer day again, and no shelling from the Turks this morning. Flies not quite so bad, but still a plague. They have become persistent, fat, sleepy ones now. No shelling from the Turks at all, and our artillery hardly fire a shot.

November 2nd.

A few shells only this morning. A beautiful summer day, but flies badly worrying. A battery has been put on the road just by the rise before 80th Brigade H.Q. Destroyer which ran on the rocks yesterday still in the same position.

November 3rd.

After breakfast, having arranged for a visit round the trenches with Panton, the D.A.D.M.S., I go up to D.H.Q. at the top of our gully. We start off, accompanied by Lord Howard de Walden, pass through the 88th Field Ambulance camp, dip down on to the beach road, and after a short way along bear to the right on to Gibraltar road. Instead of walking up along the Gibraltar road, as has been the practice of most of us up to now, we bear to the right through the low wooded country between Gibraltar road and Hill 10. We cross the newly made line of trenches, with barbed wire thickly laid in front, passing a bombing school on our left. Turkish bullets fired at a high elevation just reach this point, dropping with spent velocity. As we walk through the almond-trees just beyond, the guns of the two battleships bang out suddenly. We hear the great shells shrieking over our heads, and see them burst with violence over Burnt Hill on our right front. Passing the almond-trees, we make a detour to the left, arriving in the open space which leads to 86th Brigade H.Q. Panton stops here at an advanced dressing station, and while we wait for him a few bullets sing overhead. But there is never very much rifle fire in the daytime. We then dip down into “C.C.” communication trench, and follow its windings to the line. We pass over one or two bridges crossing large drains that have been dug to drain the trenches when the wet weather comes. We are warned by the formation of the irregular hills, nullahs, and ravines, and the great boulders of stone standing out of the ground, that at some time during the year rain falls in great quantities. What will our trenches be like on the low ground when that time does come? Salt Lake on our left gradually sinking under water answers that question. We see shrapnel bursting low over that part of the line we are making for, and I have a desire to turn my coat-collar up. I always do when I am near shells. Why, I don’t know. We arrive at the support trench, in which are the Munsters and Dublin Fusiliers. I see a few men clustered together in the trench at a small entrance leading to a dugout. One comes out from the dugout, and says, “By Jasus! the poor lad’s gone.” A man had been hit by shrapnel, and had just died, after about twenty minutes. We continue on, and on arrival at the Essex Regiment I inquire where Algy Wood had been hit. I am taken up a short trench which turns sharply to the left, coming to an abrupt end at a dugout—his dugout. I inquire how it happened, and am told that he was leaning up against the back of the trench immediately outside his dugout, with his pipe in his mouth, looking at an aeroplane which was hovering over our line. Suddenly a bullet strikes him in the throat; he takes his pipe out of his mouth, makes a gesture of extreme annoyance with his arm, and mutters the words “Damn it!” Then he sinks back in the arms of his sergeant-major, who is standing near him, and saying, “I am finished, sergeant-major,” quietly goes West.

Struck by a chance bullet in a comparatively safe place! Cruel, cruel luck! At least Algy Wood, one of the most gallant officers of that pick of Divisions—the 29th—should have been spared. However, he had the satisfaction of putting up his hard-earned D.S.O. ribbon a week or so ago. We continue our way along trenches which, instead of running more or less in regular lines, zigzag in and out in sharp turns and corners, which face the high hills on our left, each corner protected by strong sand-bagged breastworks. The reason for this is that these breastworks, placed at short intervals in that part of the line where we are, screen us from view of the enemy in his trenches high up on the ridge of hills which overlook the sea on our left. Of course, we in our trenches up there also can overlook the Turks in the trenches running through the low country in their territory, which trenches also are punctuated at frequent short intervals by breastworks. In consequence of the danger of being seen by Turks on the hill, our trenches on the low land are very narrow, and Lord Howard de Walden causes great amusement to some Tommies sitting on the fire-step by the remark, “These trenches were not built for a man with an extra large tummy.”

We follow Panton, who is on his round of inspection of sumps, cesspits, cookhouses, and the general sanitation of the trenches. Myriads of flies, which precede us on our way; when we halt, they all promptly settle in black patches on the sand-bags and sides of trenches. When we continue our tour, they, rising immediately with a loud buzzing, lead the way for us.

An inspection of the cookhouse of the Newfoundland Regiment is made. It is built in a small sunken ravine at the back of the support line. Panton and Frew, their M.O., go to the end of the ravine. I wait at the end near entrance to the trench. A Newfoundlander says to me, “Excuse me, sir, but in the place in which you are standing our cook was killed yesterday by a sniper from the hill.” I am rude enough to forget to thank the man. I simply turn round on my heel, practically diving into the trench. But I shouted thanks to him as we left, five minutes after. After a short walk along the front line—the usual front line, with men at short intervals on the keen lookout through periscopes—we return by “D” communication trench, half an hour’s walk. We pass Gibraltar Hill, and so over the gorse to Gibraltar road, arriving at D.H.Q. on the hill, where I am given a topping lunch.

It is a beautiful summer day, and the Turks are sending over sporting shots at the shipping. The battleships answer, so the enemy turn their guns on to them instead, and actually record two hits on the Prince George, which then manœuvres for a fresh position. Then they get on to the supply ships again, which have to clear outside the boom, further away from the end of the promontory. Suddenly a good shot at long range gets a supply ship, which is loaded with hay, and quickly sets it on fire. Our battleships get very angry at this, but it is some time before they can silence the Turkish batteries. At sunset the hay supply ship is still smoking, but the fire is well under control. A new officer arrives, named Hunt, a good fellow from Tipperary. Good omen, for though we are a long, long way from Tipperary, one from that immortal place has come to join us.

