Still no change on the beaches. Still the same fitful white puffs of Turkish shrapnel over the wooded lowland. Still the “ration” allowance of Turkish high explosive on to the beaches. And yet tons and tons of stores and equipment have left, and thousands of men from here are now safe in the camps at Mudros. A light north-east breeze is blowing with bright sunshine, and it is very clear. The conditions, for our scheme, are perfect. Our second line is now crowded with troops, who remain well under cover during the day. Water for these is a difficulty, as there are no wells close handy and it has to be carted up to them daily from the beach. Five 80-gallon tanks are fixed in position along this line, which are kept full of water as an emergency. Our front line is but thinly held, and all who pass between this second and front line must keep to the roads, for the country is freely strewn with all devices of trip-bombs, which await the Turk should he discover what we are up to, immediately after we evacuate the front line, and come on to give us battle. As yet I am certain that he knows nothing, so well are our Evacuation Staff working. And the last night—“Z” night—is approaching very near now. I believe to-night is “W” night. I issue as usual, and visit Brigade H.Q. Take a stroll on the beaches after dinner to view the scene of men and animals quietly disappearing off the land that we have shed so much blood in conquering, and then I go off to bed.
December 17th.
Early this morning we have showers of rain, which are followed by a southerly breeze, quickly blowing them away. Brilliant sunshine makes the day quite hot. During the night I receive orders to issue two days’ rations to-night to the 88th Brigade and the rest of the Division, and afterwards to embark with all A.S.C. details along with D.H.Q. I am down on the beach in the afternoon getting our kits shipped off. At five o’clock the Turks open fire with two guns on to the beaches and beach roads, and the first few cause casualties. The shells are first-class, and burst with a deafening crash. One gun is on Sari Bair and the other is on the hills on the left of Anafarta. They continue until shortly after dusk—about 6.20 p.m. Five minutes after, the beaches are alive with men once more, and the work of evacuation proceeds energetically. This bout of shelling makes us anxious, as it would appear that our plot has been discovered. I go up to C.R.E. dump and issue two days’ rations to the 88th Brigade and the few remaining odd units. We leave the balance of the reserve supplies. They are too near the line to be burnt on the last night, and we leave them as a present of thanksgiving to our enemy, the Turk, who has “played the game” throughout the campaign. I say good-bye to the Brigade and express the hope that I shall see them all safe and well in Egypt, where I believe we are going for a good rest and refitment. Nobody can deny that the 29th deserve it.
I go back and have a last meal with Horne. Our camp will be deserted to-morrow, yet if an enemy aeroplane sails over, no change will be noted. Our dugouts are left standing intact. I, with the details, go down to “Y” forming-up post, and there meet, as on previous nights, parties and companies of men arriving. I call the roll of my men, and am instructed by the Adjutant of the C.R.E. to fall my men in behind the D.H.Q. party when the order is telephoned up from West Beach. A wait of three-quarters of an hour. We hope no shells will arrive. Horne comes up to say good-bye to me. I wish him good luck, not envying him his wait of forty-eight hours.
To-night is “X” night. The order from the beach arrives. All are called to attention. We march off, through the Main Supply depot, down into the trench, over the open space of West Beach, along the pier. A short pause here, of ten minutes, and then in single file we pass up the gangway over the sunken ships which act as a breakwater to the little harbour, and so on board a paddle-steamer. In half an hour she is full. It is a lovely moonlight night. We steam out into the bay, come alongside a small steamer, and file on board her. I go up on deck and view the scene of Suvla Bay by moonlight. I can hear the crack of the rifles from inland—and also voices from the beaches; now and again a torch is flashed as a lighter crunches upon the beach. With a soft swishing sound, a lighter glides past us to some other ship. The whole bay and foreshore is bathed in moonlight, and as I look, all those eight months of hardships, gloom, and danger pass in review before me. A feeling as of a great burden being lifted off my mind comes over me, and a sense of extreme gladness that at last the long-drawn horror is past—and what horror! “Never again!” I think to myself. “Never again!”
I look towards Anzac and notice that the whole sky is aflame—the stores are alight. Probably a stack of supplies which has caught fire by mistake. And then, as I look, a curious mist arises, low at first, off the sea—as if with an invisible hand, a cloudy cloak is slowly draped over the whole Peninsula. First Suvla, then Anzac and the coast line become blotted out, and I see now nothing but a grey mist. Suvla Bay and its horrors, its hopes, and disappointments are lost to my sight for ever—for by the time the mist has dispersed the ship has moved away.
December 18th.
After a good night spent on the floor of the wardroom, lying on my “British warm” with my cap as a pillow, I wake up about 7 a.m., wondering where on earth I have got to. I hear that now delightful sound, the pulse of ship’s engines, and know, with a happy feeling, that I am sailing on a ship to the friendly waters of the harbour of Lemnos. No breakfast is to be had, for all troops, officers and men, except myself, have embarked with rations. Stupid of me to forget myself, when it was my job to see that all troops went off with rations. I explore the ship and cadge a topping breakfast of eggs and ham off one of the crew. I go into his cabin and eat it on the Q.T. At twelve o’clock Lemnos heaves in sight, and at one o’clock we enter the harbour. It is all but five months since I was here last, and the camps have doubled and trebled their size, and doubled and trebled their number. As we pass the French and British battleships, Monitors, and destroyers, the respective crews come to the sides of their ships and gaze with interest at us. But there is no demonstration. When I last passed these ships, five months ago, the crews cheered us, and cheered again as we passed out to war. Now they look on, gaze at us, and say nothing. It seems almost a reproval. We take up our moorings amongst other small ships which have come with troops from the Peninsula, and after a brief delay are transferred with baggage to the Southland. Ah! this means sailing for Egypt, probably. Egypt! It will be like sailing home. The Southland was the boat which was torpedoed early in September. I go and look at the damage that was done. A great hole was torn in one of her holds, and it was lucky that she was able to reach Lemnos, fifty miles away from the spot where she was hit.
We learn that the 86th have passed to Helles, and soon we are to follow. Good Lord! This is the unkindest cut of all. So we are not done with it yet. Well, I don’t suppose the Turks will let us get off scot-free this time. I draw food for the men on board, and at 7.30 p.m. go down to dinner. The last time that I dined in this saloon was in those days in April, just before the original landing. The officers of the K.O.S.B.’s were dining here then, and their bagpipes played them in to dinner, many for the last time in their lives. We have a merry dinner-party with champagne. After, I enjoy the luxury of a hot bath and then turn in.