Anchored off Cape Helles at dark. A reply in from Maxwell about the East Lancs. They are coming!
The worst enemy a Chief has to face in war is an alarmist. The Turks are indeed stout and terrifying fellows when seen, not in a poetry book but in a long line running at you in a heavy jogtrot way with fixed bayonets gleaming. But they don't frighten me as much as one or two of my own friends. No matter. We are here to stay; in so far as my fixed determination can make it so; alive or dead, we stay.
30th April, 1915. H.M.S. Queen Elizabeth. From dawn to breakfast time all hands busy slinging shells—modern war sinews—piles of them—aboard. The Turks are making hay while the sun shines and are letting "V" Beach have it from their 6-inch howitzers on the plains of Troy. So, once upon a time, did Paris shoot forth his arrows over that selfsame ground and plug proud Achilles in the heel—and never surely was any fabulous tendon more vulnerable than are our Southern beaches from Asia. The audacious Commander Samson cheers us up. He came aboard at 9.15 a.m. and stakes his repute as an airman that his fellows will duly spot these guns and that once they do so the ships will knock them out. I was so pleased to hear him say so that I took him ashore with me to "W" Beach, where he was going to fix up a flight over the Asiatic shore, as well as select a flat piece of ground near the tip of the Peninsula's toe to alight upon.
Saw Hunter-Weston: he is quite happy. Touched on "Y" Beach; concluded least said soonest mended. The issues of the day before yesterday's battle seem certainly to have hung on a hair. Apart from "Y" beach might-have-beens, it seems that, further inland, detachments of our men got into a position dominating Krithia; a position from which—could they have held it—Turkish troops in or South of Krithia could have been cut off from their supplies. These men saw the Turks clear out of Krithia taking machine guns with them. But after half an hour, as we did not come on, they began to come back. We were too weak and only one Battalion was left of our reserves—otherwise the day was ours. Street, the G.S.O.I. of the Division, was in the thick of the battle—too far in for his rank, I am told, and he is most emphatic that with one more Brigade Achi Baba would now be in our hands. He said this to me in presence of his own Chief and I believe him, although I had rather disbelieve. To my mind "a miss is as good as a mile" should run a "miss is far worse than a mile." He is a sober-spoken, most gallant Officer. But it can't be helped. This is not the first time in history when the lack of a ha'porth of tar has spoilt the ship of State. I would bear my ills without a groan were it not that from the very moment when I set eyes on the Narrows I was sent to prize open, I had set my heart upon just this very identical ha'porth of tar—videlicet, the Indian Brigade.
Our men are now busy digging themselves into the ground they gained on the 28th. The Turks have done a good lot of gunnery but no real counter-attack. Hunter-Weston's states show that during the past twenty-four hours well over half of his total strength are getting their artillery ashore, building piers, making roads, or bringing up food, water and ammunition into the trenches. This does not take into account men locally struck off fighting duty as cooks, orderlies, sentries over water, etc., etc. Altogether, it seems that not more than one-third of our fast diminishing total are available for actual fighting purposes. Had we even a Brigade of those backward Territorial reserve Battalions with whom the South of England is congested, they would be worth I don't know what, for they would release their equivalent of first-class fighting men to attend to their own business—the fighting.
There are quite a little budget of knotty points to settle between Hunter-Weston and d'Amade, so I made a careful note of them and went along to French Headquarters. By bad luck d'Amade was away, up in the front trenches, and I could not well deliver myself to des Coigns. So I said I would come again sometime to-morrow and once more wended my way along the busy beaches, and in doing so revisited the Turkish defences of "V" and "W." The more I look, the more do I marvel at the invincible spirit of the British soldier. Nothing is impossible to him; no General knows what he can do till he tries. Therefore, he, the British General, must always try! must never listen to the rule-of-thumb advisers who seek to chain down adventure to precedent. But our wounds make us weaker and weaker. Oh that we could fill up the gaps in the thinned ranks of those famous Regiments....!
Had ten minutes' talk with the French Captain commanding the battery of 75's now dug in close to the old Fort, where General d'Amade sleeps, or rather, is supposed to sleep. Here is the noisiest spot on God's earth. Not only do the 75's blaze away merrily from morn till dewy eve, and again from dewy eve till morn, to a tune that turns our gunners green with envy, but the enemy are not slow in replying, and although they have not yet exactly found the little beggars (most cunningly concealed with green boughs and brushwood), yet they go precious near them with big shell and small shell, shrapnel and H.E. As I was standing here I was greeted by an old Manchurian friend, le capitaine Reginald Kahn. He fought with the Boers against us and has taken his immense bulk into one campaign after another. A very clever writer, he has been entrusted by the French Government with the compilation of their official history of these operations.
On my way back to the Arcadian (we are leaving the Queen Elizabeth for a time)—I met a big batch of wounded, knocked out, all of them, in the battle of the 28th. I spoke to as many of them as I could, and although some were terribly mutilated and disfigured, and although a few others were clearly dying, one and all kept a stiff upper lip—one and all were, or managed to appear—more than content—happy! This scene brought tears into my eyes. The courage of our soldiers goes far beyond belief. Were it not so war would be unbearable. How strongly God keeps the balance even. In fullest splendour the soul shines out amidst the dark shadows of adversity; as a fire goes out when the sunlight strikes it, so the burning, essential quality in men is stifled by prosperity and success.
Later. Our battleships have been bombarding Chunuk—chucking shells into it from the Aegean side of the Peninsula—and a huge column of smoke is rising up into the evening sky. A proper bonfire on the very altar of Mars.
1st May, 1915. H.M.S. "Arcadian." Went ashore first thing. Odd shells on the wing. Visited French Headquarters. Again d'Amade was away. Had a long talk with des Coigns, the Chief of Staff, and told him I had just heard from Lord K. that the 1st Brigade of the new French Division would sail for the Dardanelles on the 3rd inst. Des Coigns is overjoyed but a tiny bit hurt, too, that French Headquarters should get the news first from me and not from their own War Ministry. He insists on my going round the French trenches and sent a capitaine de la Fontaine along with me. Until to-day I had quite failed to grasp the extent of the ground we had gained. But we want a lot more before we can begin to feel safe. The French trenches are not as good as ours by a long chalk, and bullets keep coming through the joints of the badly built sandbag revetment. But they say, "Un peu de repos, après, vous verrez, mon général." During my peregrinations I struck the Headquarters of the Mediterranean Brigade under General Vandenberg, who came round his own men with me. A sturdy, thickset fair man with lots of go and very cheery. He is of Dutch descent. Later on I came to the Colonial Brigade Headquarters and made the acquaintance of Colonel Ruef, a fine man—every inch a soldier. The French have suffered severely but are in fine fighting form. They are enchanted to hear about their second Division. For some reason or another they have made up their minds that France is not so keen as we are to make a present of Constantinople to Russia. Their intelligence on European questions seems much better than ours and they depress me by expressing doubts as to whether the Grand Duke Nicholas has munitions enough to make further headway against the Turks in the Caucasus: also, as to whether he has even stuff enough to equip Istomine and my rather visionary Army Corps.