Transcriber’s Note

The cover image was created by Susan Ehrlich from elements of the original publication and is placed in the public domain.

See [end of this document] for details of corrections and other changes.

GALLIPOLI DIARY

GALLIPOLI DIARY

BY

MAJOR JOHN GRAHAM GILLAM
D.S.O.

LONDON: GEORGE ALLEN & UNWIN LTD.
RUSKIN HOUSE  40 MUSEUM STREET, W.C. 1

First published in 1918

(All rights reserved)

PREFACE

In the kind and courteous letter which you will read on [p. 15] General Sir Aylmer Hunter-Weston says that it is not possible for him to write a Preface to this book. That is my own and the reader’s great loss, for General Hunter-Weston, as is well known, commanded the 29th Division at the landing on the Gallipoli Peninsula on April 25, 1915, and during those early months of desperate fighting, until to the universal regret of all who served under him he became one of the victims of the sickness that began to ravage our ranks; and as one of the chief players of the great game that was there enacted, his comments would have been of supreme interest and would have added immeasurably to such small value as there may be in this Diary of one of the pawns in that same game. But since the player cannot, the pawn may perhaps be allowed to say a few words by way of comment on and explanation of the following pages.

Towards the completion of the mobilization of the 29th Division in the Leamington area in early 1915, I heard secretly that the Division was bound for the Dardanelles at an early date, instead of for France as we had at first expected. By this I knew that in all probability the Division was destined to play a most romantic part in the Great War. I had visions of trekking up the Gallipoli Peninsula with the Navy bombarding a way for us up the Straits and along the coast-line of the Sea of Marmora, until after a brief campaign we entered triumphantly Constantinople, there to meet the Russian Army, which would link up with ourselves to form part of a great chain encircling and throttling the Central Empires. I sailed from England on March 20, 1915, firmly convinced that my vision would actually come true and that some time in 1915 the paper-boys would be singing out in the streets of London: “Fall of Constantinople—British link hands with the Russians”; and I am sure that all who knew the secret of our destination were as firmly convinced as I was that we should meet with complete success. We little appreciated the difficulties of our task.

For these reasons, and perhaps because the very names—Gallipoli, Dardanelles, Constantinople—sounded so romantic and full of adventure, I determined to revive an old, if egotistic, hobby of mine—the keeping of a diary. Throughout the Gallipoli campaign, therefore, almost religiously every day and with very few exceptions I recorded, as I have done in the past, the daily happenings of my life and the impressions such happenings made on me, and the thoughts that they created. The diary was written by me to myself, as most diaries are, to be read possibly by myself and my nearest relations after the war, but with no thought of publication.

But when the Division was in Egypt, after the evacuation, and just prior to its embarking for France, a Supply Officer joined us whom I had met and talked to on the Peninsula, as one meets hundreds of men, without knowing, or caring to know, anything more about them than that they are trying to do their job as one tries to do one’s own. His name is Launcelot Cayley Shadwell, and we became firm friends. We talked often of Gallipoli, and one day, in France, I showed him my diary. He read it, and then told me that I should try to get it published. I laughed at the idea, but he assured me that these first-hand impressions might interest a wider circle than that for which they were primarily intended, but that beforehand the diary should be pruned and edited, for of course there was much in it which was too personal to be of interest to anybody but myself. I asked him if he would edit it for me. He consented, and very kindly undertook the necessary blue pencilling, and in addition to his labour of excision was good enough to insert a few passages describing, so far as words can, the exquisite loveliness of the Peninsula. For these, which far surpass the powers of my own pen, I am deeply indebted to him. They will be found under dates:—May 2nd, Moonlight at Helles; May 13th, The sensations one experiences when a shell is addressed to you; May 26th, Moonlight scenes; May 30th, Colouring of Imbros; July 15th, Alexandria; September 16th and 17th, The bathing cove.

I am also indebted to the kindness of Captain Jocelyn Bray, the A.P.M. of the 29th Division on the Peninsula, for many excellent photographs.

The diary next had to be submitted to the Censor, who naturally refused to pass it until the Dardanelles Commission had finished its sittings, and it was nearly a year before it came back into my hands, passed for publication, but with a few further blue pencillings, this time not personal, but official. And in this form—hastily scribbled by me from day to day, with a stumpy indelible pencil on odd sheets of paper, pruned, edited and improved by Shadwell, and extra-edited, if not notably improved, by the Censor—my diary is now presented for the consideration of an all-indulgent public.

Enough has been said to show, if internal evidence did not shout it aloud, that my diary has no literary pretensions whatsoever. I am no John Masefield, and do not seek to compete with my betters. Those who desire to survey the whole amazing Gallipoli campaign in perspective must look elsewhere than in these pages. Their sole object was to record the personal impressions, feeling, and doings from day to day of one supply officer to a Division whose gallantry in that campaign well earned for it the epithet “Immortal.” If in spite of its many deficiencies my diary should succeed in interesting the reader, and if, in particular, I have been able to place in the proper light the services of that indispensable but underrated arm, the A.S.C., I am more than content.

I have now seen the A.S.C. at work in England, Egypt, France and Flanders, as well as in Gallipoli, and the result is always just the same. Tommy is hungry three times a day without distinction of place, and without distinction of place three times a day, as regularly as the sun rises and sets, food is forthcoming for him, food in abundance with no queues or meat cards. The A.S.C. must never fail, and it never does fail, for its organization is one of the most brilliant the Army knows. But few, other than those in the A.S.C. itself or on the staffs of armies, can appreciate its vastness and its infallibility. To do so one should watch the supply ships dodging the enemy submarines and arriving at the bases, the supply hangars at the base supply depots receiving and disgorging the supplies to the pack trains, the arrival of the trains at the regulating stations on the lines of communication, whence they are dispatched to the railheads just behind the line, the staff of the deputy directors of supplies and transport of armies at work, following carefully the movements of formations and the rise and fall of strengths, to ensure that not only shall sufficient food arrive regularly each day at the railheads, but that there shall be no surpluses to choke the railheads. It is hardly less important that there should not be too much than that there should not be too little.

The slightest miscalculation may easily lead to chaos—to the blocking of trains carrying wounded back and ammunition forward, or the deprivation of a few thousand men of their food at a critical moment. One should watch the arrival of the supply pack trains at the railheads where the supply columns of motor lorries or the divisional trains of horse transport unload the pack trains and load their vehicles, regularly each day at scheduled times, under all conditions, even those caused by a 14-inch enemy shell bursting at intervals of five minutes in the railhead yard, causing all and sundry to get to cover, except the A.S.C., who must never fail to clear the train at the scheduled time. One should watch the divisional train H.Q. at work, following its division and arranging for the daily correct distribution and the delivery of the rations to units. Often horse transport, by careful managing on the part of train H.Q., is released for other duties than those of drawing and delivering supplies to units. Then one may watch the A.S.C. driver delivering R.E. material, etc., to the line, along roads swept by high-explosive shell and shrapnel and machine guns, where all but the A.S.C. driver can get to ground, while he must stand by his horses and get cover for them and himself as best he can. Then, although one has only seen the skeleton framework of this vast service, and has had no opportunity to go into the technicalities of the system or to investigate the many safety valves of base supply depots, field supply depots, reserve parks and emergency ration dumps in the line, all of which are ready to come to the rescue should a pack train be blown up or a convoy scuppered, nor to study the wonderfully efficient organization of transport, covering mechanical transport, horse transport, Foden lorries and tractors which ply from the base to the line, carrying, as well as supplies, ammunition, R.E. material, and every imaginable necessity of war, and moving heavy guns in and out of position, at times under the very noses of the enemy, yet one cannot fail to have gained a great respect for that vast and wonderfully silent organization, the Army Service Corps.

J. G. G.

France,
May 1918.

CONTENTS

ILLUSTRATIONS

INTRODUCTION

Letter from LIEUT.-GENERAL SIR AYLMER HUNTER-WESTON, K.C.B., C.B., D.S.O., M.P., D.L., who commanded the Division at the landing, April 25, 1915.

Dear Gillam,

The Diary of a man who, like yourself, took part in the historic landing at Gallipoli, and was present on the Peninsula during the subsequent fighting, will, I know, be of interest to many besides myself. There are but few of us who, in those strenuous days, were able to keep diaries, and even fewer were those who had the gift of making of their daily entries a narrative that would be of interest to others.

I should like to have time to write a Preface for this book of yours, giving the salient points of our great adventure and the effect it had both on us and on the enemy. I should also have liked to have shown the influence that you and the Army Service Corps generally had on our operations by the successful manner in which you were able to keep the troops fed and supplied under circumstances of apparently insuperable difficulty.

But being, as I am, in command of a big Army Corps on one of the most difficult parts of the Front, it is impossible for me to find any time for writing such a Preface.

I can but wish your book the greatest success, and hope that it will be widely read.

Yours sincerely,
AYLMER HUNTER-WESTON.

Headquarters, VIII Corps, B.E.F.,
February 18, 1918.

THE CLIMATE AT THE DARDANELLES

By HENRY E. PEARS

[After the evacuation of the Peninsula, the following article, which appeared in the Westminster Gazette early in September 1915, was shown to me. After reading it through, I compared the weather forecasts that the author sets forth, and was interested to find that they agreed very closely with the notes on the weather that I had made in my Diary. The article is therefore republished here, as it may be of interest to the reader.—J. G. G.]

