May 24.—Just finishing breakfast when rain started. The worst of it is that even a slight fall turns this country into a kind of clay bog, owing to the top soil clogging on one's boots and then slipping over the subsoil. It is like climbing a greased egg to scale the hills—and our position here is on top of a high ridge running round a deep gully. Coming down one generally does a joy slide on one's hindquarters. Have been ordered to stand by, pending a rumoured armistice supposed to take place at 7.30 a.m. Heard that Italy has come in on Allies' side: this time it seems to be credited. Hope it is true.
Later.—Armistice did take place, lasting till 4.30 p.m., for the purpose of burying the dead—or "planting stiffs," to give the occupation its local name. It was about time this was done. I never saw so many bodies crowded into the same space before; there were literally thousands of them. And the condition they were in! I dare not describe the sights I saw. We scraped out shallow holes, edged the things gingerly in and covered them up as quickly as possible. It paid to smoke hard all the time. I picked up a German officer's sword (broken off at the hilt), a Turkish ditto, and dozens of other war curios. I noticed a magnificent diamond ring on a Turkish officer's finger, but he was in such a state of putrefaction that I allowed him to retain it. One cannot be too careful when working with decomposed bodies; if a cut finger happens to get into contact with putrid human flesh you'll know all about it. We mixed together, the enemy "undertakers" and our own. Some of the Turkish officers handed us cigarettes and spoke in fluent English. They were a fine, jolly-looking lot of fellows dressed in swagger uniforms. The Germans, however, stood at a distance and scowled. Our fellows returned their scowls with interest. They also favoured them with a salute (understood of all men) in which the thumb and fingers of one hand act in conjunction with the nose. The Huns didn't seem to appreciate the honour. A quiet night followed.
May 25.—Working at same job as before—loopholing trenches and generally strengthening position at "Quinn's Post." It wouldn't be difficult to get laid out at this game, for there is an almost continuous cross-fire playing a few inches above your head, and as fast as you stick up sandbags the machine-guns cut them into shreds.
Saw the Triumph torpedoed. She had been acting the part of dry nurse to our crowd off Anzac Cove, and it was like a death in the family when she went to the bottom. I was sitting in my dug-out at the time it happened, eating the mid-day meal, and had a first-class view of the whole thing at a distance of about two and a half miles. From the height of our camp above sea-level we could even see the submarine, like a shadowy fish, below the water. She was reported to have been struck by two torpedoes; I saw only one, however—or its wake, rather. The projectile seemed to hit the warship right amidships, going through her nets as if they were made of paper. A tremendous cloud of dense brown smoke mixed with steam sprang aloft like a geyser, and the big ship listed over at once in the direction from which the torpedo had come. At the same time she seemed to settle down in the water with a jump. The submarine couldn't have been more than 200 yards away when she launched the torpedo, which appeared to cut the water at a great bat. A destroyer was cruising about close handy, and she at once backed in against the battleship, the crew jumping and tumbling on board like rats. Meantime she (the destroyer) opened fire every time the submarine shoved her periscope above the surface. One shot was fired at a distance of only about fifty yards. The sea was soon alive with all kinds of small craft hastening to the work of rescue. In ten minutes the Triumph turned completely over, showing her bottom for all the world like a big whale, finally disappearing in about twenty minutes from the time of the explosion. She didn't dive—just slowly subsided. Many of the crew jumped overboard; through glasses we could see them struggling in the water. Almost immediately a whole flotilla of torpedo boats and destroyers seemed to spring from nowhere, and started to hunt down the submarine. As I write they are steaming round and round in a big circle, an aeroplane hovering overhead and evidently directing operations; at the same time the enemy is pumping shrapnel into the bay from long range for all he is worth, evidently in the hope of bagging those engaged in the work of rescue. I have since seen it stated in the papers that the enemy's artillery was directed against the destroyers, and that the drowning men and those assisting them had to take their chance. Then why in the name of common sense did he use shrapnel? The contention is absurd. The Turks on the whole were clean fighters, but when the poor old Triumph went down they put a dirty blot on their record. I hope never to see another ship torpedoed; it was one of the saddest sights I ever witnessed.