November 4th.

The ship that was set on fire yesterday lost practically all the hay in the forward hold. Consequently, for some time our poor little Indian mules will be on half rations. Destroyer has now broken her back and is a total wreck, waves breaking over her. Rain is beginning now. We had a few showers this morning. A little shelling in the morning, but the afternoon was quiet. Go up to Brigade H.Q. with the new Transport Officer, Hunt. Find conference on, so McLaughlin and Morris entertain us to tea. Have to make detour through flat wooded country, getting to and from H.Q., on account of this beastly new battery. Very quiet this afternoon; no shelling, and hardly any rifle fire. Hunt remarked, coming back, that it was a nice country walk, and reminded him of his homestead in Tipperary. He has been at Blackheath for the last six months at Headquarters at the Ranger’s Lodge, and left there only three weeks ago, so I like getting him to talk about Blackheath, which I knew so well. I have been on this place so long now, that a new-comer has only to mention about riding on a tramcar or going into a cakeshop, when I am held thrilled with interest and pleasure.

November 5th.

A beautiful, cool summer day. Shelled at ten this morning for quite an hour. The destroyer has now completely broken her back, and her stern has disappeared. The Turks discovered the mishap, but they could not see that she is a wreck, as she is “bows on” to the Turkish position. Thinking, therefore, that the destroyer was still intact, though stuck on the ground, they attempted to finish her off, and for three hours shelled her. They only recorded two hits, however, and it was satisfactory to see old Turk wasting his ammunition. To-day another old friend has gone. He is Way, the 86th Supply Officer, who has been here since April 25th without ever going sick. He felt rather dicky two days ago, and was told to stay in his dugout, and to-day I find he has developed diphtheria badly. He tries not to go, but a doctor soon settles that. I shall now feel more lonely than ever, for we were great pals, and our walks to our respective H.Q. were among the few pleasures that I could look forward to. When casualties occurred at his dump he was always there to attend to the wounded, and as S.O. the 86th Brigade will miss him. I wonder how many of the old 29th are left. Well, Way is for Blighty, and good luck to him. But diphtheria is a nasty illness, and I hope he pulls through.

November 6th.

Walker has gone off permanently to hospital with jaundice, and Hunt and myself are left on our own.

Beautiful summer day, to-day. Turk very quiet and hardly any shelling. Swiftsure back, and the Canopus and Prince George busy shelling Turkish positions this afternoon.

November 7th.

Another beautiful summer day. Turks shelled our valley at ten and again at three. No damage, though some were uncomfortably close to us. Our ships and shore batteries fairly busy. Monitors busy at night.

November 8th.

A cool, lovely day. Flies are dying rapidly—the best news to record for a long time. Two new A.S.C. officers arrive to join us, named Matthews and Elphinstone. Very few shells this morning, but they come very near our dugout this time. Cox, of the Essex, comes in for a chat, the only original officer now left of that regiment. I walk back with him to Brigade H.Q., and Matthews comes with me. Walking across the flat space just leading to the 86th Brigade H.Q., I point out to Matthews the lines of light-brown earth running up the slopes of the hill on our left front, and he hardly believes me when I tell him one line is Turkish. Like all who newly arrive, he is surprised at the short walk from the beach to the line. Our batteries are dusting the Turkish line with shrapnel, and their batteries are retaliating. They make very good shooting on both sides, as, of course, they have all ranges registered to a nicety. We call at both Brigades, and have tea at each. Coming away, Matthews tells me that he is of a retiring disposition, and that he does not like being thrown suddenly into new society, and that two tea-parties is more than his nerves can stand, more especially when a General is present at each.

November 9th.

Usual visit to Brigade H.Q. with Hunt, and after, inspect the forward reserve rations at C.R.E. dump. Men busy digging trenches back near beaches now. Another beautiful cool summer day, cold at night. Turks busy shelling batteries and shrapnelling trenches.

There is only one possible game for the Turk to play, and he is playing it well. That is to say, he must keep us at bay at all costs. Therein lies his only chance, for once we can get across the Peninsula to Maidos, his game is up, for we cut his main line of communications, so he shells us continually to keep us occupied. The shelling is so effective that elaborate dugouts have to be built. These are made as strong as possible, the inner walls being strengthened with sand-bags, the roof formed with strong cross-beams, on which rest, first, iron sheets or wire netting, then two layers of sand-bags, then soil. These dugouts are perfectly secure against shrapnel or high explosive splinters, but, of course, could not stand against a direct hit. But that would not worry the occupants much, as it would be all over in a few minutes. Inside such houses we have lounges cut out of the earth and covered with sacks. Our furniture is rough-and-ready, and made on the spot. It is marvellous what can be done with any ordinary wooden box, if you know how to deal with it. Out of our wooden boxes chairs and tables appear like magic—chairs with arms and adjustable backs; strong tables, and various other bits of furniture. Some of them are really quite good, and show clearly the ingenuity of their makers. We also have candlesticks, recesses for books, and toilet articles, all from the same source. Fireplaces are made out of home-made bricks—for there is a good deal of clay on the Peninsula. They are good fireplaces too, complete with mantelpiece, bars, and hob. So we sit round of an evening reading periodicals a month old with the same zest and interest as we read the latest editions at home.

By the papers, England sounds depressing.