The dispatch of August 31st of Reuter’s Special Correspondent with the Mediterranean Forces, of which a summary was published in the Westminster Gazette of the 18th inst., speaks of the weather at the Dardanelles and as to there being two months of fine autumn weather in which to pile up stores, etc. It would be more correct to say three months rather than two.

It may be interesting to some of your readers to have a few remarks on the weather in the Marmora. Such remarks are based on the results of observations made by a close observer of nature during a period of over thirty years. The fact that particular interest was taken in weather conditions at such a place arose from a cause other than a meteorological interest in the weather, the object being an endeavour to throw light on the migration of birds. Bird naturalists in general, and especially Frenchmen, have fully recognized that the two stretches of land, namely the shores of the Bosphorus and that of the Dardanelles, being the closest points of junction between Europe and Asia, as also the European coast between these points, are the concentrated passage way or route for the huge migratory flocks of birds proceeding from the western half of Europe into Asia. Three results stand out in respect to this migration. First, the absolute regularity of the autumn migration or passage; secondly, certain conditions of weather at almost fixed dates; thirdly, the result of the weather conditions as affecting the density of the flights, the resting and stopping of various birds at certain places. The subject is a very wide one, and is somewhat foreign to the real purpose of my remarks.

Taking the month of September to begin with, the weather is very fine, a continuation of summer; cloudless skies day after day, with perhaps a rain and thunder storm or two, only—one generally in the first week, and another about September 17th, but always brought on by a north to north-west wind. As a rule the constant summer land breezes (north-east about) are of less intensity in September than in August, which allows for a keeping up of an average day temperature, as the Marmora, Bosphorus, and Dardanelles owe their moderate day temperature to these daily breezes (called “Meltem”) from the north to north-east during the summer. The wind generally dies away at sunset, which fact, however, rather tends to make the night temperature higher during the summer; the result being that, as between day and night temperature, when the north wind blows during the day, there is but little drop in the temperature and the nights are hot.

About September 21st to 24th there is, however, a marked period in the weather. It is either a calm as regards winds, and consequently very hot, or such period is marked by southerly winds, but not of any great intensity or strength—very dry, hot winds. These are the first southerly winds of autumn, but as a general rule such period is in nautical terms “calm and fine, with southerly airs.”

From such time up to the end of September the north or north-easterly winds set in again, but later on, generally about the first week of October, the winds get more to the north and north-west, and there is a heavy thunderstorm or so, and as a result a drop in temperature.

From October 10th to 14th there is a period of uncertainty; sometimes a south-westerly wind, which veers round to the north-west, and a good rain-storm. The first distinct drop in temperature now takes place (about the 10th to the 14th), one feels autumn in the air, the nights continue fairly warm; and this period continues fine and generally calm up to about the 20th—sometimes the 18th or 19th—when a well defined and almost absolutely regular period is entered upon.

This spell begins with three or four days of very heavy northerly or north-westerly wind, sometimes a gale, generally accompanied by rain for several days, and it is this period—from October 20th to 25th—which is intensely interesting to naturalists owing to the big passage of all kinds of birds, the arrival of the first woodcock, the clockwork precision of the passage of the stock-doves (pigeons); in fact, it is the moment of the big migration, when the air night and day is full of birds on the move. Towards the end of October, and in the way of a counter-coup or reaction to the northerly gales, there is generally experienced a fierce three or four days of southerly winds, sometimes gales.

It is to be noted that these gales or changes in the weather are usually of three or seven days’ duration, the first day generally being the strongest, and for some of these regular winds the natives have special names.

November almost always comes in fine, with a lovely first ten days or so. It, however, becomes rather sharp at night, and a very marked period now of cold weather is to be expected—a cold snap, in fact.

This snap is generally in the second or third week of the month, and only lasts a few days, the weather going back to fine, warm, and calm till the end of the month. Barring such cold snap the month is marked by fine weather and absence of wind, and many people consider it the most glorious month of the year, the sunsets being especially fine. The cold snap is rather a peculiar one. Snow has been seen on November 4th, and, if I remember rightly, the battle of Lule Bourgas three years ago was fought on November 5th, 6th, and 7th, and during such time there raged a storm of rain and sleet, succeeded by two or three nights of hard frost, which caused the death of many a poor fellow who had been wounded and was lying out.

Another year there was a very heavy snow-storm on November 16th and 17th. Although the weather may be of this nature for several days, it recovers and drops back into calm, warm weather.

In the last days of November or the first days of December another period is entered upon. There is generally a heavy south wind lasting from three to seven days, which is succeeded by a lovely spell of fine weather, generally perfectly calm and warm, which brings one well through December. From a little before Christmas or just after, the weather varies greatly. The marked periods are passed—the weather may be anything, sometimes calm and mild, sometimes varied by rains, with strong north winds, but no seriously bad weather; in one word, no real winter weather need be looked for until, as the natives put it, the old New Year—otherwise the New Year, old style, which is January 14th, our style—comes in.

After January 14th, or a few days later, the weather is almost invariably bad; there is always a snow blizzard or two, generally between January 20th and 25th. These are real bad blizzards, which sometimes last from three to seven days; and anything in the way of weather may happen for the next six weeks or two months. The snow has been known to lie for six weeks. Strong southerly gales succeed, as a rule, the northerly gales, but one thing is to be noted: that the south and west winds no longer bring rain; it is the north and north-east which bring snow and rain.

This winter period is difficult to speak of with anything like precision; nothing appears to be regular. Some years the weather is severe, other years snow is only seen once or twice. Winter is said to have finished on April 15th. The only point about a severe winter is that a period of cold is generally followed by a period of calm warm weather of ten days or so. It has often been noted that a very cold winter in England and France, etc., generally gives the south-east corner of Europe about which we are speaking a mild winter with a prevalence of southerly airs, whereas a mild winter in England and France marks the south-east corner of Europe for a severe winter, with a prevalence of northerly winds. No doubt experts will be able to explain this. Of late years no great cold has visited the Marmora. In 1893 the Golden Horn from the Inner Bridge at Constantinople was frozen over sufficiently for people to walk over the ice, and the inner harbour had floes knocking about for some weeks. That winter, however, was an exceptional one, but even then the winter only began about January 18th, lasting into March. The great point about the climate is that, however hot or cold a spell may be, it is always succeeded by calm weather, a blue sky, and a warm sun, quite a different state of things from winter weather under English conditions. To those who have relations or friends at the Dardanelles (and I quote from a letter from a friend), let them send good strong warm stockings for the men, besides the usual waistcoats and mufflers; and as for creature comforts, sweets, chocolate, and tobacco, especially cigarettes. It is the Turks who will suffer from the cold; they cannot stand it long, and being fed generally mainly on bread, they have no stamina to meet cold weather. Most of their troops come from warm climes.

PROLOGUE—MARCH 1915

On March 20th, 1915, I embarked on the S.S. Arcadian for the seat of war. My destination, I learned, was to be the Dardanelles, and the campaign, I surmised, was likely to be more romantic than any other military undertaking of modern times. Our ship carried, besides various small units, part of the General Staff of the Expedition. The voyage was not to be as monotonous as I first thought, for I found many old friends on board. After the usual orderly panic consequent on the loading of a troopship we glided from the quay, our only send-off being supplied by a musical Tommy on shore, who performed with great delicacy and feeling “The Girl I left Behind Me” on a tin whistle. The night was calm and beautiful, and the new crescent moon swung above in the velvet sky—a symbol, as I thought, of the land we were bound for. As we passed the last point a voice sang out, “Are we downhearted?” and the usual “No!” bawled by enthusiastic soldiers on board, vibrated through the ship, and so with our escort of six destroyers we left the coast of Old England behind us. Nothing of interest happened during the passage across the Bay. On arrival at Gibraltar searchlights at once picked us up, and a small boat from a gunboat near by came alongside—we dropped two bags of mails into her and in return received our orders. As we sailed through the Mediterranean, hugging the African coast, the view of the purple mountains cut sharp against the emerald sky was very beautiful.

Our next stop was Malta, which struck me as very picturesque. The island showed up buff colour against the blue sky, and the creamy colour of the flat-roofed houses made a curious colour scheme. As we went slowly up the fair way of Valetta Harbour, we passed several French warships, on one of which the band played “God Save the King,” followed by “Tipperary,” our men cheering by way of answering the compliment. The grand harbour was very interesting, swarming with shipping of all kinds, the small native boats darting over the blue water interesting me greatly. The buff background of the hills, dotted with the creamy-coloured buildings and a few forts, the pale-blue sky and deeper tint of the water, the wheeling gulls, all went to make up a charming picture. We went ashore for a short time and found the town full of interest. We visited the Club, a fine old building, once one of the auberges of the Knights of Malta, where we were made guests for the day. Afterwards we strolled round the town; the flat-roofed houses made the view quite Eastern, and the curious mixture of fashionable and native clothing at once struck me. The women wore a head-dress not unlike that of a nun—black, and kept away from the face by a stiffening of wire. We passed many fine buildings, for Malta is full of them, and one particularly we noticed, namely the Governor’s Palace, with its charming gardens. As to the country itself, what I saw of it was all arranged in stone terraces, no hedges, except a few clumps of cactus being visible. In the evening we returned to the ship, and before very long set sail once more. I found that two foreign officers had joined us; one was a Russian and the other French, but both belonged to the French Army and both spoke English perfectly.

