Elsewhere I have mentioned the Isle of Imbros by night. But really it is next to impossible to describe the beauty of these Greek islands, unless one is a poet or a painter. To my mind, Imbros is the most beautiful of any of the isles in reach of the Peninsula. But to-night, as it seemed, she surpassed herself in beauty. The sea lies like a sheet of liquid silver under the rays of the moon. There, like a precious gem, lies Imbros, sleeping on the face of the waters; her deep valleys and gorges, running down to the sea, are aswim with purple shadows, and her rugged mountain crests stand out violet and clear-cut against the star-spangled velvet of the skies. Her feet are wrapt about as with a snowy drapery, woven of the little foaming crests of lazy wavelets lapping around her. From behind her the feathery night clouds appear to swathe themselves about her, and her mountain peaks seem like a coronet set upon the dusky brow of some beautiful goddess of the night. All is silent, and she sleeps peacefully upon the waters, awaiting the coming of the fiery god of the morning, who, dashing across the sky in his chariot of flame, will awaken her with a burning kiss—driving the purple shadows from her valleys and filling them with a swimming golden glory which shall make her seem even more lovely by day than by night. Truly is she a goddess upon the waters, a rival almost of Aphrodite herself.
As I go back to bed, walking back along the foot of the cliff, rifle fire is rattling away on our left. I climb up to our “bivvy,” being challenged several times, and turn into bed.
May 27th.
Woke at 6.30 this morning, feeling very refreshed, and find it is a beautiful morning. The view is perfect from our biscuit-box “bivvy.”
I am just drowsily thinking about getting up, when a gun from H.M.S. Majestic fires. This is followed immediately by the report of an explosion, and Carver says, “Good Lord, she is torpedoed!” We rush out, and see the green smooth wake of a torpedo in a straight line horizontal with our “bivvy,” starting from a point immediately in front of us. H.M.S. Majestic is about eight hundred yards to our left, immediately in front of “W” Beach, and I see her, massive and strong, bristling with guns, and crowded with men in white, slowly tilting over with a list to her port side. Men are doubling on deck to their places in perfect order, with no shouting or panic. Then, evidently, the order “Every man for himself!” is given, for I see a figure leap into the water, making a big splash; then another and another—it is like jumping off the side of a house—until the sea around is dotted by bobbing heads of men swimming. Slowly she tilts over, and men clamber on to the side above the torpedo nets, which are out. As many as possible get away from the nets, for they make a trap. By this time, after only four minutes, she is surrounded by destroyers, trawlers, pinnaces, and small boats, and with perfectly wonderful and amazing efficiency they systematically pick up the struggling figures in the water.
One after the other men continue to leap, while the big ship lists; yet there are some, amongst whom are several officers, who stand on the side calmly waiting, and some still on the platform above the torpedo-nets. My glasses are glued on these men. I see them plainly in every detail, and almost the expression on their faces, as they stand on this platform with their hands behind them, holding on to the side of the ship. I see an officer in the centre looking anxiously to the right and the left, shouting directions. A man at the end manages to clamber to his left and slides painfully over pipe-stays and the usual fittings on the side of a battleship, falling with an awkward thud in the water, and another and another follow him. Then, after six minutes she begins to list quicker and quicker, and the remaining men on the torpedo-net platform still hang on. The nets curl up into themselves. These men are now horizontal to the ship, for she is now well on her side. The nets fling themselves into the air with a horrid curl, and disappear from view with these brave officers and men underneath. Can they dive and get free? The emerald green of the keel-plates appears, and in two minutes she turns turtle, her bows remaining highest and her stern beneath water. As she turns, men run, slip, and slide into the water, and at the finish, eight minutes after, her bows are showing and about fifty feet of the bottom of the ship above water at an angle.
Finally, one man is left on the green, slippery keel, and he, evidently not being able to swim, calmly takes his jacket off, sits down, and, if you please, takes off his boots, and walking slowly into the water, plunges in, having the good fortune to grab a lifebuoy, and is hauled to a tug.
The submarine has been spotted, and torpedo destroyers give chase, circling round and round, but all signs of her have disappeared. The destroyers, six in all, make bigger and bigger sweeps, when the sound of firing is heard out at sea, and about four miles to the east of Imbros I can see a big French battleship going hell for leather towards the island. She is firing astern, and immediately all six destroyers put out to sea as fast as they can steam; the French ship then fires an extra big shell astern, which explodes with great violence in the water; the destroyers coming up, she gives up firing and makes off to safety. Later: No news as yet of the submarine, and we await with a little anxiety further developments.
The survivors coming ashore were looked after by the Tommies, given new clothes, breakfast, and rum, and seemed none the worse for their adventure. One said, “This is the third —— time I have been sunk, and I’m getting a bit fed-up.” One quickly becomes a philosopher and fatalist on this Peninsula, and the fact that we are all a tonic to each other keeps our spirits up.
I hear that most of the crew are saved, including the Admiral and the Captain. About forty have lost their lives, and I feel sure amongst this number are those unfortunate brave men who stood calmly waiting for almost certain and immediate death, or the bare chance of continuing to live longer, on that trap of a torpedo-net platform.