Colonel Sir Mark Sykes was my next visitor. He is fulfilling the promise of his 'teens when he was the shining light of the Militia; was as keen a Galloper as I have had on a list which includes Winston and F.E., and, generally, gained much glory, martial, equestrian, histrionic, terpsichorean at our Militia Training Camp on Salisbury Plain in '99. Now he has mysteriously made himself (heaven knows how) into our premier authority on the Middle East and is travelling on some ultra-mysterious mission, very likely, en passant, as a critic of our doings: never mind, he is thrice welcome as a large-hearted and generous person.
Dined with de Robeck on board the Triad. He is most hospitable and kind. I have not here the wherewithal to give back cutlet for cutlet, worse luck.
26th June, 1915. Worked till past 11 o'clock, then started for Anzac with Braithwaite per destroyer Pincher (Lieutenant-Commander Wyld). After going a short way was shifted to the Mosquito (Lieutenant-Commander Clarke). We had biscuits in our pockets, but the hospitable Navy stood us lunch.
When the Turks saw a destroyer come bustling up at an unusual hour they said to themselves, "fee faw fum!" and began to raise pillars of water here and there over the surface of the cove. As we got within a few yards of the pier a shell hit it, knocking off some splinters. I jumped on to it—had to—then jumped off it nippier still and, turning to the right, began to walk towards Birdie's dugout. As I did so a big fellow pitched plunk into the soft shingle between land and water about five or six yards behind me and five or six yards in front of Freddie. The slush fairly smothered or blanketed the shell but I was wetted through and was stung up properly with small gravel. The hardened devils of Anzacs, who had taken cover betwixt the shell-proofs built of piles of stores, roared with laughter. Very funny—to look at!
As the old Turks kept plugging it in fairly hot, I sat quiet in Birdwood's dugout for a quarter of an hour. Then they calmed down and we went the rounds of the right trenches. In those held by the Light Horse Brigade under Colonel G. de L. Ryrie, encountered Lieutenant Elliot, last seen a year ago at Duntroon.
Next, met Colonel Sinclair Maclagan commanding 3rd (Australian) Infantry Brigade. After that saw the lines of Colonel Smith's Brigade, where Major Browne, R.A., showed me a fearful sort of bomb he had just patented.
At last, rather tired by my long day, made my way back, stopping at Birdie's dugout en route. Boarded the Mosquito; sailed for and reached camp without further adventure. General Douglas of the East Lancs Division is here. He has dined and is staying the night. A melancholy man before whose eyes stands constantly the tragic melting away without replacement of the most beautiful of the Divisions of Northern England.
27th June, 1915. Imbros. Blazing hot; wound up my mail letters; fought files, flies and irritability; tackled a lot of stuff from Q.M.G. and A.G.; won a clear table by tea time. In the evening hung about waiting for de Robeck who had signalled over to say he wanted to talk business. At the last he couldn't come.
The sequel to the letter telling me I'd have to cut the names of battalions out of my Despatch has come in the shape of a War Office cable telling me that, if I agree, it is proposed "to have the despatch reviewed and a slightly different version prepared for publication." I hope my reply to Fitz may arrive in time to prevent too much titivation.
An imaginative War Office (were such a thing imaginable) would try first of all to rouse public enthusiasm by letting them follow quite closely the brave doings of their own boys' units whatever these might be. Next, they would try and use the Press to teach the public that there are three kinds of war, (a) military war, (b) economic war and (c) social war. Lastly, they would explain to the Cabinet that this war of ours is a mixture of (a) and (b) with more of (b) than (a) in it.