4th June, 1915. Imbros. Left camp after breakfast and boarded the redoubtable Wolverine under that desperado Lieutenant-Commander Keyes. The General Staff came alongside and we made our way to Cape Helles through a blinding dust storm—at least, the dust came right out to sea, but it was on shore that it became literally blinding.
On the pier I met Gouraud who walked up with me. Gouraud was very grave but confident. My post of command had been "dug out" for me well forward on the left flank by Hunter-Weston. In that hole two enormous tarantulas and I passed a day that seems to me ten years. The torture of suspense; the extremes of exaltation and of depression; the Red Indian necessity of showing no sign: all this varied only by the vicious scream of shell sailing some 30 feet over our heads on their way towards the 60 pounders near the point. A Commander feels desperately lonely at such moments. On him, and on him alone, falls the crushing onus of responsibility: to be a Corps Commander is child's play in that comparison. The Staff are gnawed with anxiety too—are saying their prayers as fast as they can, no doubt, as they follow the ebb and flow of the long khaki line through their glasses. Yes, I have done that myself in the old days from Charasia onwards. Yet how faintly is my anguish reflected in the mere anxiety of their minds.
Chapters could be written about this furious battle fought in a whirlwind of dust and smoke; some day I hope somebody may write them. After the first short spell of shelling our men fixed bayonets and lifted them high above the parapet. The Turks thinking we were going to make the assault, rushed troops into their trenches, until then lightly held. No sooner were our targets fully manned than we shelled them in earnest and went on at it until—on the stroke of mid-day—out dashed our fellows into the open. For the best part of an hour it seemed that we had won a decisive victory. On the left all the front line Turkish trenches were taken. On the right the French rushed the "Haricot"—so long a thorn in their flesh; next to them the Anson lads stormed another big Turkish redoubt in a slap-dash style reminding me of the best work of the old Regular Army; but the boldest and most brilliant exploit of the lot was the charge made by the Manchester Brigade[19] in the centre who wrested two lines of trenches from the Turks; and then, carrying right on; on to the lower slopes of Achi Baba, had nothing between them and its summit but the clear, unentrenched hillside. They lay there—the line of our brave lads, plainly visible to a pair of good glasses—there they actually lay! We wanted, so it seemed, but a reserve to advance in their support and carry them right up to the top. We said—and yet could hardly believe our own words—"We are through!"
Alas, too previous that remark. Everything began to go wrong. First the French were shelled and bombed out of the "Haricot"; next the right of the Naval Division became uncovered and they had to give way, losing many times more men in the yielding than in the capture of their ground. Then came the turn of the Manchesters, left in the lurch, with their right flank hanging in the air. By all the laws of war they ought to have tumbled back anyhow, but by the laws of the Manchesters they hung on and declared they could do so for ever. How to help? Men! Men, not so much now to sustain the Manchesters as to force back the Turks who were enfilading them from the "Haricot" and from that redoubt held for awhile by the R.N.D. on their right. I implored Gouraud to try and make a push and promised that the Naval Division would retake their redoubt if he could retake the "Haricot". Gouraud said he would go in at 3 p.m. The hour came; nothing happened. He then said he could not call upon his men again till 4 o'clock, and at 4 o'clock he said definitely that he would not be able to make another assault. The moment that last message came in I first telephoned and then, to make doubly sure, ran myself to Hunter-Weston's Headquarters so as not to let another moment be lost in pulling out the Manchester Brigade. I had 500 yards to go, and, rising the knoll, I would have been astonished, had I had any faculty of astonishment left in me, to meet Beetleheim, the Turk, who was with French in South Africa. I suppose he is here as an interpreter, or something, but I didn't ask. Seeing me alone for the moment he came along. He had quite a grip of the battle and seemed to hope I might let the Manchesters try and stick it out through the night, as he thought the Turks were too much done to do much more. But it was not good enough. To fall back was agony; not to do it would have been folly. Hunter-Weston felt the same. When Fate has first granted just a sip of the wine of success the slip between the cup and lip comes hardest. The upshot of the whole affair is that the enemy still hold a strong line of trenches between us and Achi Baba. Our four hundred prisoners, almost all made by the Manchester Brigade, amongst whom a good number of officers, do not console me. Having to make the Manchesters yield up their hard won gains is what breaks my heart. Had I known the result of our fight before the event, I should have been happy enough. Three or four hundred yards of ground plus four hundred prisoners are distances and numbers which may mean little in Russia or France, but here, where we only have a mile or two to go, land has a value all its own. Yes, I should have been happy enough. But, to have to yield up the best half—the vital half—of our gains—to have had our losses trebled on the top of a cheaply won victory—these are the reverse side of our medal for the 4th June.
Going back we fell in with a blood-stained crowd from the Hood, Howe and Anson Battalions. Down the little gully to the beach we could only walk very slowly. At my elbow was Colonel Crauford Stuart, commanding the Hood Battalion. He had had his jaw smashed but I have seen men pull longer faces at breaking a collar stud. He told me that the losses of the Naval Division has been very heavy, the bulk of them during their retreat. From the moment the Turks drove the French out of the "Haricot" the enfilade fire became murderous.
On the beach was General de Lisle, fresh from France. He is taking over the 29th Division from Hunter-Weston who ascends to the command of the newly formed 8th Army Corps. De Lisle seemed in very good form although it must have been rather an eye-opener landing in the thick of this huge stream of wounded. How well I remember seeing him galloping at the head of his Mounted Infantry straight for Pretoria; and my rage when, under orders from Headquarters, I had to send swift messengers to tell him he must rein back for some reason never made clear.
5th June, 1915. Imbros. Best part of the day occupied in a hundred and one sequels of the battle. The enemy have been quiet; they have had a belly-full. De Robeck came off to see me at 5.30, to have a final talk (amongst other things) as to the Enos and Bulair ideas before I send my final answer to K. If we dare not advertise the detail of our proposed tactics, we may take the lesser risk of saying what we are not going to attempt. The Admiral is perfectly clear against Bulair. There is no protection there for the ships against submarines except Enos harbour and Enos is only one fathom deep. After all, the main thing they want is that I should commit myself to a statement that if I get the drafts and troops asked for in my various cables, I will make good. That, I find quite reasonable.
6th June, 1915. Imbros. A very hot and dusty day. Still sweeping up the débris of the battle. Besides my big cable have been studying strengths with my A.G. The Battalions are dwindling to Companies and the Divisions to Brigades.
The cable is being ciphered: not a very luminous document: how could it be? The great men at home seem to forget that they cannot draw wise counsels from their servants unless they confide in them and give them all the factors of the problem. If a client goes to a lawyer for advice the first thing the lawyer asks him to do is to make a clean breast of it. Before K. asks me to specify what I can do if he sends me these unknown and—in Great Britain—most variable quantities, Territorial or New Army Divisions, he ought to make a clean breast of it by telling me:—
(1) What he has.
(2) What Sir John French wants.
(3) Whether Italy will move—or Greece.
(4) What is happening in the Balkans,—in the
Caucasus,—in Mesopotamia.