A strong southerly wind is blowing this morning. This afternoon we have rain, and as night falls our “rest trenches” are sloughs of mud, for hardly any work appears to have been done on a system of drainage and the men have no roofing whatever. In fact, at Helles corrugated iron is practically nil, although at Suvla we did have a small supply. Do they honestly believe that they can hang on this tiny tip of land during the winter?
Just beyond the end of the railway, the ground is thickly lined with camps, consisting of rest trenches. These now lead right up to the system of deep trenches forming our front line. Behind where I am standing at the end of the railway, at a distance of three hundred yards, there stands a very large hospital of tents and huts. This could be destroyed utterly by Turkish shell fire in half an hour, yet it stands untouched. No large bodies of troops or transport are allowed to collect or pass near, of course, but small parties of two or three may pass by. D.H.Q. is about two hundred yards behind, dug in, in trenches. On their left is the West Coast road, overlooking the sea. The 87th are in the line, and a part of the 86th, the remainder being in rest camp trenches. The 88th have of course not yet arrived. Our artillery are practically in the same positions that they were six months ago.
December 22nd.
It is quite calm now and a fine day; thus we are given an opportunity of digging the mud out of the trenches and to work on a system of drainage. But we want roofing badly. Unlike “V” Beach, now a perfect harbour, safe against almost any sea, “W” Beach at the first heavy swell becomes impossible for landing any supplies. Engineers are busy as usual on the piers, not on construction, but on the work of repairing the damage done by each spell of rough sea. The storm that we experienced at Suvla did not spend its fury on Helles, though they felt the outskirts of its force here—so much so that the flimsy piers off “W” Beach were almost washed away, and for the time we depended on the courtesy of our French Allies to land stores and supplies on “V” Beach. No. 1 Pier here, however, is fairly safe, for we have two small ships sunk at the end, set at an angle, forming a breakwater; but they are too small to make the harbour as secure as the one at “V” Beach. We should have sunk ships six times as large. All along the shore off “W” Beach lighters lie three deep, washed up by past spells of rough weather.
The scheme of having our divisional Supply dump inland has fallen through, as it is too near D.H.Q. and would be sure to draw shell fire, which is becoming more and more frequent and effective. We draw at dusk from Main Supply depot, and at night issue from our divisional dump in an unsafe spot on the far side of the back of “W” Beach, having to be careful not to show too many lights. Asia keeps us on the qui vive all day, and too much activity on the beach will always draw a spell of shelling. A cloudy evening. At 11 p.m. the 88th Brigade arrive.
December 23rd.
It is a fine, cold day. We now walk about on the beach with our ears always listening for the sound of a gun from Asia or Achi Baba, upon hearing which we get ready to fling ourselves to the ground or dive into a dugout. I go along to the H.Q. of the 86th and 88th Brigades, both built in the side of a cliff just this side of “X” Beach and almost opposite our D.H.Q. Their dugouts are delightfully cosy little houses; they are practically safe from shell fire and form a great contrast to Divisional H.Q., dug a little way to the right in trenches which are in full view of the enemy and in danger of a shell dropping plumb on to them at any moment.
The day drags wearily away. There is nothing much to do but bookwork, making up accounts, and visits to the Main Supply depot. It is an extraordinary thing, but almost every time I stroll over to the Supply depot from our office on the cliff, over comes a shell either from a howitzer on Achi or “Quick Dick” from Asia. I prefer the howitzer. It gives you a chance to quickly look round for the nearest dugout and dive in. Whereas “Quick Dick,” with its boom-whizz-bang, is on you before you can count two, and leaves you almost gasping, wondering that you are still standing alive instead of flying through the air in little bits. Each day victims are claimed. I thought my Q.M.S. had “got it proper” to-day, but I saw him do a marvellous head-dive behind a mound, protecting dug-in stables, which saved him. It makes everybody living on the beach very bad-tempered. At night they drop them over at intervals. But we are one too many for Asia by night. One can distinctly see the flash of the gun and can count twenty-three slowly before the shell arrives. The French are very clever over dodging these night shells from Asia. A man perched up on a stack of hay watches Asia intently. He sees a flash, blows loudly on a trumpet, and everybody gets to cover like rabbits. Result: remarkably few casualties. Of course, the flash of the gun does not tell whether the shell is addressed to “V” Beach or “W” Beach, and one cannot fail to at times be amused, in spite of the grimness of it all, for the lookout man on “V” Beach might see the flash and give a mighty blast on his trumpet, whereupon all rush for cover, and twenty-three seconds later the shell swishes over, not to “V” Beach at all, but to “W” Beach. The Turkish gunners appear to have their tails very much up, no doubt through the evacuation of Suvla and Anzac. And enemy airmen are very daring, swooping right over our lines and at times dropping an odd bomb or two. Men and transport move about as freely as ever, though, which is such a contrast to Suvla; though, of course, our line being further inland than it was at Suvla, the enemy have difficulty in reaching the transport with shrapnel. If not, probably our transport would not be so reckless. The roads at the foot of the cliff can no longer be used, having been made impassable by being washed right away in parts.
December 24th.
It is delightful weather and we continue our life, preparing the figures and accounts to draw the rations at night, and arranging for their issue. Usual shelling all day. In the afternoon, as I walk across the plateau to D.H.Q., an enemy aeroplane comes swooping over. I am near a party of men marching and hear the pop-pop of a machine gun. Almost immediately after, I hear the swish of bullets and see them kick up the dust round about. At first I can’t make it out. Then it dawns on me that the daring aviator is actually firing on the troops near me. I notice that instead of having a cross painted on his machine he has a square, which is the sign of the Bulgarian Flying Corps.