On April 1st, after an uneventful trip from Malta, we arrived at Alexandria, our Base, and from this date the Diary proper begins.

GALLIPOLI DIARY

APRIL

April 1st to 17th.

We arrived at Alexandria on April 1st. The harbour is very fine, about three miles wide, and protected from the open sea by a boom. The docks are very extensive, and, just now, are of course seething with industry. All the transports have arrived safely. The harbour itself is full of shipping, and anchored in a long row I am delighted to see a number of German liners which have been either captured on the high seas or captured in port at the beginning of hostilities and interned. All the Division disembarks and goes to four camps on the outskirts of the town. My destination was bare desert, and reminded me irresistibly of the wilderness as mentioned in the Bible. There was a salt-water lake near by, with a big salt-works quite near it.

In the centre of Alexandria is a fine square flanked by splendid up-to-date hotels and picturesque boulevards; but the native quarter is most depressing, consisting of mud hovels sheltering grimy women and still grimier children. The huts themselves are without windows and only partially roofed. Flies abound upon the filthy interstices; a noxious smell of cooking, tainted with the scent of onions, greets the nose of the passer-by at all hours. I find my work at the docks rather arduous, as, after the troops have disembarked, we have to take stock of what supplies remain on board, and then make up all shortages. I sleep and have my meals on a different ship almost every day—which is interesting. About the fifth of the month the troops return to re-embark—I have to work very hard on the ships with gangs of Arabs. These folk are just like children, and have to be treated as such—watched and urged on every moment; if one leaves them to themselves for an instant they start jabbering like a lot of monkeys. I finally find myself on a fine Red Star boat, the S.S. Southland.

There are a lot of our Staff on board—also French Staff, including General D’Amade, the French G.O.C., who did such good work in France in the retreat. He is a distinguished-looking old man with white hair, moustache, and imperial. I hear that Way and myself are to be the first Supply Officers ashore at the landing. Half the A.S.C. have been left behind in Alexandria, and there are only five of my people with me.

Sunday, April 18th.

We are now steaming through crowds of little islands, some as small as a cottage garden, others as large as Hyde Park. Sea beautifully calm, and troops just had their Church Parade. We have the King’s Own Scottish Borderers on board, and it is very nice having their pipers instead of the bugle.

On account of drifting mines we are keeping off the usual route.

2 o’clock.

Arrive at our rendez-vous, Lemnos, a big island, with a fine harbour. Seven battleships in, and all our transport fleet as well as some of the French and Australian. We remain in the outer harbour awhile opposite a battleship that had been in the wars, one funnel being nearly blown away. All battleships painted a curious mottled colour, and look weird. One of our cargo-boats has been converted into a dummy battleship to act as a decoy, very cleverly done too. Later, we go into the inner harbour and moor alongside another transport, the Aragon, on which is my Brigade Staff and the Hampshires, who were at Stratford with me. The Staff Captain hands over to me a box, which I find is my long-lost torch and batteries from Gamage.

French Headquarter Staff and General D’Amade leave and go on board Arcadian. The transport Manitou, one of the boats on which I ate and slept, and which left Alexandria two in front of our transport, was stopped by a Turkish destroyer off Rhodes and three torpedoes were discharged at her. The first two torpedoes missed and the troops rushed to the boats. Owing to some muddle, two boats fell into the sea and a ship’s officer and fifty soldiers were drowned. The third torpedo struck, but did not explode, as the percussion pin had not been pulled out. Two cruisers arrived on the scene and chased the destroyer off, which ran ashore, the crew being captured.

After dinner go on board Aragon with Hampshire officers and see Panton. Also talk to Brigade-Major and Captain Reid, of Hampshires.

Monday morning, April 19th.

Lovely morning. Fleet left. Troops, with full kit on, marching round deck to the tune of piano. Most thrilling. Piano plays “Who’s your Lady Friend?” soldiers singing. What men! Splendid! What luck to be with the 29th!

April 22nd.

This is a fine harbour, very broad, and there are quite a hundred ships here, including the Fleet and transports, amongst which are some of our best liners. I had to go to a horse-boat lying in the mouth of the harbour two mornings ago and took two non-commissioned officers and a crew of twelve men. We got there all right, a row of two and a half miles, but the sea was so heavy that it was impossible to row back. I had to return, and fortunately managed to get taken back in a pinnace that happened to call; but the rest had to remain on board till the next day, and then took three hours to row back. This gives us an idea of the difficult task our landing will be at Gallipoli. For a time we were moored alongside the boat on which was the Headquarters of the 88th Brigade, and it was cheering to be able to walk to and fro between the two ships and to see all my pals of the Hampshires.

The Hampshires and the Worcesters spend the day marching, with full kit on, round the deck to the cheery strains of popular airs played by a talented Tommy. The effect, with the regular tramp, is very exhilarating.

Later, I am ordered to join another ship, the Dongola, in which are the Essex and the Royal Scots, the other regiments of my Brigade. Two Essex officers were staying in the “Warwick Arms” with me, and it was good seeing them again. The harbour at night is a fine sight. A moon is shining and not a cloud in the sky, and the temperature about 50°.

The last few days, however, have been wet and drizzling, just like a typical day in June in England when one has been invited to a garden party.

One can see the outline of the low irregular hills on shore, and the ships are constantly signalling to one another, silently sending orders, planning and arranging for the great adventure.

Have to go up to the signalling deck above the bridge to take a message flashed from a tiny little “Tinker Bell” light away on our starboard. The sight is wonderful. Busy little dot-dash flashes all around the harbour. How the signallers find out which is which beats me.

The view of the hills in the background contrasts strangely with the scenes of modern science and ingenuity afloat.

I saw the Queen Elizabeth at close quarters two days ago, and I hope to go over her to-morrow. Also the Askold, a Russian cruiser, with five funnels. Tommies call her “The packet of Woodbines.” It is interesting to note the confidence the Army and Navy have in each other. While being rowed over here by some bluejackets, “stroke” told me that he was in the Irresistible when she was sunk. He looked sullen, and then said, “However, they’ll catch it now the khaki boys have arrived.” The prevailing opinion amongst the Tommies is that the landing will be a soft job, with Queen Bess and her sisters pounding the land defences with shells. Then the confidence French, British, and Russians have in one another is encouraging. The feeling prevails that when once the landing is effected Turkey will cave in, and that will have a great influence on the duration of the war. But a Scotsman said to me to-day, “Remember, Kitchener said ‘A three years’ war.’”

Sir Ian Hamilton this evening sent round a brief exhortation beginning, “Soldiers of France and of the King,” which bucked up everybody.

April 23rd.

A bright day. Took estimate of stores on board to see if troops had enough rations. Found shortage; signalled Headquarters, who send stores to make up. Received orders where to land on Sunday. Have to go ashore at “V” Beach with the first load of supplies and start depot on beach. Naval officer on board with a party. Breezy, good-looking young man, very keen on his job.

The first boat of the fleet leaves, named the River Clyde, an old tramp steamer, painted khaki. She contains the Dublin and Munster Fusiliers. Fore and aft on starboard and port the sides are cut away, but fastened like doors. She will be beached at “V” Beach, and immediately that is over, her sides will be opened and the troops aboard will swarm out on to the shore. Good luck to those on board! She slowly passes the battleships, and turning round the boom, is soon out of sight.

The strains of the Russian National Anthem float over the harbour from the Askold and the first large transport leaves the harbour, a big Cunarder, the Aucania, with some of the 86th Brigade on board. Great cheering. What a drama, and how impressive the Russian National Anthem is. Evening again. Little “Tinker Bell” flashes begin to get busy.

On lower deck the Tommies give a concert, with an orchestra composed of a tin can, a few mouth-organs, and combs and paper—“Tipperary,” “Who’s your Lady Friend?” etc.

Feel just a bit lonely and homesick. Longing for the time when I can see my sisters again and punt up the river at dear old Guildford. But what about the Tommies on board?—they have just the same feeling, and yet keep playing their mouth-organs. Hear that Ian Hamilton feels a bit anxious over this job, but that Hunter-Weston, our Divisional General, is full of pluck and confidence. He says that he will not “down” the man who makes mistakes yet tries to remedy them, but that the man that he will “down” will be the one who slacks and avoids work.

April 24th.

Another bright day. Some transports and battleships leaving harbour. Issue extra days’ rations to troops on board, which makes four days’ that they will have to carry. Their packs and equipment now equal sixty pounds. How they will fight to-morrow beats me. I tried a pack on and was astonished at its weight. We have left harbour and are steaming for the scene of the great adventure. Hope we shall not meet a submarine or drifting mines. Have spent the evening with some young officers of the Essex. They all seem a trifle nervous, yet brave and cheery. They play a Naval game called “Priest of the Parish,” but it falls flat. I felt nervous myself, but after cheering them up, felt better. Told them it was going to be a soft job.

We arrive at five in the morning, and troops are to land at six. London will be ringing with the news on Monday or Tuesday.

If successful, the war out here will soon be over, we think.

April 25th.

Was awakened up at four by the noise of the distant rumbling of guns, and coming to my senses, I realized that the great effort had started. I dressed hastily and went on deck, and there found the Essex and Royal Scots falling in on parade, with full packs on, two bags of iron rations, and the unexpended portion of the day’s rations (for they had breakfasted), entrenching tools, two hundred rounds of ammunition, rifle and bayonet. I stood and watched—watched their faces, listened to what they said to each other, and could trace no sign of fear in their faces and no words of apprehension at forthcoming events in their conversation.

