May 6.—Heavy cannonade, but lighter rifle fire. Lots of bombs. Fellows getting quite deaf. Was down at beach to-day. Navy men very busy landing stores, etc. Officers (Navy) very fine fellows, and both they and their men swear by our chaps. No side or laddy-da about the officers. One—a lieutenant—informed me that our fellows were born fighters: "But you want to give them plenty to do," he went on; "for when they're not fighting they're looking for trouble." Afterwards I overheard him describing the landing to a newcomer. "They're not soldiers," he finished up, "—— they're not men! They're just wild devils let loose from hell! The instant the boats grounded over they went, head first, came up with fixed bayonets, and rushed those machine-guns like runaway steam-engines! It was the most reckless, grandest slap-dash charge that I or any other man ever witnessed. Oh, they're beauties to scrap! And their vocabulary would raise your hair!"
May 7.—Weather still beautiful. Position just the same. Fire from all arms still going on. Enemy sapping in line with us. More of my section laid out; only a few left. Being reinforced by volunteers from our mounted crowd—drivers, etc.
May 8.—Heavy fire all night. Fancy considerable waste of ammunition. Rather quiet day. Some artillery fire from enemy trying to locate our guns, which are well hidden. Mail supposed to come in to-morrow. Hope so, as many letters are due. Posted a letter myself to-day—in a haversack hanging to a bush. Hope it goes all right. Rum to-night. Very welcome, but short ration. I wonder why?
May 9.—Very quiet night, with occasional bursts of rifle fire. Enemy tried hard with his guns for one of our batteries this morning, but failed to get it. Notice posted that British warships have forced the Narrows and are in the Sea of Marmora. This should hasten the end. Hope so, as we are all fed up with sticking to the trenches here. Rumoured that the Russians are in the Bosphorus: don't believe it. Heavy, distant cannonade last two days and nights. Fleet, I suppose. As I write hardly a shot being fired. Arm still queer. Got a short rifle to-day in place of the old long one I selected. (Prefer long rifle for good shooting, sniping, etc., but short one better for the trenches.) There is a history attached to the one I have now. It was picked up just outside a new sap by one of our chaps, and when found the bayonet was fixed and a single shot had been fired, the cartridge case still remaining in the breech. A dead Australian was lying beside it.
Memorable event: had a shave to-day, the first since leaving the transport. The razor was a borrowed one; my beard was like a mop. Both suffered.
Was detailed as one of party sent to supervise infantry digging trenches. Went out at 8 p.m. and came off at midnight. Did nothing but lie about and get miserably cold, as I had no greatcoat with me. Infantry made another attack on position they captured last Sunday and retired from. Carried it again—and again retired, owing, it is said, to lack of reinforcements at the critical moment. Truth is, it is almost impossible to bring up reserves quickly enough owing to the nature of the country. Hard lines, all the same, considering what it costs to capture these entrenched positions.
May 10.—Fairly quiet. Artillery still throwing shrapnel over our camp and right down to beach. Did another four hours to-day—from 8 a.m. till 12 noon. To go out at 8 p.m. again. Tobacco and cigarettes issued to-day, the latter in bad condition—very mouldy. Went out from 8 till 12 midnight to fix a pump and deepen a well. Had no tools, it was pitch dark, dare not light even a match, so did nothing but lie around and growl. Mail in.
May 11.—Heavy rifle fire all night. Was out from 8 a.m. till noon bossing up Royal Marines at trench-digging. Quiet morning, but heavy rifle and artillery fire in the afternoon. Yesterday, I was told, shrapnel pitched all round me in camp, tearing up the ground and smashing a rifle close to my head. I took no notice of it. I was asleep. Nice safe camps we have in these parts! The 29th Division (Irish) reported to be only two miles from our right flank to-day. Report confirmed later. Good news; something ought to be doing soon. Heavy naval firing going on in the distance. Heard that 4·7" naval guns had been placed in position on "Pope's Hill", to our left. Wish they could lay out the Turkish guns—especially "Asiatic Annie"—that keep warming us up in our dug-outs; we are getting tired of the beggars. Heard that the Lusitania had been submarined near the Irish coast. Poor devils!—it's a one-eyed kind of death to be drowned like rats in a trap. I'd a dashed sight rather be shot any day. "Commandeered" a can of butter, some cheese, jam, and potatoes, so have lived high to-day. "Virtue rewarded"—the stuff just smiled at me as I was passing the commissariat. I couldn't resist its blandishments. Anyway, the Quartermaster is always complaining about the "non-keeping" qualities of his provisions. And, when all's said and done, it's simply a raiding of the Philistines. How does the water get into our rum? Some rain to-day, cloudy, overcast skies, and not at all warm.
May 12.—Rum—and not watered! Rained all night; place a quagmire this morning. Got hold of some sacks and managed to sleep more or less dry. Have neither waterproof sheet nor blankets. Heard that all our blankets left behind on ship had been taken for wounded. If that is where they have gone we don't mind; sick men need them more than we do. Rather quiet night; expect both sides too wet and miserable to worry about killing each other. Didn't go out last night; thought I might as well stay in and nurse my shoulder, which is doing real good. First night in for longish spell. Went out this morning and bossed up a lot of marines at trench-digging. It rained all the time and the ground was as sticky as fish-glue. Climbing up to "Quinn's Post" in this kind of weather is like the Johnnie in Pilgrim's Progress who found his swag growing bigger and heavier the farther he went. You can hardly lift your feet owing to the amount of Turkey sticking to them, and for every two yards you advance you slide back more than one. And coming down is just as bad, although a deal speedier. You start off gingerly, sit down suddenly—squelch!—and when your wind comes back you find yourself at the foot of the hill with a sniper biffing away at you and enjoying the joke. It's quite funny—to read about.
My clothing is getting sadly in need of repair. Nothing to repair it with, however. Enemy's shells passing barely twenty feet above my dug-out—a bit too close for comfort. Thinking of shifting my camp. To-day the cap from one of our own shells passed clean through a man in a dug-out just above my own, and injured another. Our gunners do things like that of a time: perhaps they imagine we need a little more excitement—or have a perverted sense of humour. Heavy distant firing: the fleet at it again, I suppose.