So we would rather be here. We do know the truth of Gallipoli here. Man likes to know what he is up against. Seven Divisions at the start would have fixed this job, no ships would have been lost, and our little friend Bulgaria would have thought twice of coming in against us. All night outside we hear the crack-crack-crack of the rifles in the trenches. Worcesters did a good bit of work the other night, capturing a sniper’s post three hundred yards in front. Only two casualties over that little job; they expected more. Turks in front of the 29th have fairly “got the wind up.” We bomb and shell their nerves away.

General Cayley says he is quite happy and does not want to go to Salonica, as he is looking forward to sitting round his fire of a winter’s night. General Percival says bother General Cayley’s fireplace; he wants to go to Salonica and get a move on. And so they live their lives, these men—lives full of danger, yet joking about their fireplaces.

November 10th.

Another fairly quiet day. Ships firing a bit against Turkish batteries, which are sending back shrapnel. Take up Elphinstone to Brigade and have tea at the 86th. Have some excellent rock-cakes, made by their cook. General Cayley calls in. We walk round with him to the 88th. I get awfully fed up at times, but every time I see General Cayley he gives me a spurt for a few days. I had jaundice badly about two weeks ago, and they were going to send me off, and that meant England. I got a spurt, and soon felt fit again, and have never felt so well in all my life. Morris, Machine Gun Officer of the 88th, seriously ill with rheumatism, but he is trying to hang on. Destroyers and Monitors make a practice of shelling the Pimple from the Gulf of Saros now. Amusing watching destroyers. They fire, then emit a cloud of smoke, sail round behind it, then fire again, and so on. Old Turk can’t hit back. Shelling Pimple much in fashion just now. Poor old Turk! fancy trying to get to sleep on the Pimple with big guns throwing great shrieking shells at him all night.

November 11th.

Lovely summer day. Are moving camp to IX Corps Gully. Busy arranging the necessary digging. Turks very busy with shrapnel this morning around Chocolate Hill and to the left. Battleships very angry and fire back, making a fearful noise. Old Turk sticks at it, though. General de Lisle, riding with A.D.C. and orderly, nearly gets hit. He takes too much risk and seems to have no nerves.

November 12th.

Getting rather cold now. Fleet firing heavily to-day, and Turks, as usual, busy with shrapnel. “C” Beach badly shelled, and 13th Division Supply depot gets it badly; several casualties. A year ago to-day I received my commission and joined the 13th Division. If I had not joined the 29th Division I might have been on the “C” Beach to-day with the 13th Division. Go up to Brigade with Elphinstone and see new Staff Captain—Armstrong. Hadow is now with the 11th Division, and I am sorry he has gone. Stay till dusk. Turkish snipers always creep out at dusk. Bullets freely coming when we take our leave. Over the gorse outside the Brigade H.Q. I say to Elphinstone, “At this point at night I always walk fast,” and he, this being his first experience, says, “I am with you.” Out of range we light our pipes, then a comfortable walk back in the moonlight. Finish up work at the depot. Dinner and a smoke, and to Hell with the Kaiser!

November 13th.

It is getting very windy and cold, but day quite fine. Flies still worrying, but not nearly so badly as a few weeks back. No shelling from Turk. Ships firing on Turkish batteries, which are badly shrapnelling Chocolate Hill. Kitchener in neighbourhood. Matthews leaves to be Adjutant of train at Helles, and Hunt and I go out in his pinnace to see him off. Sea a bit choppy, and I, sitting on the top of the engine-room, nearly fall through the skylight into the engines. Horne arrives to take his place. Has seen Kitchener at Mudros with a numerous Staff. Staff-Captain 86th Brigade comes to tea. Show him over our new camp for winter, which is in course of preparation. It is going to be “some” camp. It breaks the monotony, making this camp. Guests for dinner. Beautiful moonlight night and very quiet.

November 14th.

A bit of a gale blowing. Another quiet day, absolutely no shelling. Kitchener arrives here at three o’clock with Staff. Was up Brigade with Horne at the time, and so missed the show; but my sergeant told me about it. He landed at little West Beach, walked through the Main Supply depot, and then past our depot, up IX Corps Gully to the top of the hill, and had a good look round the positions. He was only here about two hours. Tommies came running up and stood in groups at attention, while their C.O.’s and officers saluted, and he passed along saluting gravely right and left, now and again stopping to look at some dugouts. There is now general satisfaction that Kitchener has been and seen for himself what things are really like here. No shelling of the beaches while he was on shore, but the low lands were being shrapnelled.

November 15th.

Quiet morning. In the afternoon the Turks put a dozen of the best over the beach, but did no harm. Bit of a battle on Chocolate Hill this afternoon at five, and rifle fire, and a great deal of shrapnel, for half an hour. Our battleships firing heavily and making a deafening din. Heavy thunderstorms at eight, with vivid forked lightning and rain. I suppose this is a foretaste of what is to come.

The safety of the beaches has now greatly improved. West Beach and the beach adjacent are now joined by a deep cutting. A deep trench, starting at the Main Supply depot, runs down to West Beach, in which is laid a tramway used for carrying supplies from the piers to the depot. This is under cover, entirely hidden from the enemy by day. The earth taken from this cutting or deep trench has been thrown up in great mounds at the back of the two beaches, rendering them safe from high explosive shells, though, of course, not from shrapnel. But “Whistling Rufus” has not worried us since the late days of October, devoting his attention to the unfortunately situated “C” Beach on the other side of Lala Baba. The road leading up on the higher ground to our D.H.Q. is now sunk and the dug out earth, thrown up on the side facing the enemy, hides all transport by day entirely from his view. Since this has been done this road has been almost entirely free from shrapnel.