It was a simple “fall in,” just as of old in the days of peace parades, with the familiar faces of their N.C.O.’s and officers before them, like one big family party.

They seemed to be rather weighed down with their packs, and I pity them for the work that this parade is called for. The booming of the guns grows louder. It is very misty, but on going forward I can just see land, and the first officer points out to me the entrance through the Dardanelles. How narrow it seems; like the Thames at Gravesend almost. I can see the Askold distinctly. A Tommy said, “There’s the old packet of Woodbines giving them what-ho!” She is firing broadsides, and columns of dust and smoke arise from shore. The din is getting louder. I can’t quite make out which is the Asiatic side and which Gallipoli. It is getting clearer and a lovely day is developing. Seagulls are swooping over the calm sea above the din, and a thunderous roar bursts out now and again from Queen Bess. Her 15-inch guns are at work, and she is firing enormous shrapnel shells—terrible shells, which seem to burst 30 feet from the ground.

8 a.m.

The Essex are disembarking now, going down the rope ladders slowly and with difficulty. One slips on stepping into a boat and twists his ankle. An onlooking Tommy is heard to remark, “Somebody will get hurt over this job soon.” Young Milward, the Naval Landing Officer, is controlling the disembarkation. He has a typical sailor’s face—keen blue eyes, straight nose and firm mouth, with a good chin. They are landing in small open boats. A tug takes a string of them in tow, and slowly they steam away for “W” Beach. We hear the Lancashires have landed at “W” Beach, and are a hundred yards inshore fighting for dear life. Tug after tug takes these strings of white open boats away from our ship towards land, with their overladen khaki freight. Slowly they wend their way towards the green shore in front of us, winding in and out among transports, roaring battleships, and angry destroyers, towards the land of the Great Adventure. Never, surely, was Navy and Army so closely allied.

I go below to get breakfast, but hardly eat any. The breakfast-tables are almost empty, except for a few Quartermasters and people like myself who do not fight. I feel ashamed to be there, and a friend says the same. The steward calmly hands the menu round, just as he might on a peaceful voyage. What a contrast! Two boiled eggs, coffee, toast, and marmalade.

Here we are sitting down to a good meal and men are fighting up the cliffs a few hundred yards away. I get it over and go up on deck again.

8.30 a.m.

It is quite clear now, and I can just see through my glasses the little khaki figures on shore at “W” Beach and on the top of the cliff, while at “V” Beach, where the River Clyde is lying beached, all seems hell and confusion. Some fool near me says, “Look, they are bathing at ‘V’ Beach.” I get my glasses on to it and see about a hundred khaki figures crouching behind a sand dune close to the water’s edge. On a hopper which somehow or other has been moored in between the River Clyde and the shore I see khaki figures lying, many apparently dead. I also see the horrible sight of some little white boats drifting, with motionless khaki freight, helplessly out to sea on the strong current that is coming down the Straits. The battleships incessantly belch spurts of flame, followed by clouds of buff-coloured smoke, and above it all a deafening roar. It is ear-splitting. I shall get used to it in time, I suppose. Some pinnace comes alongside our ship with orders, and the midshipman in command says the Australians have landed, but with many casualties, and have got John Turk on the run across the Peninsula. I turn my glasses up the coast to see if I can see them, but they are too far away. I can only see brown hills and bursting shells, a sea dead calm, and a perfect day. The work of the Creator and the destroying hand of man in close intimacy. A seaplane swoops from the pale blue of the sky and settles like a beautiful bird on the dark blue of the sea alongside a great battleship, while hellish destructive shells deal out death and injury to God’s creatures on shore. This is war! and I am watching as from a box at the theatre.

THE GANGWAY OF THE RIVER CLYDE, OUT OF WHICH TROOPS POURED AS SOON AS THE SHIP GROUNDED ON APRIL 25, 1915. CAPE HELLES.

10.20 a.m.

Imbros is peaceful and beautiful, Gallipoli beautiful and awful. We have moved closer in to the beach and they are trying to hit us from the shore. Two shells have just dropped near us, twenty yards away; the din is ear-splitting, especially from Queen Bess. I can hear the crack-crack of the rifles on shore, which reminds me of Bulford. I shall be glad when we land. This boat is getting on my nerves. We are just off the “Horse of Troy,” as we call the River Clyde. Are we going to land at “V” Beach? I can see no sign of life there. Nothing but columns of earth thrown into the air and bits of the houses of Sed-el-Bahr flying around, and always those crouching figures behind the sand dunes. Only the Royal Scots left on board. Perhaps they are going to land and make good. I get near Milward to see if he has any orders. He goes up to the bridge to take a signal.

11.30 a.m.

We are going out to sea again. A tug comes alongside with wounded, and they are carefully hoisted on board by slings. They are the first wounded that I have ever seen in my life, and I look over the side with curiosity and study their faces. They are mostly Lancashire Fusiliers from “W” Beach. Some look pale and stern, some are groaning now and again, while others are smoking and joking with the crew of the tug.

I talk to one of the more slightly wounded, and he tells me that it was “fun” when once they got ashore, but they “copped it” from machine guns in getting out of the boats into shallow water, where they found venomous barbed wire was thickly laid. He laid out four John Turks and then “copped it” through the thigh, and three hours afterwards was picked up by sailors.

And then, “Any chance of Blighty, sir?” and I said, “I’m afraid not; it will be Malta or Alex, and back here again,” to which he replied, “Yes; I want to get back to the regiment.”

12 noon.

We are going closer in again, and the Royal Scots are leaving. The Quartermaster, Lieutenant Steel, remains behind with ration parties. He is very impatient and wants to get off; a curious man: tells me he doesn’t think he will come off Gallipoli alive.

2.15 p.m.

I have a dismal lunch, just like the breakfast. I can see French troops pouring out of small boats now on to the Asiatic side and forming up in platoons and marching in open order inland, while shrapnel bursts overhead. During lunch I find that we went out to sea, but are nearing the land now. Oh! when shall I get off this ship? I wonder. Milward tells me that the delay occurred because at first we were to land at “V” Beach, but that it has become so hot there that landing to-day is impossible. He says that I shall land at 4 p.m. I hear a cheer, a real British one. Is that a charge? My imagination had conjured up a mass of yelling and maddened men rushing forward helter-skelter. What I see is crouching figures, some almost bent double, others jog-trotting over the grass with bright sun-rays flashing on their bayonets. Now and again a figure falls and lies still—very still in a crumpled heap; while all the time the crack-crack of musketry and the pop-popping of machine guns never ceases. That is what a charge looks like. I chat to Milward, and he tells me that the Navy are doing their job well, and he will be surprised if a single Turk is alive for three miles inshore by nightfall, but he expresses surprise that we have only the 29th and Australians; as he figures it we want six Divisions and the job over in a month. This depresses me.

I have orders to leave, and I must get ready.

4 p.m.

I give orders to my servant and to the corporal and private of the advanced Supply Section, who are to accompany me, to get kit ready. I am to land at once on “W” Beach with seven days’ rations and water, and a quantity of S.A. ammunition for my Brigade. I superintend the loading of the supplies from the forward hold to the lighter which has moored alongside, my corporal on the lighter checking it, and doing his job just as methodically as he used to at Bulford. While at work, a few shells drop into the sea quite near, throwing up waterspouts as high as the funnel of the ship. Two small boats are made fast to the lighter, and my servant and I get into the lighter down the rope ladder. Beastly things, rope ladders. We sit down on the boxes and wait. We wait a devil of a time while others join us, among whom are the 88th Field Ambulance and the Padre. Suddenly Padre gets a message that he is not to go, and we find that he was trying to smuggle himself ashore. At last up comes a small pinnace with a very baby of a midshipman at the wheel, and a lot of orders are sung out in a shrill voice to men old enough to be his father. We slowly steam for shore.

Passing across the bows of the Implacable, we nearly have our heads blown off by the blast of her forward guns, and the funny thing is, I can hardly see a man on board. Pinnaces, tugs, destroyers are rushing in and out of the fleet of transports and warships. A tug passes close to us on its way to the Dongola, the ship I have just left, loaded with wounded, all slight cases, and they give us a cheer and shout “Best of luck, boys!” We wave back. We approach close into “W” Beach, where lighters are moored to more lighters beached high on the sand, and then the “snotty,” making a sweep with his pinnace, swings us round. He gives the order to cast adrift, and then shouts in a baby voice: “I can’t do any more for you; you must get ashore the best you can.”

