It has been very quiet this morning. The work of getting supplies on shore, carting them up to the Main Supply depot, and from there to the several divisional depots, goes on now day and night like a well-managed business. The Main Supply depot is rapidly accumulating a reserve of supplies for us to fall back on should bad weather set in and prevent us landing on some days. I learn that we now have sufficient preserved food in the Main depot to feed 60,000 men and 5,000 animals on shore for a month, and soon there will be stores for six weeks.
At five o’clock the Turks sprang a surprise bombardment on to the left of our line, and simultaneously, just as I was walking the few yards from our Supply depot to our men, four 18-pounder shrapnel burst overhead. All about the depot dive for cover, and many of them rush into our dugout, it being the most handy. A minute only and four more come, burst overhead, the bullets rattling on the shrapnel-proof roof. Foley is with me; Way and Carver are up on the cliff in a safe spot. Petro is up on the high ground behind our dugout, having gone there to watch a battleship firing on to Burnt Hill, while Phillips is down on the beach, looking after a water-cart. Never before have we had 18-pounder shrapnel burst as far up the promontory as this, and we are naturally surprised how the Turks could have pushed one of their batteries so close up to get the range. As fast as we put our heads out to see if Phillips or Petro is about, a salvo of four shells arrives over, most of them bursting in the neighbourhood of our depot and a few on the beach further over to the left. No one is about; all have gone to ground like rabbits. They give it us hot and strong for fifteen minutes, and then stop. All the time the battleships have been firing, and I think must have got on to this particular battery. We cautiously come out of our dugout and look about. Gradually men all over the beaches appear from all directions and go about their respective jobs. Petro turns up from a dugout close by, beaming all over his face, and says that he had done a hundred yards’ sprint over boulders and rocks in record time, at the finish making a beautiful head-dive into the nearest dugout that he could see, on to a half-dozen Tommies crouching inside. We then see Phillips limping up from the beach, being helped by two Tommies. I run down to him, and we go to the 11th Division Casualty Clearing Station. We unwind the puttee of his left leg, which had been hit, when a shrapnel bullet rolls out and runs along the floor like a marble. I pick it up and put it in his pocket. It had drilled a hole clean through his leg, just above the ankle, through which blood is pouring freely. He is bound up and, though in great pain, perspiration pouring off his face, keeps smiling and cheerful. One of the most painful parts of the body to be hit is just above the ankle. When the first four shells burst he fell flat behind a big boulder, which protected all of him but his long legs, and after the third or fourth salvo he felt the sledge-hammer blow of a bullet and knew he was hit. Lying there wounded while other shells burst overhead was a beastly experience for him, and he thanked his stars when it was all over. With one arm around my shoulder he leans on me and slowly limps back to our dugout, I hoping that they won’t burst out again. I lay him on my bed; the swarms of flies that are with us always now buzz round the wound, which I cover up with muslin. I go up to O’Hara to tell him, and find there some of our D.H.Q. Staff, just back from the line, having had to clear quickly when the attack opened.
When O’Hara gets back with me we find Phillips has gone off, assuring the others that he will be back in a month.
The Turkish gunners were too quick for old Phillips this time, giving him no chance to read their minds. But thank the Lord he is wounded and not gone West! I miss him to-night, and feel depressed, and wonder how long I shall remain on this God-forsaken place or how long it will be before my turn comes to get hit.
It is now a beautiful moonlight night, quiet, calm, and still, and an enemy aeroplane sails over, making a circle of the bay.
I have got an idea that the old Turk is laughing at us now.
September 19th.
A fairly quiet day. Beautiful calm moonlight night. Have to get water up from “A” Beach to De Lisle’s Gully ready for the 86th, who arrive to-morrow. Thank Heaven it is moonlight. Go up first to H.Q. of Brigade by car. Country smells lovely. We have not been here long enough yet to spoil the land. Hardly a rifle shot in front. Go over to De Lisle’s Gully and back to D.H.Q., up to Brigade again, and once more; then to the gully, arriving home at midnight. Actually enjoyed the trip, but looking at the calm sea and moon, and the landscape of mountain and gorse, with the continual chirping of the crickets, how I longed, craved, and yearned for the day when Peace will be declared.
September 20th.
Turks shell us unceasingly all morning, several shells coming near our depot, but they are only light shells, and many of them do not explode. A Newfoundland regiment joins our Brigade. They get shelled while on the beach, just an hour after landing, and suffer casualties. They appear to look upon it as a huge joke.