November 16th.

Men are hard at work digging our new camp in IX Corps Gully. We move there, when IX Corps H.Q. move to the end of the promontory. IX Corps new Headquarters should be entirely winterproof, even during the severest weather. They are also practically invulnerable, by reason of their position and the vast amount of labour that has been expended upon them. I myself saw sheds in sections being put bodily into the rock excavated to receive them. There were communication trenches cut in the living rock connecting dugout with dugout. Also, elaborate excavations in the rock formed shell-proof living quarters, and, when necessary, unlimited wood, iron, and sand-bags have been lavishly used. The whole place is a perfect engineering achievement—the most wonderful nest of safety that the mind of man could conceive. How different are the conditions at Lala Baba, but three miles away, where the wretched hovels of the troops cluster as thickly as the cells in a honeycomb. No coping of iron or beams there. A man is lucky if he has as much as a blanket or a waterproof sheet to stretch over his miserable hole in the ground—not enough shelter to keep out the raindrops, let alone shrapnel.

The system on which our camp is being modelled is the same as for all the other beach camps here. An effort is being made to house the men through the rigours of the winter storms, which no doubt will soon be upon us. Taking advantage of the sloping ground in the fold of the gully on the promontory, which increases in height as it extends inland towards the high land, deep trenches are dug parallel to the lines of our trenches inshore. They are 7 feet wide, with parapets and parados 8 feet and 6½ feet high respectively. They should be roofed in by corrugated iron; some only of them are, however. Corrugated iron is still a luxury here. Filled sand-bags are then laid on the top, which should render them shrapnel-proof. As they generally run at right angles to the line of Turkish artillery fire, a high explosive shell would explode on the mound of earth thrown up in front of the parapet, and not in the roof.

Each trench is dug on lower ground than the one in front. The whole system is being organized by an able technical engineer officer, who is hard at work from morning to night. His camp is taken as a model. Although in view of the enemy, its safety against casual shelling, such as we are daily subjected to, has been demonstrated several times. Against a heavy bombardment, of course, no trenches are proof. Shrapnel bullets have spattered harmlessly on his sand-bagged roofs. High explosive shells bursting full in the middle of his camp have been caught by the mound of earth in front of the trench. Should the shell miss one line of trenches, it is caught by the mound of earth in front of the other line behind. A direct hit on the roof, except from a howitzer, is almost impossible.

Drains are cut about and around the trenches to catch the water of the forthcoming heavy rains, and advantage is taken of the formation of the gullies to make one main drain into which smaller drains can run. One has only to look at the great boulders of stone standing half in and half out of the earth all over the high ground of the Peninsula, and at the large, medium, and small gullies, which are of all kinds of intricate geographical formations, to realize that at some time of the year not only a series of ordinary rainfalls, but raging deluges of water, fall in all-powerful torrents, mercilessly driving all before them, even great boulders of stone. No trenches, no matter how well constructed, can withstand heavy driving floods. Let the engineers first study the formation of the land, pause and reason a little, and they will see that all this labour will be lost, and their trenches full to the brim at the first heavy downfall. In dry weather, though, the system is excellent, and the men inside are very comfortable.

The trenches are entered by steps from the road or path at either end, or from the terrace behind between each trench. At night the men sleep in one row side by side, their kits hung on the earth wall behind them. Quarters for N.C.O.’s are partitioned off by timber and sacking. By day their blankets are rolled up neatly, and the whole makes a roomy apartment. A cookhouse constructed on the same principle is built at the end of a series of trenches. Officers’ dugouts are built near by, dug in the slope or behind protecting boulders. The whole, neat, orderly, and compact, affords remarkably good cover from shrapnel and high explosives—but for protection against weather, never. For protection against weather I prefer the de Lisle system of terraces, built on a steep slope in tiers, the whole practically a flight of very large steps. But, of course, a steep slope is necessary. The men’s quarters are simply built on each terrace; the back wall is cut out of earth, the roof of corrugated iron, supported by timbers and made shrapnel-proof, and the sides are built up of loose stones, tarpaulins, and timber. The hill on which such a system is built affords the necessary protection against shell fire. It is, of course, weather-proof, as it is simple to drain.

“C” Beach and Lala Baba across the bay get very badly shelled this afternoon, and in consequence the battleships are hard at work endeavouring to silence the Turkish batteries. Sounds of very heavy firing are heard from Helles, probably Monitors in action.

November 17th.

Very little shelling, hardly any our way. To-day is very stormy, and as the time goes on the wind develops into a great gale. All landing of stores has to cease. Great white waves dash up against our piers, and after it is over there will be much work for the Australian Bridging Section. In the evening our flimsy summer quarters are cold and draughty. The oil-drum fire won’t burn. So we turn in early, Elphinstone and Horne going to their dugout up the rise to our left. Suddenly, just as we are getting into bed, the tarpaulin half of our roof blows adrift. Hunt and I have a job to fasten it back in position once more. The wind is shrieking outside. A short while after, Horne and Elphinstone come back, asking for shelter, for their bivouac has blown down altogether, and so we crowd them in our shelter for the rest of the night.

November 18th, 19th, and 20th.

The usual daily visits to Brigade H.Q. forward reserve dumps and D.H.Q. I get exercise this way. Also to and fro on the beach, paying calls on friends among the many dugouts there. Some are excellent, especially those of Naval L.O.’s and Camp Commandant, built in the side of the high rocks. The Field Cashier has to be “stung” by me now and again on behalf of my Staff Captain to pay the men of Brigade H.Q. His dugout is not in a very safe place.

