The 42nd (East Lancashire) Division 1914-1918

by Frederick P. Gibbon

Rumour had had little rest since August, 1914, yet she remained very vigorous and active. She had been particularly busy in Helles since the evacuation of the northern landings. To obtain ready credence, the rumour-monger must support his theory with convincing circumstantial evidence, as, for example, that he had been told by a friend, whose platoon-sergeant’s brother was a batman at Divisional Headquarters, that there had been a terrible increase in the slaughter of the staff chickens. The 8th Army Corps Special Order of the Day, issued on December 20, reassured those who regarded evacuation as an admission of defeat, and, it must be confessed, disappointed those who felt that the object of the landings on Gallipoli had already been defeated and that they could therefore serve a more useful purpose elsewhere. The Order indicated that there was no intention to abandon Helles. Confirmation of a resolve to retain a hold on the peninsula appeared in the shape of the arrival off Helles of transports carrying fresh troops, the 13th and the veteran 29th Divisions; and now Rumour whispered of still another attempt to march across Achi Baba. But on December 27 and 28 innumerable fatigue parties were detailed to collect all stores and baggage at dumps for transport to the beaches, as the 42nd Division was to be relieved at once by the 13th Division under Major-General Stanley Maude. With much labour the baggage was taken to “V” Beach, only to be ordered to “W” Beach.

At 5 p.m. on the 29th the remnants that were left of the once proud battalions of East Lancashire Territorials moved off on their last march in Gallipoli—a sorry procession. The distance to “V” Beach from which most of the men embarked was about five miles, much of it through deep mud, and it was sheer grit that pulled them through, for their frames were wasted and enfeebled through sickness, exposure and unceasing strain; their feet, sodden through weeks of standing in muddy and water-logged trenches, were tender and painful; they were, it is true, quitting the scene of much misery and suffering, but they were not leaving as victors. Though they had done and endured all that was possible their object remained unachieved, and they were depressed by the sense of failure. Not unreasonably they felt that the Territorials had been neglected by the authorities at home—that had drafts been supplied in full measure from their second line they might have won through. At the date of the first landing, again on June 4, and again in August when the ambitious advance was made from Anzac and Suvla, victory had been in sight, and the lack of reserves had robbed the Dardanelles army of the triumph for which they had paid so heavy a price.

On arrival at the crowded beach they awaited their turn to board the “beetles.” The French had a number of haystacks on the shore, and had posted a sentry to give warning of the coming of the shells by blowing a horn the instant that he saw the flash from an “Asiatic Annie” across the Straits. The bursting of the shell had been timed to follow the flash by twenty-three seconds, so the sounding of the horn was the signal for a rush to the haystacks or other available cover. These were seconds of extreme tension until the crash came and men realized that they at any rate had respite for a time; though in the dark it was impossible to know what damage had been done elsewhere. Piers were struck and great gaps made as parties were about to cross. Throughout the long night the embarkation proceeded, most of the men crossing the hulk of the River Clyde.[6] The wind was rising, and the transfer from the lighters to the larger transports was made dangerous by the roll of both vessels, and much argument ensued between the Royal Navy and the Mercantile Marine. In due course it was accomplished and, as the dawn showed pink in the east, the convoy steamed away towards Mudros. Eight months ago nearly 14,000 Lancashire Territorials had disembarked on the inhospitable shores which were now receding. The Division that left Gallipoli barely numbered 5000, though every battalion and unit had received drafts from the second and third lines in England, or from Egypt, and thousands of casualties had rejoined from hospital. Few of the 14,000 who had landed in May with such high hopes and in such good spirits, took part in the last melancholy parade to the beaches, or sailed on this December day to Mudros, but those few thought of what might have been, and of the great-hearted comrades and brothers-in-arms whom they had left behind. Many now lay in the cemetery above Lancashire Landing, a glorious resting-place from which, when alive, they had looked out upon the intense blue of the Ægean Sea, with the peaks of Imbros and Samothrace to the west, to the south and east the coast of Asia Minor and the straits, and direful Achi Baba to the north; others had been buried where they fell. Soon the lovely blossoms of the rock-rose and the gorgeous poppy would be covering their graves.

Perhaps to none of the survivors would these memories be more poignant than to two of the padres, the Rev. E. T. Kerby, M.C.,[7] and the Rev. F. W. Welbon, M.C., who had been untiring and absolutely fearless in giving comfort to the dying, in performing the last rites under fire, and in sharing the dangers and privations of the men in the front line.

The Divisional Artillery remained behind, and also a small detachment of Engineers and the 1st and 3rd Field Ambulances, all attached for duty to the 13th Division. The more modern guns must first be saved, and as each battery was withdrawn a battery of the old 15-pounders of the 42nd Division was substituted, so there was no cessation of fire during the day. For several nights no artillery fire was permitted between 9 p.m. and 2 a.m., in order to accustom the Turk to quiet nights with little or no firing. When the final evacuation took place three of the old guns were taken away successfully and the remainder destroyed. Some of the gunners and the greater part of the R.A.M.C. left a few days before the curtain fell on the final scene of the great tragedy of Gallipoli. The last men of the 42nd Division—and among the very last of the allied forces—to leave the peninsula were detachments of artillery and R.A.M.C. and a small party of Engineers.

On the 7th of January the last fight was fought on Gallipoli. After seven hours’ heavy bombardment the Turks attacked, but they found the front line more heavily manned than it had been for months past, and the attack failed. Probably they were surprised by the vigour of their repulse, as they must have been convinced by now that the Helles force was in process of evacuation. It is likely that the strong opposition encountered led the Turk to believe that the British departure was less imminent than he had hoped, and that he would have to wait a little longer before he could catch his enemy on the run. If his suspicions were lulled in this way it was fortunate that he chose for his attack the day immediately preceding the final evacuation. Heavy casualties were inflicted on both sides, and the East Lancs R.A.M.C. men were hard at work without a pause from 5.30 p.m. to 3.30 a.m. on the 8th. Their good work in attending to the wounded of the 13th Division brought them the personal thanks of General Maude, who also sent a letter of appreciation to the Divisional Commander. Lieutenant R. Hartley, R.F.A., distinguished himself and upheld the Division’s reputation, by putting out a fire, which had started in a wagon full of ammunition, at great personal risk.

LANCASHIRE LANDING SHORTLY BEFORE THE EVACUATION.

About noon on January 8 orders were received to destroy everything that could be of use to the enemy, and an orgy of destruction began. Huge dumps were made, or added to, the largest of these being at “W” and “V” Beaches. Hundreds of cases of bully beef, condensed milk, biscuits, and other rations, ammunition that could not be taken away, limbers, wheels, and anything else that would burn, were piled up, and the mass soaked in paraffin. Many horses and mules had to be shot, to the bitter grief of their drivers.

Preparations were made for the firing of the dumps at daybreak on the 9th, some hours after the hour fixed for the embarkation of the last batch of troops. As in the case of so many of the “innovations” of the Great War—steel helmets, breastplates, catapults, darts, hand-grenades, for instance—a time-honoured device was resorted to. Candles were left burning in tins, their rate of burning having been carefully timed, so that when the flame should reach a certain point it would ignite a train of oil and waste, which led to a mass of combustible material placed around and among the wooden cases. By means of a similar artifice fixed rifles in the firing-line continued to pop off at irregular intervals in order to delude the Turk into the belief that the trenches were still occupied.