May 17th.—Three different spells of Black Marias to-day. One killed three men and wounded nine. We have several others wounded and a number of horses and mules killed. Altogether not a very pleasant day.
In the afternoon Thomson and I went to Sedd-el-Bahr and photographed the "River Clyde," Major Frankland's grave, the whole of V. Beach, etc., and brought back shell cases of the French 75's and 65's. Before this, while helping Pirie to build his dugout, Kellas shouted to me to look up, and I beheld what I at first took to be a huge flock of enemy aeroplanes, and expected a shower of bombs, but they turned out to be cranes—fifty-five of them in solid formation. They were an interesting and beautiful sight. They hovered over us for a considerable time, and two of our men stupidly fired several shots at them which got us into trouble with the powers that be. They had never taken into consideration the danger from dropping bullets where there was such a congestion of humanity.
The day has been fiery hot as usual, with the usual glorious sunset behind the mountains of Imbros. Yesterday Stephen and I studied the Plain of Troy, the monument of Ajax, and the town of Troy itself—the old and the new—all of which are visible from the rising ground behind Sedd-el-Bahr.
May 18th.—Black Marias paid their visit earlier than usual, three bidding us good morning at 6 o'clock. All got into our clothes at once, so that now at 7 p.m. we have had a long day. Curiously these "coal boxes" have not been seen since, and they never trouble us after this time of night.
About an hour ago I was watching one of our ships shelling a gully I once visited on a memorable night, and got into a shallow trench and watched from there. I was out in the middle of the valley where I could easily be seen from Achi Baba and a shell came singing straight at me. All the time shells had been passing high over my head but my ear at once detected the change of flight and that a low one was certainly coming my way. I had just time to throw myself flat in the trench, which was about eighteen inches deep when the shell burst in a straight line for me. I raised myself intending to bolt when I heard the song of another at its heels. I again fell flat, but as soon as it burst still nearer than the last I sprang and was just on my feet when a third burst three or four yards to my right. The concussion and shower of earth and stones sent me flying, and I peeled the palms of both hands and sprained my right wrist. Then I made a sprint for my funk hole at record speed, arriving quite out of breath after covering about three-quarters of a mile. I felt that turning a big gun on a solitary individual was not playing the game. I was wearing a waterproof cover to my cap which had got bleached almost white, and I may have been taken for some "big pot," as I sat on the edge of the trench with this unusual head dress, peering through my glasses.
May 19th.—Am feeling very tired, the result of my bad tumble, and my wrist feels stiff and tender. No doubt my behaviour made the Turk think I was a superior officer and worth a shell or two. With my glasses I had examined very carefully the whole length of the lines, then stepped into a half-filled-in trench and sat on the edge for some time, watching operations at the gully I have mentioned. The second shell was so near that I felt certain the third would have me. A fourth shell followed and burst, but by this time I had picked myself up and was at full gallop, and paid no heed to its whereabouts. The whole four were fired in five or six seconds. (I got the fright of my life; I felt that they were determined to have me, but the fright was entirely due to the fact that I was alone. Never before or afterwards did shells, however near, cause me the slightest discomfort.)
A camp story has it that a mule had to be shot the other day because its cry was so confoundedly like the sound of an approaching shell and caused needless alarm. This is presumably only a story, but it is extraordinary how often one fancies one hears the song of a shell. One day just before tea we were treated to a Jack Johnson, and during our meal in the tent those of us who had not made off to our funk holes ducked at every sound under the table, or behind a biscuit tin or any other flimsy object utterly useless to give cover. Each time we raised our heads we had a good laugh at our stupidity.
Those in the firing line are pitying us at the base to which nearly all the shells are directed. Padre Hardie (afterwards V.C., D.S.O., M.C.) told me he had a major to tea the other day when the Jack Johnsons started, and he bolted in the middle of tea, saying he could not stand the life here, and made off to the firing line which he thought much safer.
I asked a man to-day if he kept a diary. "No," he said, "there's naething to say, I dee naething bit sleep, jink shells, and rin to the Beach." It is amusing to see the "Beach Subdivision" move off when the shells start, all pretending they are off for a quiet stroll, and saunter away with their hands in their pockets.
May 20th.—Still in reserve and absolutely idle. I was up early, being requested by an officer of the 88th Field Ambulance to view his tent which one of our water-carts had backed into and upset a number of boxes of breakables, which he was terrified to look into, especially one which contained several bottles of whisky. This gave me a long day, and as a heavy cannonade was in progress it gave me an opportunity of watching it. We have had no heavy shells at W. Beach (now known as Lancashire Landing in honour of the brilliant work by that battalion on April 25) so far, but we must not brag, they may give us a visit to-day yet. Shrapnel we have had—but we do not care twopence for shrapnel.