The scene has passed: I have seen a gallant charge, made in the old style. In five minutes it is over and become glorious history. The bombardment continues, and the scene goes back to one of bursting flame, yellow, green, white, and black smoke drifting away in the strong breeze to the sea. The 60-pounders behind me steadily plunge and recover as their charges are hurled forth on their destructive journeys, with an ear-splitting roar. Suddenly over the din I hear a familiar and fear-striking sound: it is the deep boom-s-h-r-i-e-k of “Asiatic Annie,” and her sister follows quickly after, and they are endeavouring to get at the 60-pounders just behind and silence their efforts. The 60-pounders take no heed, but go steadily on. They are hard to hit, and are well dug in. I am directly in the line of fire, and what missed them might get me, and so, after one shell bursts damnably close, I abruptly slither down the slopes of the cliff into the arms of two smelly Greeks, who have been sitting below me, shouting now and again gleefully, “Turkey finished!”
Our camp gets a bad shelling. Two passers-by are killed, and one of our transport men is buried in his dugout, and when dug out is found dead.
4.30 p.m.
Have been at work on supplies; the firing has died down somewhat. Wounded are arriving, and the stretcher-bearers are nearly dropping with fatigue and heat as they carry their heavy burdens along to the dressing stations on the beach. Prisoners are arriving. I count a hundred, all looking frightened out of their lives; I heard we had captured four hundred prisoners, three lines of trenches, the Boomerang Fort, one four-gun battery, and twelve Maxim guns.
6 p.m.
We are again bombarding heavily, and I hear my Brigade is attacking, but cannot see anything but smoke and dust.
8 p.m.
It has now quietened down somewhat, but Asia is sending shells over to the 60-pounder battery once more.
June 29th.
Early I ride up to Brigade H.Q. I find they have moved forward. I ride on past Pink Farm, to the little nullah beyond, and there find a trench has been dug leading out from the end of the nullah which I am told leads to Brigade H.Q. The trench, recently dug, is quite 8 feet deep, and roomy enough for pack-mules to pass along and men in single file to pass back in the opposite direction. All the time bullets were pinging and hissing overhead. The trench finally ended in a junction of several trenches leading in various directions to the firing-line. Dug in the sides of this junction was our new Brigade H.Q., on the level of the bottom of the trench, and taking advantage of a rise in the ground in front, affording perfect cover, except from a direct hit; on the left was Twelve Tree Wood, the scene of a bloody fight in the early days, but now used for artillery forward observation posts. Farmer, our Brigade Major, was very busy, looking ill and tired. Orderlies and telegrams were constantly arriving. The Signal Office was working at full steam—dot-dash, dot-dash, incessantly being rapped out on the buzzers. When I see the signallers at work, the scene in a London telegraph office always comes to my mind, and I contrast the circumstances under which the respective operators work. Farmer is continually being called to the telephone. Officers on similar errands to mine are waiting. It is like being in a City office waiting for an interview with one of the directors.