We fortunately manage with difficulty to grab a rope from one of the moored lighters and make fast while the two boats are rowed ashore. There we stick. I dare not leave those seven days’ rations and water for four thousand men, and I shout to seamen on shore to try to push us in and so beach us. The bombardment begins to ease off somewhat. The sun begins to sink behind Imbros, and gradually it turns bitterly cold. I sit and shiver, munching the unexpired portion of my day’s ration. I want a coat badly, but by this time my kit is on shore with my servant. We appear to have been forgotten altogether. On the cliffs in front of us Tommies are limping back wounded. One comes perilously near the edge of the cliff, stumbling and swaying like a drunken man. We shout loudly to him as time after time he all but falls over the edge. Two R.A.M.C. grabbed him eventually and led him safely down. I have a smoke, and view the scenes on shore. Gradually the beach is becoming filled with medical stores and supplies. It is gruesome seeing dozens of dead lying about in all attitudes. It becomes eerie as it gets darker. At this beach at dawn this morning there landed the Lancashire Fusiliers. They were waited for until their boats were beached, when, as the troops stepped out of the boats, they were fired on by the Turks, who subjected them to heavy machine gun fire from two cliffs on either side of the beach. The slaughter was terrible. On the right-hand side of the beach the troops had a check, and terrible fighting took place. Finally, one by one the machine guns were pulled from their positions in the cliff, and the sections working them killed in hand-to-hand struggles. On the left side of the beach the troops found no barbed wire, and so were able to get on shore, and to the cry of “Lads, follow me!” from an officer they swarmed up a 50-feet steep cliff, clearing the upper ridge of Turks, but losing heavily. They fought their way inland, and after a while were able to enfilade the Turks holding up our men on the right of the beach, until at last, by 6 a.m., the whole beach was won and John Turk was driven five hundred yards or more inshore.

Midshipmen and Naval Lieutenants were in charge of the pinnaces towing strings of boats, and as they approached the shore, fired for all they were worth with machine guns mounted forward, protected by shields. Then, swinging round, they cast the boats adrift. Each boat had a few sailors, who rowed for shore like mad, and many in so doing lost their lives, shot in the back. To row an open boat, unprotected, into murderous machine gun and rifle fire requires pluck backed by a discipline which only the British Navy can supply. Some of the sailors grabbed rifles from dead and wounded soldiers and fought as infantrymen. I can see many such dead Naval heroes before my eyes now, lying still on the bloody sand. I am sitting on the boxes now, and “ping” goes something past my head, and then “ping-ping,” with a long ringing sound, follows one after the other. The crackle of musketry begins again, and faster and faster the bullets come. At last I know what bullets are like.

The feeling at first is weird. We get behind the pile of boxes, and bullets hit bully beef and biscuit boxes or pass harmlessly overhead. At last, boats come alongside and we unload the boxes into them, and I go ashore with the first batch, and there I meet 86th and 87th Supply Officers, who landed two hours earlier. My servant meets me and asks where shall I sleep. What a question! What does he expect me to answer—“Room 44, first floor”? I say, “Oh, shove my kit down there,” pointing to some lying figures on the sand. Five minutes after he comes up, and with a scared voice says, “Them is all stiff corpses, sir; you can’t sleep there.” I reply, “Oh, damn it; go and sit down on my kit till I come back.” I start to work to get the stores higher up the cliff. Oh! the sand. It is devilish heavy going, walking up and down with my feet sinking in almost ankle-deep. It is quite dark now, and I stumble at frequent intervals over the dead. Parties are removing them, not for burial, but higher up the beach out of the way of the working parties. I run into the Brigade quartermaster-sergeant and ask him, “How’s the Brigadier?” He replies, “Killed, sir.” I can’t speak for a moment. “And the Brigade Major?” “Killed also, sir.” That finishes me. It is my first experience of the real horrors of war—losing those who had become friends, whom one respected. And I had worked in their headquarters in England every day for two months, knew them almost intimately, and looked forward with pleasure to going through the campaign on their Staff. “How did it happen, Leslie?” I ask. The General was shot in the stomach while in the pinnace, before he could step on to the hopper alongside the River Clyde, and died shortly after. The Brigade Major got it walking along the hopper. The River Clyde was to have been Brigade H.Q., and the Brigade was to have taken “V” Beach that day. So far, “V” Beach was still Turkish. Their machine guns kept our men at bay. I wonder what it is like on the River Clyde at present, and whether those few men are still crouching behind that sand dune.

Way comes up and says it is going to be a devil of a job getting those stores ashore, and that he can’t get enough men. I have a few seamen, Cooper, Whitbourn, and my servant, so put them on to it, and I myself help. Thus we struggle on over the sand and up to the grass on the slope of the cliff. Phew! it is work, and I am getting dead tired. We work till eleven o’clock and then Foley and I have a rest behind a pile of boxes on the sand. Bullets steadily “ping” overhead, and now and again a man gives a little sigh of pain and falls helplessly to the sand. The strange part is that I do not feel sick at the sight of the dead and wounded. I think it is because of the excitement, and because I am dead tired. I get a bit cold sitting still, and can’t find my coat, so I huddle against Foley behind the boxes. A philosophical Naval officer sits alongside, smoking a huge pipe. Crack-crack-crack goes the desultory fire of the rifles. The ships cease firing. It is awfully quiet and uncanny. Suddenly the musketry and rifle fire breaks out with a burst which develops into a steady roar. The beach becomes alive with people once more. All seems confusion. The Naval officer goes on steadily smoking, and we sit still, wondering how things are going to develop. The Fleet is silent. But I can just see the outline of the warships, with a few lights showing.

Then I hear an officer shouting angrily, “Now then, fall in, you men! Who are you? Well, fall in. Get a rifle. Find one then, and damn quick!” Then another officer shouts, “All but R.A.M.C. fall in. Who are you? Fall in. Into file, right turn, quick march.” About a dozen or two march off into the night up the cliff—officers’ servants, A.S.C., seamen, R.N.D.—every man who was not either R.A.M.C. or working on the dozen or so lighters that had been beached. I pause a bit. I feel a worm skulking behind these boxes while these events are happening. I express my feelings to Foley, and he says he feels the same. I say, “We must do something,” and he replies, “Let’s get rifles,” and off we go searching for rifles, but can find none in the dark. I lose my temper—why, Heaven only knows. I see some men falling in, and I go up to them and say, “Fall in, you men; why aren’t you falling in?”—although I know they are, and I find an officer in charge and feel an ass. They move up to man the third-line trench just running along the edge of the cliff. All the beach parties have moved up to this trench. I have lost Foley, and so I follow up with no rifle and no revolver, and shivering with cold. But I feel much better, although I am still in a temper. Extraordinary this! I am annoyed with everybody I see. Nerves, I suppose. Then a petty officer comes along and shouts, “Now then, you men, where the —— is the —— ammunition?” and in the darkness I discern some seamen carrying boxes of S.A.A. I go to the first pair, carrying a box between them, and take one side of the box from one of the seamen, and immediately feel delighted with myself, the sailor, and everybody. I have got a definite job. Up we pant; half-way up the cliff, I find Foley on the same job. A voice shouts, “Have you got the ammunition, Foley?” It is O’Hara’s voice, our D.A.Q.M.G., and he comes running down to us.

Suddenly the Fleet open fire, and the infernal din begins all over again, the flashes lighting up the beach, silhouetting men on shore and ships lying off, and all the time the song of bullets. Red Hell and a Sunday night! And this is war at last! I never thought I should ever get as near it as this, when I was a civilian. O’Hara says, “Who’s that?” to me, and I answer my name, and he says, “Righto! give us a hand with this little lot, lad.” He bends down, and he and a sailor lift a box. Foley and I lift another, and six seamen (I find they are off the Implacable) lift the others, and off we pant up the cliff over that third-line trench, lined with men of the beach parties with fixed bayonets. It’s a devil of a walk to the second line, and it reminds me of hurrying to the railway station with a heavy portmanteau to catch a train. Foley and I constantly change hands.

The seamen too find it heavy going. We arrive at the second line and run into the Adjutant of the Lancashire Fusiliers, calmly walking up and down his trench with a stick. We halt, open the boxes, and hang the strings of ammunition around our necks and over our shoulders. I am almost weighed down with the load. We have a rest, taking cover in the trench now and again as bullets come rather thicker than usual. The firing is frightful—now a roar of musketry, and now desultory firing—while the ships’ guns boom away in the same spasmodic way. O’Hara then says, “Come along; follow me,” and we go, headed by the Adjutant of the Lancashire Fusiliers to show us the way, and on over the grass and gorse into the blackness beyond. We are lucky, for it is a quiet moment and we have only to go three or four hundred yards, but just as we approach the first line, out bursts a spell of machine gun and rifle fire—rapid—and I fall headlong into what I think is space, but which proves to be our front-line trench. I fall clean on top of a Tommy, who is the opposite of polite, for my ammunition slings had tapped his nose painfully. I apologize, and feeling a bit done, lie down in the mud like a frog, the coolness of the mud soon reviving me. We pass the ammunition along, each man keeping two or three slings. O’Hara wanders along the trench, having to keep his head low, for it is none too deep and bullets are pretty free overhead, while I remain and chat to the Tommy, another Lancashire Fusilier, who is shivering, with teeth chattering and wet through, for it is raining. A Tommy on the other side of me is fast asleep and snoring loudly. The one awake describes to me the landing of the previous early morning, the machine gun fire and the venomous barbed wire, with the sea just lapping over it, and the exciting bayonet work that followed.