Once, outside the dugout, leaning against the wall of sand-bags talking to an Australian officer, I heard a shell coming clean for us. I had no time to get to cover. I saw men several yards away dive for cover. I watched the Australian. He did not duck, but I noticed that he gripped his pipe tightly with his teeth. I leant hard against the wall behind me, and the beastly thing passed low over our heads and burst in the sea. I said to him, “I wanted to duck, but as you didn’t, I didn’t,” and he replied, “Same here, son.” Gale has been blowing hard the last three days, the Navy having great difficulty in landing stores, etc.; but to-night—the night of the 20th—the wind is dying down. Hardly any shelling at all now, except inland.

Our flimsy bivouac very draughty and cold. It is hard work keeping our accounts and doing our office work.

November 22nd.

Gale blowing hard now and wind much colder. Hard at work building our new camp. Hunt falls ill and has to go to bed, but trying to stick it out. Turks very quiet.

We are woke up at twelve midnight by a dugout on fire, and all turn out to get the fire under and prevent it spreading in the strong wind to neighbouring dugouts. We curse heartily but manage to put the fire out in half an hour. No one is hurt.

November 23rd.

Wind quieting down, thank goodness. We pull down our “summer residence,” in which we had lived for close on three months. In a short while not a sign of it is left, and we are hard at work shifting the whole camp into our new quarters in the late IX Corps Gully. Each regiment’s Q.M.’s staff, and a few regimental transport details and our A.S.C. Supply details move with us. Also the two Brigade post-offices. Our camp is not properly finished, but we are all glad to be in it, for it is much warmer at night in our dugouts.

November 24th.

The weather is now much more settled. It was making us all very anxious, as landing stores was very difficult for the Navy. Brigade H.Q. country walk again. But life very monotonous. Battleships now and again pop off. A little shelling from the Turk, but not half a dozen all day. Hard at work on new camp.

November 25th.

Hunt very seedy, so I send him to Field Ambulance. At night hear a rumour that the evacuation of Suvla Bay has been decided on. Go down on beach in the evening to see about arrangements for getting off, but am led to believe it is only baggage for a Division which is leaving.

November 26th.

Yes, I think evacuation has been definitely decided on, so our little camp has been built for nothing. However, it keeps us employed, for life is deadly dull. This, then, is to be the end! After all these months of blood and sweat, of feverish anticipation and dismal results; after all the toil, the hardships, and sorrows, with the little graveyards getting fuller and fuller every day as I have passed them—all this is for nothing, and we are leaving. I am glad, yet full of regrets—excited, too, at the prospect of getting back to civilization once more. Alexandria and all its delights will seem like Paradise; the cosy dinners at the club, the shops, and the meeting with old friends left behind. These are some of the emotions that I experience at the thought of evacuation.

The wind is getting up once more, and the sea becomes stormy. The Field Ambulance receive orders to evacuate all patients at once to casualty clearing stations. At the clearing station they are hard at work evacuating all cases on to the lighters for transmission to the hospital ships.

Afternoon.

The sea is very rough. A lighter full of sick and a few wounded has been washed ashore. Two cases have been drowned. All further evacuation has stopped.

The battleships are heavily bombarding Turkish positions. Over Imbros black clouds, heavy with rain, are sailing towards us. We are in for a dirty night.

We are in the middle of loading our A.T. carts when heavy spots of rain drop, and looking up, we see the sky getting blacker and blacker with storm clouds. Luckily, issuing is nearly finished. The transport of many of the battalions has moved off, when a flash of forked lightning rushes from the sky to the sea, and almost instantly a deafening crash of thunder bursts overhead. This flash is followed by another and another, and then several in different parts of the sky stab the black clouds at the same moment. The rain gently begins to hiss, the hiss getting louder and louder, developing into a noise like the sound of loudly escaping steam, until, as if the clouds have all burst together, water deluges the earth in a soaking torrent. Black night soon falls upon us, changing at short intervals momentarily into day as the forked flashes of lightning stab the earth, sky, and sea. The beach men, bending double under the downfall of water and the struggle against the wind as they walk, appear in vivid detail and disappear in the fraction of a second as the lightning plays overhead. Soon a pouring torrent of water a foot deep is raging down the gullies, turning the ravines, large and small, down the slopes of the hill into rushing cascades, washing away dugouts as if they were paper, and filling to the brim every crevice and hollow on the lower land. The new camps of trenches into which men have rushed for shelter are half filled with water, which, in less than an hour, overflows the drains on either side that we had dug to prevent such an event happening. All the weary weeks of Engineer labour lost in a short time. I go back to our new dugout and meet a sorry sight. Our cookhouse, wherein our dinner was being prepared, washed off the face of the earth. The roof and the back part of the messroom had fallen in, covering furniture with mud and debris, and flooding the floor with water 6 inches deep.

