I stand beside the sentry and look at the view in front of me—a beautiful view of sloping hills up to the heights of the cliffs which overlook the sea; and on their slopes I see distinctly the irregular light-brown lines of thrown-up earth, denoting the Turks’ front-line trenches and ours, running opposite each other to the summit of the cliffs, about three hundred yards apart.
We are six hundred yards from the enemy line, and can be certain victims for a Turkish sniper should he be aware of our presence.
From this position at night sometimes the Turk receives the contents of belt after belt of machine gun ammunition poured on to his second and third line and communication trenches by indirect fire, ranged by day, causing him great inconvenience and to wonder from where the bullets come.
Our front line is always warned when any such stunt is on, so that they may not arrange for their working parties or patrols to be out in front. Looking at the country in front of me, I can see that here on these rugged slopes the Turk would have but short shrift if he attacked us—as of course would we if we attacked. Result, deadlock, like two cats spitting and sparring at each other. Morris says he is always pleased to show people round his pet hobby. I was immensely interested, and Morris might have been showing me round a farm.
We come back in the gloaming, Morris now and again stopping to order paper and litter to be picked up, for General de Lisle is around here frequently, and has the eye of a hawk.
October 27th.
A fine morning, with a very warm and strong wind, almost a gale, blowing from the sea. Smith, of Hampshires, pays us a visit, and as we sit in our dugout we hear “Whistling Rufus” coming over from Sari Bair. One corner of the roof over our dugout is only of tarpaulin, for corrugated iron is scarce. Rumour says that a ship which set out from England loaded with corrugated iron has been torpedoed and sunk. An officer, newly arrived, who is sitting with us, appears to rather scorn my advice to move from where he is sitting under the tarpaulin, which is of no protection to him from shrapnel bullets, when, “Crash” from “Whistling Rufus” is heard overhead, and the sound of bullets spattering on our roof follows immediately after, just as if an unseen hand with a bowl of pebbles had taken a handful and thrown them with violence down on to our abode. A shirt hanging outside on a line to dry receives two bullets through its tail, causing large rents. The new officer immediately gets up from where he is sitting and comes round to our side of the table, where we sit under a roof of corrugated iron with a layer of sand-bags on top, safe from everything but a direct hit.
This 5·9 shrapnel is followed by others, and in the distance we hear the roar of Turkish artillery and bursting shrapnel. “Whistling Rufus” ceases worrying us after a while, and we go up to behind our dugout and look inland at the Turkish shelling. All along our line and behind, Turkish shrapnel is bursting thickly, being more concentrated over Chocolate Hill and on Hill 10, which is situated on the left of the Salt Lake and half a mile from “B” Beach.
About half an hour after, we hear rifle fire, which dies down quickly, and all is quiet. What it was all about I do not know. Probably the end of the Turkish festival, or probably Enver Pasha has paid a visit, and, sitting on top of Sari Bair, has asked for a show to be demonstrated to him. I must say such a show, viewed from the top of Sari Bair, must appear a wonderful sight.