I am enjoying myself now, for I am in the front-line trench with a regiment which has just added a few more laurels to its glorious collection. It is curious, but no shells are coming from the Turks, and bullets are such gentlemanly little things that they do not worry me. It is funny, but everybody up here appears very cool and confident, while on the beach they all are inclined to be jumpy. O’Hara comes back with the two sailors. Foley has disappeared, and the other four sailors also have gone. We push along to the end of the trench, and the firing having died down somewhat, we climb out into the open and wend our way back. We seem to miss our bearing and go wandering off a devil of a way, when another burst of firing from a few machine guns forces us to dive promptly into a hole which by Providence we find in our path. The two sailors have disappeared somewhere. We find two men crouching in the hole, and on asking who they are, find that they are Lancashire Fusiliers, separated from their regiment. I can hear the swish of the machine gun bullets sweeping nearer and nearer, farther and farther from me, and then nearer as the guns are traversed. We are evidently lying in a hole which was dug to begin a trench, but which was abandoned. It is practically only a ditch the shape of a small right angle. O’Hara and I fall one side, and the two Lancashire Fusiliers the other, and we crouch for three-quarters of an hour. If we kneel, our heads are above the parapet. After a while O’Hara says to me, “I am awfully sorry for getting you in this fix, Gillam,” and I reply automatically, just as one might in ordinary life, “Not at all; a pleasure, sir.” Really though, I don’t like it much, but I am much happier here than I would be on the beach. The firing dies down again. The ships’ guns are still banging away steadily. O’Hara disappears somewhere. I follow where I think he has gone, but I hear his voice after a minute talking to an officer, and I therefore lie down. But for a while I can’t make out the situation. Firing starts again and I can almost feel the flight of some bullets, and I lie flat. It dawns on me that I am lying in front of a trench. I wriggle like a snake over the heap of earth in front of me, into the trench behind, and find it not nearly so deep as the one I have just left, nor so roomy. The firing gets so hot that I try to wriggle in beside a form of a man which is perfectly still. An extra burst of firing sends me struggling for room into the trench, and the man whom I thought was dead moves, which sends a shiver down my spine. I apologize, and he makes room for me. A little later, the firing dies down again; two figures run past our trench shouting “All correct, sir,” and an officer shouts “All correct.” They are runners sent up from the beach. I can hear O’Hara talking to some officer the other side of a traverse; then he calls me, and joining him, I follow him down towards the masts of the ships that we can just see silhouetted against the brightening sky. Suddenly an advanced sentry cries, “’Alt, who are you?” “Friend.” “Who are you?” “Friend—friend—friend!” shouts O’Hara. “Hands up; advance one,” and for some stupid reason I think he means advance one pace, which I solemnly do. O’Hara catches me a blow in the “tummy” and nearly winds me, saying, “Stand still, you —— fool,” and I stand stock-still, gasping for breath, with my hands above my head, while he walks slowly forward with hands up, and I can just see the sentry covering him with his rifle the while. I can hear them talking, and after a few sentences O’Hara calls me and I follow, still with my hands up, until I reach the sentry.

I think this frightened me more than all the events of this night. We continue our way. It is not so dark as it was, and it has ceased raining. Then a horrid thing happens. I fall headlong over a dead Turk, with face staring up into the sky and glazed eyes wide open. He wears a blue uniform, and I think he must have been a sailor from Sed-el-Bahr fort. Ugh! I almost touched his face with mine. Shortly after this mishap we arrive at the third-line trench, crowded with troops of all kinds, made up from the parties on the beaches, and get challenged again by some Engineers. Safely passing these, we stumble down the slope to the beach. O’Hara sends me off to look for the stores, and I last see him going back once more with a rifle and bayonet.

I run into Foley, who I find has had an adventurous time. Having had the ammunition taken off him, he tried to find us, but turned the wrong way up the trench. He got out into the open after a bit and wandered apparently just behind our front line towards “V” Beach, well the other side of “W.” The rifle fire was so hot there that he crawled like a caterpillar back to the second line, and from there doubled back to the beach, steering himself by the mast-lights of the ships.

We see that the stores are O.K., and then run into Carver, who has just landed. Afterwards I find my friend Major Gibbon, of the howitzer battery, busy getting his guns ashore. Foley and I then go back to the boxes, and we lie down like dogs, falling to sleep at once on the soft, comfortable sand. Dawn breaks over the hills of Asia.

Monday, April 26th.

I awake about seven and find myself nestling up close against Foley, who is still asleep. I wake him, and he promptly falls asleep again, murmuring something about “that —— machine gun.”

The beach quickly becomes alive with men all working for dear life, and we get to our feet, go down to the water’s edge and bathe our faces, and start to finish the work of making a small Supply depot which we left last night. My servant comes to tell me that breakfast is ready, and we go up the cliff and join Way and Carver at a repast of biscuits, jam, bacon, and tea. But the tea tastes strong of sea water. All water had been carried with us in tins, and we had struck a bad batch, for most of them leaked. And then our day’s work begins in all seriousness.

By night O’Hara wishes us to have a proper Supply depot working, the Quartermasters coming with fatigue parties, presenting their B55’s, and rations to the full are promptly issued and accounted for in our books. At frequent intervals the Fleet bombard, but we are quite used to the roar of the guns now. I am covered and coated with clayey mud and have no time to clean myself properly. We have to take cover continually from snipers—unknown enemies who fire at us from Lord knows where. One open part of the beach is especially dangerous, and I cross that part about six times during a day—not a very wide space, but I feel each time I go across that I am taking a long journey. The dead are still lying about, and as there is no time to bury them, we pass to and fro by their bodies unheedingly. In addition to these snipers who pick off one of our number now and again, we have spent bullets flying in all directions, for our firing-line is but a few hundred yards away. The Turk, however, does not appear to have a proper firing-line; he only seems to have advanced posts strongly held, and must have retreated well inshore.

It is a blessing for us that no shells come along, only these spent bullets and the deadly shots from the unseen snipers. Heavy firing sounds, however, from “V” Beach, a rattle of musketry and a roar of the battleships and torpedo-boat destroyers lying at the mouth. Colonel Beadon and Major Streidinger are getting a proper system of supply and transport working.

We become venturesome in the late afternoon, and many of us, quite two to three hundred, go up on the high land on the right and left of the beach and make a tour of the lately captured trenches. Turkish dead are lying about in grotesque attitudes; the trenches are full of equipment, and I notice particularly bundles of remarkably clean linen, and many loaves of bread, one loaf sticking out of a dead Turk’s pocket. Several of the dead are dressed in a navy-blue uniform with brass buttons, but most are in khaki with grey overcoats and cloth hats. Suddenly a whistle blows, and several cry “Get off the skyline!” and we all run helter-skelter for the safety of the beach. When darkness arrives we have a proper Supply depot working, and strings of pack-mules are hard at work carrying stores. Guns, ammunition, and men are everywhere. The Engineers have run out a pier already. Every one is in the best of spirits, for we have tasted a brilliant victory, and organizing brains are still at work in preparation for further ventures. I go to sleep behind boxes with the sound of a heavy rifle fire disturbing the night.

Tuesday, April 27.

I am ordered to make a small advanced depot just behind the firing line, using pack-mules under Colonel Patterson, of the Zion Mule Corps. The drivers are Syrian refugees from Syria, and curiously enough speak Russian as their common language. While up there, but a very short walk from the beach, I sit down on the layer’s seat of one of the 18-pounders of one of the batteries in position just behind our line. The battery is not dug in at all. I look through a telescopic sight, but can only see a lovely view of grass, barley, gorse and flowers, hillocks, nullahs, and the great hill of Achi Baba in the background, looking like Polyphemus in Dido and Æneas, with an ugly head and arms outstretched from the Straits to the Ægean.

I ask where the Turks are, and they point to a line some two thousand yards away, marked by newly turned earth, which is just distinguishable through strong glasses. I can see no sign of life, but away up on the ridges of Achi Baba columns of earth and smoke suddenly burst from the ground, caused by the shells of our Fleet.

Rifle fire has died down; hardly a shot on our front comes over, and no shells at all.

On our right, shell fire continues. I hear that “V” Beach is taken. It was taken midday yesterday, but with heavy casualties. The Dublins, Munsters, and Hants had the job, and the Hants did magnificently. Colonel Williams, the G.S.O.1, behaved most gallantly. Snipers were worrying after the village was taken, and in crossing a certain part of the village he exposed himself by mounting a wall, and, standing there for a time, looked down, saying to men round him, “You see, there are no snipers left, men.” They leapt after him like cats, and were through the village in no time. Man after man had been hit on that wall that morning.

I make a little depot of boxes just behind the battery, and go back to the beach and load for another journey. On arrival there, Colonel Beadon orders me to proceed to “V” Beach to collect all stores there and make an inventory. For at first this was to have been our beach, had we been able to land on the first day. The French are to take it over now, as they are coming back from the Asiatic side, evacuating it entirely. I go down to “W” Beach for a fatigue party of the R.N.D., and am told to apply to the Naval Landing Officer, and an officer standing talking on the sands is pointed out to me as he. I go up to him and wait for an opportunity to catch his eye; for he is an Admiral. He is talking to a Captain, and two midshipmen are standing near. I wait fifteen minutes, manœuvring for position so that he may ask me what I want. I think I must have shown signs of impatience, for the Admiral turned full round toward me, and after looking at me in mild surprise for a few seconds, during which I felt a desire to turn round and run up the cliff, quietly turned round to the Captain and continued his conversation. A minute or two passed and he walked away with the midshipmen, and the Captain asked me what I wanted. I told him a fatigue party, and he pointed out an R.N.D. officer a hundred yards away, to whom I went, at once obtained satisfaction, and to whom I should have gone at the start. I find I have made an ass of myself, and therefore administer mental kicks. With my fatigue party, my corporal, private, and servant, I march up the cliff toward “V” Beach. We pass the lighthouse, which has been badly knocked about, following the line of the Turkish trench, which is along the edge of the cliff, to the fort, which had withstood the bombardment well. At the fort we see two huge guns of very old pattern, knocked about a good deal. Then we dip down to “V” Beach, a much deeper and wider beach than “W,” and walk towards the sea. Then I see a sight which I shall never forget all my life. About two hundred bodies are laid out for burial, consisting of soldiers and sailors. I repeat, never have the Army and Navy been so dovetailed together. They lie in all postures, their faces blackened, swollen, and distorted by the sun. The bodies of seven officers lie in a row in front by themselves. I cannot but think what a fine company they would make if by a miracle an Unseen Hand could restore them to life by a touch. The rank of major and the red tabs on one of the bodies arrests my eye, and the form of the officer seems familiar. Colonel Gostling, of the 88th Field Ambulance, is standing near me, and he goes over to the form, bends down, and gently removes a khaki handkerchief covering the face. I then see that it is Major Costaker, our late Brigade Major. In his breast-pocket is a cigarette-case and a few letters; one is in his wife’s handwriting. I had worked in his office for two months in England, and was looking forward to working with him in Gallipoli.