Later.—Reported that the submarine was bagged after a long chase. Heavy rain this afternoon, and the whole place a bog. Hot sun afterwards which turned the bog into a glue deposit. Things fairly quiet, as they have been for the last two or three days. Enemy doesn't seem to like our bombs thrown from trench mortars. They are a Japanese invention, and when they pitch into the Turkish trenches they fairly raise hell—and human remains! Heard that over 400 were lost in the Triumph: hope it isn't true. Finding enemy was mining towards our trenches we put in a counter mine. Enemy exploded his—and ours at the same time. W-o-o-o-o-uf! she went. So did the writer—bringing up waist deep in a heap of soft sticky clay, hard jam tins, and discarded accoutrements at the foot of the ridge. Felt a bit "rocky" after being dug out. Left ear gone. Head queer. Hope it will come all right again. Had another issue of fresh beef this evening, the second, I fancy, since we landed. Cooked it on my own home-made grill and found it kapai. More rain.
Still Later.—Heard that losses on Triumph were very slight: about twenty or thirty. Rain cleared off and ground now drying fast. Fairly quiet night, except for some bombing. You get queer things in bombs sometimes, especially Turkish bombs. For instance: I was working in one of the advanced saps. There was a good deal of bombing going on a bit to my right. In the traverse next to where I was sapping a captured Turkish gramophone was being made to work overtime in The Turkish Patrol, for the edification of an Australian audience. Presently—Bang! It was a bomb, thrown slap into the concert party. The music ceased. Followed the customary volley of blasphemy in back-blocks Australian. Then, to my surprise, a roar of laughter echoed round the traverse. Naturally I waltzed along to see what had happened—and found a very profane Australian seated in the bottom of the trench nursing his wounds. He looked for all the world as if he had been scrapping with a whole colony of porcupines, and was bleeding from a score or two of wounds.
"It's needles from the bomb," laughed one of his mates, in answer to my astonished look. "The poor devil's that full up of gramophone needles, if we only had a something record we could play a something tune on him!"
But we weren't a bit slow at faking up bombs ourselves. I have known rusty nails, bits of shells, flints, cartridge cases, fragments of broken periscopes—anything, in fact, that came along shoved into a home-made jam-tin bomb. Once some of the chaps heaved over a 7-lb. jam-can filled with ham and bacon bones. You ought to have heard the jamboree in the Turkish trench when the unclean animal's mortal remains blew round their ears! They didn't half like being shot by pig. On another occasion some Australians informed me that they wanted "a hell of a knock-out bomb," as they had located a Turkish listening post close up to our front line trenches. I manufactured one of the "hair-brush" variety, using two 15-oz. slabs of guncotton, and packing round the explosive about three pounds of assorted projectiles; the whole thing I wrapped up in a whole sandbag and wound it round and round with barbed wire. When completed it looked a pretty little toy about the size of a respectable ham. I own I had some misgivings about being able to throw it the required length. However, the distance was only a matter of a few yards, and I got it fair into the desired spot. When she went off bang there wasn't much of that listening post left, while as for the Turks who manned it—well, I guess they're going still!
"Quinn's Post" was always a rotten shop for bombs. At first the Turks had things pretty much their own way in that line. Time after time they cleared our front trenches by bomb-throwing, and then rushed the position; and I can tell you it called for some hard hand-to-hand fighting on our part to get them out again. But we always did it; good soldiers as they are they couldn't live in the same township with our chaps when cold steel was the order of the day. There isn't much fun left in life once you've had eighteen inches of rusty bayonet shoved through your gizzard. The Turks don't fear death; if killed in action they believe they go straight to Paradise and have a high old time with the girls. But you can't blame a man if he wished to have a little more practice on earth—nor for being a bit particular about the manner in which he started on the long trail. I reckon that's how it was with them. I don't blame them, either; it's a sloppy kind of death, the bayonet one.
After a time we got top-dog in the bombing line. Our system was a simple one: for every bomb the enemy threw into us we gave him at least two in return. He didn't like it a little bit. At first we used to throw the bombs back again as fast as they came in, the fuses being timed a bit too long; afterwards, however, that game didn't pay, quite a lot of poor chaps getting laid out through the things exploding in their hands. Dropping a sandbag or an overcoat on them took most of the sting out of the beggars, and it wasn't long till every third man's greatcoat looked as if it had been in a railway accident—or a cyclone.