I have to go to the Corps Transport depot about some water-carts for the trenches, so, taking my torch, I cross the gully. The rain is pouring in torrents, and as I walk the rushing water from the hills washes round my feet high above my ankles. Parts of dugouts, boxes, men’s kits, etc., continually come floating down on top of the rushing stream. The thunder crashes overhead and my torch is unnecessary, for the incessant flashes of forked lightning illuminate my way. The wind beating against my face takes my breath away, and makes the climb up the high slope exhausting. I arrive at the mess dugout of the IX Corps Transport. Their dugout is intact, for it is on steeply sloping ground, but their floor is over 6 inches deep in water. They are all sitting at dinner with gum-boots on, and are a merry party. Afterwards I climb to D.H.Q., arriving breathless. Back in our dugout, the storm still raging, appearing to go round and round in circles, first dying off somewhat, then rushing back with renewed fury; it runs its wild course till about eight o’clock, when it seems to pass away over Sari Bair, leaving heavy clouds pouring their burden of rain into the flooded gullies and trenches. Towards nine the downfall slackens, and shortly after stars become visible, and the black clouds gradually roll away over the hills of Gallipoli. We have a meal of bully beef and bread, for our dinner has been washed away and no hot food is possible. The wind from the north-west still blows with great violence, and it becomes steadily colder and colder. Two of our dugouts are intact, and we turn into these and get off to sleep, wondering if the drainage system in the trenches has answered its demands.

November 27th.

We wake up to find a drizzly rain falling, blown by a strong north wind. Mud is everywhere, and the whole of the beaches a quagmire. What were once dugouts are now large puddles full of water. The system of trenches for winter quarters across the various gullies and nullahs has ceased to exist. Many of these are full to the brim with water; all have water and mud covering their floors. Twelve men taking shelter in their trench, which was roofed by corrugated iron, and which is situated in the gully in which we lived up to a week ago, have been drowned by the roof collapsing. We have orders to send up medical comforts. We send them up by A.T. carts. For the first time a convoy of A.T. carts is seen on the Gibraltar road in broad daylight.

A gale develops in the afternoon. Elphinstone and I go up to Hill 10. The road is in many parts under water, and the whole a bog of wet, tenacious clay that clings to one’s boots and almost pulls their heels off as one raises each foot. What before was a pleasant country walk is now a hard, exhausting “slow treadmill” made in a gale that one has to determinedly bend one’s back to, to make any headway at all. Last night the pack-mules had the greatest difficulty in getting the rations up, and one or two that fell into ravines were drowned. We call at the West Riding R.E., and in Major Bailey’s dugout I find the floor a foot deep in water and Major Bailey perched up on a table, his feet resting on a ledge of the dugout, endeavouring to get warm from an oil-drum fire. He appears as cheery as ever; in fact, every time I see him he is always merry and bright, evidently a habit, and a habit worth cultivating. We arrange the position of the new ration dump, though it is difficult to find cover for it. A line of bushes is the only protection we can find. We go over to the Dublin camp in the reserve trenches by Hill 10, and, of course, it is flooded, and the men in a wretched condition. We see the officer in charge about fatigues for the unloading of rations. As we come away we meet Colonel Fuller, our G.S.O.1, who asks as to the conditions of the roads on our left, and we cannot give him anything but a bad report. We continue our way past the barbed wire and second-line trenches to the 86th and 88th Brigade H.Q. Turkish artillery is dead quiet, and hardly a rifleshot is to be heard. Both Brigade H.Q. have withstood the storm well, protected as they are by the small hills on the side of which they have been constructed, the ground sloping away in front.

At the 86th Brigade we hear that our trenches on the low land have been flooded to the brim, and in some parts are now completely under water. Sentries are lying flat in the mud and water outside, behind the trenches, watching the enemy and in full view of him. There they lie, keeping guard under such conditions as have hardly been known before, sniped at now and again, and occasionally becoming casualties. The 86th, being in the lowest trenches, suffered the worst, for suddenly, as their trenches became kneedeep in water, a torrent burst into a saphead, and in a few minutes had swallowed up the first-line, the dugouts and communication trenches. Men floundered about, swarmed here and there, and clambered out on to the open. A few less fortunate were drowned. Could it ever have been imagined that men would drown in a trench? This has now happened, and their bodies lie half floating, half resting on the bottom of the trench, waiting to be dragged out when nightfall comes.

In this terribly cold northerly wind, gradually beginning to freeze, those waiting sentries, with their clothes soaking wet through, watch for the enemy, who probably is worse off than we are. As often as possible they are relieved, the relief creeping up in the broad open, chancing the sniper’s easy shot. As we talk, a man comes past, leaning on the arms of two R.A.M.C. men, who are taking him to the advanced dressing station, a little way back. His face is blue and swollen, and his teeth chattering as if with fever. We go round to the H.Q. of the 88th Brigade and ask for instructions as to what to send up in the way of food and medical comforts. In talking to General Cayley, we make the remark that we are glad that his dugout has not been washed away, but immediately feel reproved for having said this by his replying that “it is not his dugout, but the poor chaps in the trenches that he worries about, because he can do nothing for them.”

It takes us about a quarter of the time to get back, for the wind literally blows us along, and it is difficult for us to keep our feet in the sticky mud. Once I slip while negotiating the side of a deep puddle, and fall backwards into it, much to the amusement of some passing gunners. At night it steadily becomes colder and colder, and the driving, misty rain turns to snow, a northerly cold blizzard setting in. I am up late arranging about the carting of the rations and blankets to the sea of mud that was once our trenches. It is freezing cold, but we shiver the more when we think of those men lying out in the open behind our front line.

November 28th.

