However!
At 4.30 we dropped our high-vaulting Achi Baba aspirations and took to our spades.
The Hood Battalion of the Royal Naval Division had been roughly handled. In the hospital clearing tent by the beach I saw and spoke to (amongst many others) young Asquith, shot through the knee, and Commander Wedgwood, who had been horribly hurt by shrapnel. Each in his own way was a calm hero; wrapped in the mantle bequeathed to English soldiers by Sir Philip Sidney. Coming back in the evening to the ship we watched the Manchester Brigade disembarking. I have never seen a better looking lot. The 6th Battalion would serve very well as picked specimens of our race; not so much in height or physique, but in the impression they gave of purity of race and distinction. Here are the best the old country can produce; the hope of the progress of the British ideal in the world; and half of them are going to swap lives with Turks whose relative value to the well-being of humanity is to theirs as is a locust to a honey-bee.
That night Bailloud, Commander of the new French Division, came to make his salaam. He is small, alert, brimful of jokes and of years; seventy they say, but he neither looks it nor acts it.
The 7th was stormy and the sea dangerously rough. At 10 a.m. the Lancashire Fusilier Brigade were to lead off on our left. They could not get a move on, it seemed, although we had hoped that the shelling from the ships would have swept a clear lane for them.
The thought that "Y" Beach, which was holding up this brigade, was once in our hands, adds its sting to other reports coming from that part of the field. In France these reports would have been impersonal messages arriving from afar. In Asia or Africa I would have been letting off the steam by galloping to d'Amade or Hunter-Weston. Here I was neither one thing nor the other:—neither a new fangled Commander sitting cool and semi-detached in an office; nor an old fashioned Commander taking personal direction of the show. During so long drawn out a suspense I tried to ease the tension by dictation. From the carbons I select these two paragraphs: they occur in a letter fired off to Colonel Clive Wigram at "11.25 a.m., 7th May, 1915."
"I broke off there because I got a telephone message in from Hunter-Weston to say his centre was advancing, and that by a pretty piece of co-operation between Infantry and Artillery, he had driven the Turks out of one very troublesome trench. He cannot see what is on his left, or get any message from them. On his left are the Lancashire Fusiliers (Territorials). They are faced by a horrid redoubt held by machine guns, and they are to rush it with the bayonet.[15] It is a high thing to ask of Territorials but against an enemy who is fighting for his life, and for the existence of his country, we have to call upon every one for efforts which, under any other conditions, might be considered beyond their strength.
"Were we still faced by the Divisions which originally held the Gallipoli Peninsula we would by now, I firmly believe, be in possession of the Kilid Bahr plateau. But every day a regiment or two dribble into Gallipoli, either from Asia or from Constantinople, and in the last two days an entire fresh Division has (we have heard) arrived from Adrianople, and is fighting against us this morning. The smallest demonstration on the part of Bulgaria would, I presume, have prevented this big reinforcement of fresh troops reaching the enemy, but it seems beyond the resources of diplomacy to get anyone to create a diversion."
At 4.30 I ordered a general assault; the 88th Brigade to be thrown in on the top of the 87th; the New Zealand Brigade in support; the French to conform. Our gunners had put more than they could afford into the bombardment and had very little wherewith to pave the way.
By the 4th instant I had seen danger-point drawing near and now it was on us. Five hundred more rounds of howitzer 4.5 and aeroplanes to spot whilst we wiped out the machine guns; that was the burden of my prayer. Still, we did what we could and for a quarter of an hour the whole of the Turkish front was wreathed in smoke, but these were naval shells or 18 pr shrapnel; we have no 18 pr high explosive and neither naval shells nor shrapnel are very much good once the targets have got underground. On our left no move forward.[16] Elsewhere our wonderful Infantry fought like fresh formations. In face of a tempest of shot and shell and of a desperate resistance by the Turks, who stuck it out very bravely to the last, they carried and held the first line enemy trenches. At night several counter-attacks were delivered, in every case repulsed with heavy loss.