A cool summer day again, and no shelling from the Turks this morning. Flies not quite so bad, but still a plague. They have become persistent, fat, sleepy ones now. No shelling from the Turks at all, and our artillery hardly fire a shot.
November 2nd.
A few shells only this morning. A beautiful summer day, but flies badly worrying. A battery has been put on the road just by the rise before 80th Brigade H.Q. Destroyer which ran on the rocks yesterday still in the same position.
November 3rd.
After breakfast, having arranged for a visit round the trenches with Panton, the D.A.D.M.S., I go up to D.H.Q. at the top of our gully. We start off, accompanied by Lord Howard de Walden, pass through the 88th Field Ambulance camp, dip down on to the beach road, and after a short way along bear to the right on to Gibraltar road. Instead of walking up along the Gibraltar road, as has been the practice of most of us up to now, we bear to the right through the low wooded country between Gibraltar road and Hill 10. We cross the newly made line of trenches, with barbed wire thickly laid in front, passing a bombing school on our left. Turkish bullets fired at a high elevation just reach this point, dropping with spent velocity. As we walk through the almond-trees just beyond, the guns of the two battleships bang out suddenly. We hear the great shells shrieking over our heads, and see them burst with violence over Burnt Hill on our right front. Passing the almond-trees, we make a detour to the left, arriving in the open space which leads to 86th Brigade H.Q. Panton stops here at an advanced dressing station, and while we wait for him a few bullets sing overhead. But there is never very much rifle fire in the daytime. We then dip down into “C.C.” communication trench, and follow its windings to the line. We pass over one or two bridges crossing large drains that have been dug to drain the trenches when the wet weather comes. We are warned by the formation of the irregular hills, nullahs, and ravines, and the great boulders of stone standing out of the ground, that at some time during the year rain falls in great quantities. What will our trenches be like on the low ground when that time does come? Salt Lake on our left gradually sinking under water answers that question. We see shrapnel bursting low over that part of the line we are making for, and I have a desire to turn my coat-collar up. I always do when I am near shells. Why, I don’t know. We arrive at the support trench, in which are the Munsters and Dublin Fusiliers. I see a few men clustered together in the trench at a small entrance leading to a dugout. One comes out from the dugout, and says, “By Jasus! the poor lad’s gone.” A man had been hit by shrapnel, and had just died, after about twenty minutes. We continue on, and on arrival at the Essex Regiment I inquire where Algy Wood had been hit. I am taken up a short trench which turns sharply to the left, coming to an abrupt end at a dugout—his dugout. I inquire how it happened, and am told that he was leaning up against the back of the trench immediately outside his dugout, with his pipe in his mouth, looking at an aeroplane which was hovering over our line. Suddenly a bullet strikes him in the throat; he takes his pipe out of his mouth, makes a gesture of extreme annoyance with his arm, and mutters the words “Damn it!” Then he sinks back in the arms of his sergeant-major, who is standing near him, and saying, “I am finished, sergeant-major,” quietly goes West.
Struck by a chance bullet in a comparatively safe place! Cruel, cruel luck! At least Algy Wood, one of the most gallant officers of that pick of Divisions—the 29th—should have been spared. However, he had the satisfaction of putting up his hard-earned D.S.O. ribbon a week or so ago. We continue our way along trenches which, instead of running more or less in regular lines, zigzag in and out in sharp turns and corners, which face the high hills on our left, each corner protected by strong sand-bagged breastworks. The reason for this is that these breastworks, placed at short intervals in that part of the line where we are, screen us from view of the enemy in his trenches high up on the ridge of hills which overlook the sea on our left. Of course, we in our trenches up there also can overlook the Turks in the trenches running through the low country in their territory, which trenches also are punctuated at frequent short intervals by breastworks. In consequence of the danger of being seen by Turks on the hill, our trenches on the low land are very narrow, and Lord Howard de Walden causes great amusement to some Tommies sitting on the fire-step by the remark, “These trenches were not built for a man with an extra large tummy.”
We follow Panton, who is on his round of inspection of sumps, cesspits, cookhouses, and the general sanitation of the trenches. Myriads of flies, which precede us on our way; when we halt, they all promptly settle in black patches on the sand-bags and sides of trenches. When we continue our tour, they, rising immediately with a loud buzzing, lead the way for us.
An inspection of the cookhouse of the Newfoundland Regiment is made. It is built in a small sunken ravine at the back of the support line. Panton and Frew, their M.O., go to the end of the ravine. I wait at the end near entrance to the trench. A Newfoundlander says to me, “Excuse me, sir, but in the place in which you are standing our cook was killed yesterday by a sniper from the hill.” I am rude enough to forget to thank the man. I simply turn round on my heel, practically diving into the trench. But I shouted thanks to him as we left, five minutes after. After a short walk along the front line—the usual front line, with men at short intervals on the keen lookout through periscopes—we return by “D” communication trench, half an hour’s walk. We pass Gibraltar Hill, and so over the gorse to Gibraltar road, arriving at D.H.Q. on the hill, where I am given a topping lunch.
It is a beautiful summer day, and the Turks are sending over sporting shots at the shipping. The battleships answer, so the enemy turn their guns on to them instead, and actually record two hits on the Prince George, which then manœuvres for a fresh position. Then they get on to the supply ships again, which have to clear outside the boom, further away from the end of the promontory. Suddenly a good shot at long range gets a supply ship, which is loaded with hay, and quickly sets it on fire. Our battleships get very angry at this, but it is some time before they can silence the Turkish batteries. At sunset the hay supply ship is still smoking, but the fire is well under control. A new officer arrives, named Hunt, a good fellow from Tipperary. Good omen, for though we are a long, long way from Tipperary, one from that immortal place has come to join us.