We wake up to find it bitterly cold and a northerly blizzard driving with great force down the Hill. A Staff officer comes into our dugout early and instructs me to get as many medical comforts as possible in the way of rum, brandy, milk, Oxo, etc., up to the line. I go down to the Main Supply depot, and there find shelters made of boxes and sailcovers built as temporary hospitals. They are full of men frostbitten in legs, arms, and faces, who lie in great distress, suffering agonies as their blood warms up and circulates to the frozen parts of their bodies. A hospital ship is standing quite close inshore off West Beach, but five hundred yards from the pier, the closest a hospital ship has moved to the beaches as yet. Hodsall, the O.C., a temporary A.S.C. Major, does all he can for me, and I collar all the comforts and fuel I can lay my hands on. There is a plentiful supply, in spite of the heavy demands of yesterday. Again, as yesterday, these are conveyed up by daylight, and yet the Turks do not shell us. We are extraordinarily free from shell fire. Our line is held very thinly, only by forward parts, relieved in daylight at frequent intervals regardless of snipers. Last night the frost was severe, and the men lying out in the mud behind the soaking trenches suffered the greatest hardship that a soldier could endure—namely to lie out in the soaking clothes, which freeze stiff in a biting wind, while the temperature rapidly falls to below zero.

The enemy is more inactive than he has ever been, showing that he has suffered as badly as we have, if not worse. In front of the 86th Brigade the Turks hold slightly higher ground than we do, and I think that they must have opened one or two of their sapheads when their trenches were flooded, thus allowing the water to rush over to our side, engulfing all our first-line dugouts and communication trenches. The gale blowing from the north-east to-day is the fiercest that I have known, for, as well as being biting cold, it drives stinging sleet before it with terrific force. As I talk to an officer on the hill of IX Corps Gully, outside my dugout, I have to stand with my legs wide apart, bending my body against the wind to prevent myself from being blown backwards on the frozen ground. Many Turkish prisoners have come in, in as bad a state of collapse as our men. Last night a party of forty came over unmolested as far as the gully behind our support trenches. Seeing some of our men crowding around a coke brazier endeavouring to get warm, they walked up to them with hands up, but were “shoo’d” away like a lot of sheep by our half-frozen Tommies, who advised them to “get to Hell out of it.” Pondering, they walked over towards the Salt Lake and were taken in by the casualty clearing station on “B” Beach. This morning a few have died. Officers in the line, if they were not on watch, were huddled together all night endeavouring to get warmth from each other’s bodies. Ration carts were unable to get to many parts of the line owing to the mud and water in places being over the axles of the wheels. Quantities of rum and rations were lost in the mud. Telephone communication broke down, and many men, cut off from the rest and having to watch the enemy, froze and died at their posts.

To-day, walking cases are streaming and staggering down the roads from the trenches to advanced dressing stations, from advanced dressing stations to the casualty clearing station, which is rapidly becoming overcrowded. Such an influx of cases has come in so unexpectedly, that the staff is unable to deal with them quickly. Frozen and frostbitten men continually stagger in, collapse on the damp floors of the tents and marquees, exhausted, to wait their turn for medical attention. The sea is rough, and it is impossible to get the cases off to the hospital ship. One lighter has been swamped and a few cases drowned. Motor-lorries are busy plying between the casualty clearing station and West Beach all day, for the casualty clearing station is crowded out. More improvised shelters have been put up in the Main Supply depot, in the Ordnance marquees, and in dugouts on the beaches. Three exhausted men staggering down the Gibraltar road to the advanced dressing station are a unique party. Linking arms, they painfully stumble along to the refuge of a dressing station, where, on arrival, they are received with surprise and interest, for two are British Tommies and the third a Turk, all allies against a common enemy.

7 p.m.

Colonel Pearson, O.C. Lancashire Fusiliers, of Lancashire Landing fame, visits us in an exhausted state, his clothes damp and sodden. We provide him with an outfit of dry clothes, gathered from our respective kits. He talks about going back to his regiment to-night, which is sheltering in the C.R.E. nullah, by our forward ration dump, but I think soon he will collapse altogether and have to be evacuated. He was all last night holding a portion of our flooded, sodden and freezing line. At night Horne and I go on to cart some of the rations from the C.R.E. dump to Hill 10 by A.T. carts. On arrival at the camp of the Royal Dublin Fusiliers, we find a poor shivering fatigue party waiting for us. I had expected to find these men in a miserable condition, for their camp has suffered heavily in the storm, and even the best built dugouts have been washed entirely away. We have brought with us whisky-bottles filled with rum and water. As the last cart is unloaded, we hand the bottles to the sergeant, who calls the men up one at a time. They come forward eagerly as each name is called, “Private Murphy! Private O’Brien!” etc., and drink a tot from the bottle handed to them.

It is amusing to watch them standing waiting their turn, with keen anticipation, for a pull at the bottle under the superintendence of their watchful sergeant, who regulates fair play in the length of the drink by interrupting an extra long one by snatching the bottle from the man’s mouth, now and again. As we go away, several of the men shout, “The blessings of Jasus be on you, sir!” in a Dublin brogue, and we leave the poor devils to shiver in the camp the rest of the night. We are delayed in our return by a chase after two mules, which we capture after much difficulty amongst gorse-bushes, trees, and boulders. Calling in at the Australians’ dugout on Kangaroo Beach, we see them sitting round a welcome log fire, and as we warm ourselves, a figure covered in a blanket, his head swathed in a cloth, creeps in stealthily like a cat. He is a half-frozen Drabi, edging towards the fire to warm himself. An Australian makes him understand that he had better go back to his camp, and orders him out. He creeps out, but after a pause I see him come back stealthily once more, unnoticed by the others, and sit at the back of the stove on his haunches, his hands spread out for warmth. He is at last noticed, but some one says, “Let the poor devil be!” and we go on talking, taking no notice of him.

November 29th.