It was cruel luck that he even was not permitted to land, for I learn that he was hit in the heart on the hopper shortly after General Napier was laid low. His last words were, “Oh, Lord! I am done for now.” I notice also that a bullet has torn the toes of his left foot away; probably this happened after he was dead. I hear that General Napier was hit whilst in the pinnace, on his way to the River Clyde, by a machine gun bullet in the stomach. Just before he died he said to Sinclair-Thomson, our Staff Captain, “Get on the Clyde and tell Carrington-Smith to take over.” A little while later he apologized for groaning. Good heavens! I can’t realize it, for it was such a short while ago that we were all such a merry party at the “Warwick Arms,” Warwick. I report to Captain Stoney, of the K.O.S.B.’s, who is the M.L.O., and he hands over supplies to me. I clear the beach, make a small Supply depot and take stock, and start to issue to all and sundry as on “W” Beach the previous day. All day the French are arriving from the Asiatic side. No shelling. Evidently the Turks have no artillery. Davidson, an R.N.D. officer, tells me that he is quite used to handling the dead now. He has been told off to identify them on this beach and to take charge. I have a good look at the River Clyde. She managed to get within two hundred yards of shore, and now she is linked to the beach by hoppers. Two gangways are down at either side at a gentle slope from holes half-way up her sides, and very flimsy arrangements they are. It is difficult for the troops to pass each other on them. Men poured out from these holes in the ship at a given signal early on Sunday morning, and were quickly caught by machine gun fire, dropping like flies into the sea, a drop of 20 feet. Some of those who fell wounded from the hopper in the shallow water close inshore drowned through being borne down by the weight of their packs. Colonel Carrington-Smith, who took over command of the Brigade when General Napier was killed, was looking round the corner of the shelter of the bridge through glasses at the Turkish position on shore when he was caught by a bullet clean in the forehead and died instantly. Sunday night on the Clyde was hell. One or two shells, luckily small ones from Asia, burst right through the side of the ship. Doctors did splendid work for the wounded all night on board. A sigh of relief came from all on board when the signal was given next day to land and take the beach, which was taken after much hand-to-hand fighting, the enemy putting up a gallant resistance, encouraged as they were by their success in preventing us from landing on this beach on Sunday.

Addison, of the Hants, is gone; he met his end in the village of Sed-el-Bahr. He was leading his men, firing right and left with his revolver. He met a Turk coming round the corner of a street; he pulled the trigger of his revolver: nothing happened. He opened it, found it empty, threw it to the ground with a curse, went for the Turk with his fist, but was met by a well-aimed bomb, which exploded in his face, killing him instantly.

It sounds horrible, but it is war these days. Perhaps I am over-sensitive, but a lump comes to my throat as I write this, for just over a month ago Addison and I used to talk about books at the “Warwick Arms,” Warwick, and the sight of him reading with glasses, smoking his pipe before the fire of an evening, is still fresh in my memory. It would have been hard to believe then that such a quiet, reserved soul would meet his end fighting like a raging lion in the bloody streets of Sed-el-Bahr a few weeks later. But that has now actually happened, and similar ends will meet like brave men again and again before this war is over.

A little amusing diversion is caused in the afternoon of to-day by a hare running across the beach, chased by French “poilus,” and being very nearly rounded up.

At 5 p.m. while making up my accounts for the day, I hear from the Asiatic side the boom of a gun, followed by a sound not unlike the tearing of linen, ending in a scream and explosion. Not very big shells, and the first, so far, that I have experienced on shore. I look towards Asia and see a flash in the blue haze of the landscape there, and over comes another, dropping in the sea near the Clyde. They follow quickly in succession, and each time I see the flash, I duck with my three stalwart henchmen behind our little redoubt of supplies, proof only against splinters. The nearest falls but twenty yards away, and does not explode. I see through my glasses two destroyers creep up towards the enemy’s shores and fire rapid broadsides. After a few of these we are left in peace.

I am once or twice called up on the telephone—a telephone worked by a signaller lying on the ground, the instrument being in a portable case. It is strange saying “Are you there?” under these conditions and with these surroundings. The signal arrangements are excellent. Calls come in constant succession from “W,” “X,” and “S” Beaches. A wireless instrument is hard at work, run by a Douglas engine in a tent, controlled by a detachment of Australians. One of the Australians, a corporal, offers me a shakedown in his tent for the night, and lends my men some blankets for their bivouac, which they have constructed out of my little Supply depot. Owen, O.C. Signals, says that I shall not get much sleep in the wireless tent, and that I had better share his tent, which is in a little orchard behind a ruined house close handy. I have my evening meal of bully, biscuit, and jam, and lighting my pipe, go for a stroll in the village, but am stopped by sentries, for snipers are still at large there, and several casualties have occurred to-day there through their industry. I cannot help admiring the pluck of these snipers, for their end is certain and not far off. Two mutilated bodies of our men are lying in a garden of a ruined house, but this case so far is isolated. We have seen the Turks dressing the wounds of some of our men captured by them. The Turks appear to be a strange mixture.

April 28th.

I awake feeling very fit and refreshed, and find a beautiful morning awaiting me. Opposite our tent is a little “bivvy,” made of oil-sheets and supported by rope to one of the walls of the house and a lilac-tree. A head pokes out from under this “bivvy” with a not very tidy beard growing on its chin, and the owner loudly calls for his servant. While making his toilet he joins in a merry banter with Owen, who is indulging in a cold douche obtained from a bucket of water. Some of the French having invaded the sanctuary of our walled-in camp, picking several of the iris growing in the wild grass, the officer with the beard asks me to tell them to get off his lawn, which I do. I find later that he is Josiah Wedgwood, M.P., and being interested, get into conversation with him. He is a most entertaining man, and tells me that he is O.C. Armoured Cars, but that as it is not possible for his cars to come on shore, he had been instructed to use his intelligence and make himself useful, which he was trying to do with a painful effort.

Finding that I was a Supply Officer, he begs for some tobacco, saying that he would be my friend for life if I could get him some, which I manage to do, for yesterday I issued tobacco and cigarettes with our rations and had some over. I go down to my depot for a wash, shave, and breakfast. Biscuit and bacon do not go well together. While washing, shells begin to arrive, bursting on the crest of the hill at the back of the beach. One or two come near to the beach and a splinter flies towards us, hitting the boxes behind which we all crowd. The nearest, so far, so I preserve the splinter. French troops are now in large numbers on the beach, and I meet my friend the Russian officer who was on the Arcadian. I see General D’Amade and his Staff. A French officer takes some snaps for me with my camera, as he knows more about photography than I do, including one of a French machine gun company, who had then two guns in position screened by branches of lilac at the entrance to the village. He made fun of them, telling them that it would have been just as much sense if they had placed a rusty sewing machine, which happened to be lying near, in position instead. Looking rather foolish, the gunners pack up and go off somewhere. I am wanted on the telephone, and hear O’Hara talking at the other end. He says I am to hand over the remaining supplies to the R.N.D. beach party, and come back to “W” Beach with the S.S.O., who is coming over. S.S.O. arrives shortly after. I hand over to the senior officer of the R.N.D.—a fine old boy with a crown and a star up—who tells me he landed at “W” Beach on Sunday morning at six, and had joined in the scrapping himself.

We go on the River Clyde, and from there I take photographs of the beach and one of the mounds of earth that had proved shelter for those men whom I had seen from the Dongola crouching for cover on Sunday morning. We get on to a trawler from the River Clyde, which takes us round to “W” Beach, and I enjoy the brief sea-trip, and it is very interesting viewing the scenes on shore from the sea.

Off “W” Beach we get on to a pinnace which takes us alongside a very good pier, considering the short time the engineers have had to construct one. On shore I find the K.O.S.B.’s arriving from “Y” Beach, where they have had a rough handling. “Y” Beach appears to have been evacuated. I find a lot of officers I know have gone, including Koe, the Colonel, a very fine type of man. He really should never have come out, for he was in indifferent health. He was shot in the arm, which had to be amputated, and he died shortly afterwards. Our depot has grown, for more supplies have come ashore. Our Colonel and a few more of the train officers have arrived. We have quite a good lunch.

I find Phillips, our O.C. Company, has gone inland with some pack mules. He comes back later with rather depressing news. I hear that a battle has been started, but I do not pay much attention, for I am quite accustomed now to the sound of rifle fire and the roar of the ships’ guns. The battle develops in the afternoon to a general attack on our part. We are well inshore now, I should say two and a half miles. Anyway, no bullets are flying about the beach now. All snipers have been rounded up, one of the worst offenders, a huge fellow, falling dead from a tree yesterday.