The gale is still heavy, but the blizzard has stopped. The sky is clear overhead, but it is freezing hard, and the steady stream of casualties from the storm still continues to be evacuated. The whole country-side has frozen hard. All day we are hard at work sending up comforts to the line and to the C.R.E. nullah, and nursing the casualties who have arrived in our little camp. The wind is slackening a little, and in consequence the sea is going down. Advantage is therefore being taken of this to thin down the overcrowded casualty clearing station and the many improvised shelters, which are overflowing with cases. The hospital ship is standing close inshore, only five hundred yards off West Beach. My visits to D.H.Q. on the top of the hill above our gully are made to-day with great exertion in the teeth of the bitterly cold gale, and I arrive at the top each time absolutely exhausted. Before I go into the D.A.Q.M.G.’s little dugout, which is his office and bedroom combined, I have to sit down on a boulder to recover my breath.

Horne and I go up with the A.T. carts to take more of the forward reserve rations from the C.R.E. nullah over to the left of Hill 10, for two forward dumps have to be made of equal numbers of rations, and the one we have now is therefore being halved. Hill 10 is a position of which several of our batteries have taken advantage, and in consequence is a favourite target of the Turkish gunners. One veritably walks on a surface of shrapnel bullets around this hill, lying like pebbles on the shore. On arrival at the nullah we find that all the Supply boxes, with their tarpaulin covers, have been built up to form a large improvised dressing station. They are full of cases of frostbite and exhaustion. From all around comes the sound of men groaning. And so the carting of rations to Hill 10 is off to-night. As I walk back, I hear a groaning voice calling “Mother, mother!” and peering through the darkness of the night, I see the form of a man lying under a gorse-bush. Poor devil! His mother, to whom he calls, is probably knitting him socks at home. We carry him along to the 89th Field Ambulance Dressing Station, just to the right of the nullah, having to negotiate a muddy brook on the way. We walk back fast, to get up a circulation, and find on arrival that a nice fire has been kept up. The roads are hardening with the frost. This will aid the solution of the transport difficulties, which have been almost insuperable during these awful last few days, for the wind has been so strong as to almost prevent the use of the light motor-ambulance, and horse transport is restricted, owing, I find, to animals having already been evacuated just before the storm.

November 30th.

We awake to find the gale has died away. It is a cool, beautiful day, with not a cloud in the sky. In fact, the sun is beaming warm. It is hard to believe that we have just passed through a terrible blizzard. The beach is crowded with cases of frostbite waiting for evacuation, which is rapidly going on now. Men lie about everywhere on the beaches, with their limbs swathed in bundles of bandages. Many cases are serious, and not a few will lose their limbs. The Main Supply depot is now a large hospital of shelters built of boxes and sailcovers. All over the beaches men are hunting about for lost property buried in the mud. Dugouts and trenches are being drained of the remaining water. The beaches are gradually becoming themselves again. The Division has suffered heavily.

On the inspection of the Royal Fusiliers to-day, one company, on being called to attention, proved to be a company consisting of Captain Gee, a sergeant-major, and a private. Captain Gee shouted, “Sergeant-major, call the company to attention.” The sergeant-major then shouted, “‘W’ Company, ’shun!” and the one man left, who was the company cook, sprang to attention.

Gee, forty-five years of age, and who at the best of times could not be called robust-looking, stuck this storm through at his post in the trenches, which are situated on the lowest ground—trenches which in consequence suffered the worst of all—until he was relieved.

He told me after that on coming back on relief he came to a small nullah, and that he was so weak and finished that he actually cried like a child before he could summon up the will-power to get across that little brook, which at ordinary times he would have cleared at a leap.

Later.

The evacuation of Suvla, which was decided on before the storm and then cancelled, I believe has now been finally decided on. Parties are now hard at work at night improving the second line, which stretches behind our first line on the same latitude as our C.R.E. dump, across the Gibraltar road and over to Hill 10. A third line is being dug just a short way in on the mainland from “W” Beach, and over the hill of the promontory a fourth line also. Our dugout is now being rapidly repaired, and the dugouts behind on the higher ground, one story higher, are now finished. All the dugouts are built together as a whole, really forming a picturesque house. On the ground floor, up a short path bordered by little gorse-bushes and a rockery, one enters our messroom, furnished with a table, arm-chairs, and a stove made from an oil-drum. Two smaller rooms lead out from the left, and two from the right. One is the clerk’s office, in which he sleeps, and the other three are each occupied by Horne, Elphinstone, and myself.

Next to our dugouts, on the same level, are the dugouts of the Q.M.’s of a few regiments, which are built on the same scale as ours, but separated by a flight of about a dozen steps running up in a bend to a row of smaller dugouts, which house the N.C.O.’s of our Supply Section, a few quartermaster-sergeants, regimental N.C.O.’s, and the two Brigade postal staffs. Opposite, in the gully, as the trenches that we had made are now damaged beyond repair by the recent storm, the remainder of the men live in shelters made from sailcovers and tarpaulins, with shrapnel-proof roofs, built in places where boulders and mounds of earth protect them from high explosive shells. Behind us is an Egyptian encampment, situated in full view of the Turks among rocks and boulders. But as they sleep most of the day, working only at night digging on the beaches, they cause very little movement to be seen by the enemy, and in consequence have been very little shelled. If a shell does come near them, however, they make no bones about running as far away as possible, chattering like a lot of chickens.

All day cases of frozen men, now happily diminishing in number, are being shipped off. It was the most terrible storm I have ever witnessed.