5.30 p.m.

Brigade Supply Officers are ordered to find out the location of their units. Horses can be had on application from D.H.Q. I ask to be allowed to proceed on foot, and am granted permission, but they rather wonder why I ask. The honest reason is because I am nervous, and I prefer to be nervous on foot than a nervous rider on horseback over a difficult country. I make a bee-line inshore, and after a quick walk of fifteen minutes or so become intensely interested in what I see. Shells are passing over my head from the Fleet, but the rifle fire appears to have died down. Wounded are straggling back in twos and threes, and bearers carrying the more serious cases, with great fatigue to themselves. To carry a man two and a half miles over rough ground on a stretcher is hard work.

Nearing the line, I pass police forming battle posts, and these, together with the badges of the wounded men, which are sewn on their tunics, returning to the beaches, helps me to steer my course. Now and again I am warned not to go near where snipers are said to be, and perpetually I trip over thin black wires, which serve for the nonce for signallers’ cables. Passing a cluster of farm buildings, I arrive at last at a scene of great activity and feel relieved that I am once more amongst men. A trench is being dug with forced energy, orderlies are passing to and fro, signallers at work laying cables, doctors dressing wounded, and bearers carrying them to the rear. I discover that we have had a set-back. I learn that we were heavily outnumbered, but that at 5 p.m. the Turks had retreated hastily to almost beyond Krithia, which lies in flames on the high land in front of me towards the left, and that actually the Lancashires had been through the village.

Walking along the line, I find the 86th Brigade, and from them learn where H.Q. 88th are. On my way there I pass Captain Parker and Major Lee, of the Hants. Major Lee asks me excitedly if they are getting on with the digging of the trench, and then asks me to get some water up to some of his battalion on his right by the French, which I promise to do this night. Walking further along, I cross a white road of some kind of paving, and then at last reach my H.Q. I see Thomson, who looks very ill and tired, but appears very cool and quiet. I shall never forget his smile when he saw me, saying “Hello, Gillam!” in a quiet voice. I see Panton busy at dressing wounded, for alongside H.Q. is an advanced dressing station. On my right I notice French troops hard at work continuing the digging of the line to the edge of the Dardanelles.

I find out what is wanted in the way of food and water and where it is to be dumped, and start off back to the beach. It is twilight and rapidly getting dark, and it is difficult to find my way back to the right beach, namely “W.” I remember with a shudder those silent clumps of bushes and trees, and wonder if snipers are still alert. I steer my way back by the masts of the ships, the heads of which I can just see, and I walk as the crow flies over every obstacle I find. I had learnt at Brigade H.Q. that the white road ran between Krithia and Sed-el-Bahr, and mentally I made a note of the way I should take rations on my return journey, namely to Sed-el-Bahr from “W” Beach via “V” Beach, and thence up the white road. I see three figures ahead limping, and as I had not seen a soul for fifteen minutes and it is getting dark now, I finger my revolver, wondering if they are some of our most trying enemies, the snipers. But that thought is only born from nerves, for they are limping and must be wounded. On overtaking them I find that one is an officer, Cox of the Essex, one of those who had played “The Priest of the Parish” on the Dongola the night before the landing. He is the only one limping, from a bullet wound in his calf; he is supported by his arms resting round the shoulders of two men—one his servant, unwounded, and the other a man wounded through the arm. Cox tells me he took cover in a nullah when hit, and remained there all day. Twice the French advanced over him, and twice they retreated, leaving him between the enemy’s lines. A third time British and French advanced, and he was rescued and helped back. I wish him further luck in this war, for luck had befallen him—he an infantryman and a bullet wound in his leg. I like him rather specially, and feel glad that he is to be out of it for a while. It is now quite dark and I have missed my bearings and see a few small lights ahead, and make for them and am very soon pulled up short by the challenge of a sentry.

I discover it is signals of D.H.Q. and am directed to H.Q., where I am interviewed by a G.S. Officer, who asks me the position of troops. I tell him French on the right, and then 88th, 86th, then 87th. I learn that I am on Hill 138, the future name of D.H.Q. I am directed back to “W” Beach and then endeavour to find O’Hara. After fifteen minutes I find him and report what I had done, and am told that he had learnt that a dump of rations, ammunition, and water is to be made at Pink Farm. Learning that Pink Farm is the collection of buildings that I had struck earlier in the afternoon, I point out that this farm will be too far to the left for my Brigade, and that I found a convenient site for the 88th dump on the right of the Sed-el-Bahr–Krithia road, but I am told that I must have made a mistake. This disturbs me somewhat, as I feel that I am right. He tells me to come along with him up to Pink Farm, as pack-mules with rations, ammunition, and water had started for this dump. We overtake some of them. Further on we meet Carver coming back on horseback, and he reports where 87th Brigade H.Q. is. I now see that the reason why they have decided on Pink Farm for a dump is because Way had come back first and reported where his Brigade was, and that through Carver and I not having turned up they decided on Pink Farm as a Divisional dump for all the Brigades. As a matter of fact, Pink Farm will suit 87th as well as 86th, for it lies between the two, and rations, etc., from the one dump can be man-handled to the two Brigades. But for the 88th, the dump is right out of it.

We meet Phillips, our 88th Transport Officer and O.C. No. 4 Company, a good soldier; Ford, Q.M. of the Essex; and Grogan, Transport Officer of the K.O.S.B.’s, a delightful chap; and passing them we arrive at Pink Farm, where I tell my tale to Colonel Beadon and Major Streidinger. It is now raining hard, and I have no coat. It is hard work getting through the clayey mud. They apparently do not consider my statement that this dump is of no use whatever to the 88th, for a bush that I can just see a hundred yards away is pointed out, the moon then being up above the clouds, and I am ordered to go two hundred yards beyond there, where I will find Thomson and 88th Brigade H.Q., and to arrange with him for fatigue parties to come back and carry up water. They say they have just been talking to Thomson.

This puzzles me, and I start off for that bush. I hate bushes just now. I pass it and come to a brook full of the loudest-croaking frogs I have ever heard. Without much exaggeration they made as much row as a dozen people would, all talking together loudly. Then I pace what I think is two hundred yards in front of that bush and come to nothing at all. Remembering that in the dark one hardly ever walks in a straight line, I alter my course, and walking a few yards, see the rays of an electric torch shining, towards which I walk quickly. It is immediately switched out as I approach, and now, feeling cautious, I shout, “Are you British?” but receiving no answer, I shout once more, and am glad to receive an answer of “Aye, aye.” I go up to them and find that it is our front line, and inquire where Brigade H.Q. is. A little light to my right, but behind rather, is pointed out, to which I go. There I find Thomson in a trench and give him the message as instructed. The light of a torch shining on his face shows me a look of annoyance, expressive of his thoughts that I am a fool. He politely tells me that he wants rations taken to the spot that he had pointed out in the afternoon. I find that I am at 86th Brigade H.Q., and that Thomson is but visiting there for a conference. Having a difficulty in finding my way to Pink Farm, I make for the front line once more, whence the direction is pointed out to Pink Farm, for I can only see a hundred yards ahead and all bushes look alike. I hear the noise of croaking frogs and make for it.

It comes from the brook that I had passed, and from there I go towards what I think is Pink Farm, but find that it is a collection of the pack-mules under Phillips, and I unload my feelings in horribly bad language. Then Phillips gives me a packet of cigarettes, which I am entirely without. I am wet through now to the skin, and dog-tired; my pocket is full of iron-ration biscuits, and between puffs of my cigarettes I munch them. Not a sound of a shot, not a flash of a gun. Old John Turk has had a nasty knock and is over a thousand yards away. Nothing but the sound of the hiss of the gently falling rain. I follow the farmer’s track up to Pink Farm and tell my troubles to Colonel Beadon. Colonel Williams, who had distinguished himself at Sed-el-Bahr, is there without a coat, and soaked to the skin as I am. I am instructed to take the remaining mules back to “W” Beach, link any which I pass, that are on the way up, on to my convoy, and also pick up any which are starting off from “W” Beach, make one convoy, take stock and make a note of it, and take the whole through Sed-el-Bahr up to the spot Thomson had pointed out to me in the afternoon. I think of the tale of the odd-job man who had been given every imaginable job in the world by his old lady mistress, and who asked her if her house was built on clay, as he would very much like to make bricks in his spare time. I go back to Phillips; the convoy is turned round and off we trek, I at the head, Phillips in the rear. I meet Davy on the way up with a convoy of his, and accordingly instruct him to join on to my convoy. He says, “Look here, Gillam, old boy; you’re fagged out and are making a mess of things; go back to bed, old boy. I know all about it, and we have to take these mules to Pink Farm.” I wish Pink Farm elsewhere, express my feelings to him in forcible language, and finally convince him under protest. However, we are soon friends again, and his convoy links up in rear of mine. We hear three reports of a rifle ring out on our right. A sniper, still undiscovered, at work. We arrive at “W” Beach, arresting the start of another convoy, which in turn also becomes part of ours, and I go to find O’Hara. Having found him, I told him my tale of woe; he says he will come with me to the 88th Brigade; and after taking stock and tacking a watercart on to the rear of the column, we trek off to Hill 138. Stopping there, O’Hara has a chat with the A.P.M., who has been to the 88th H.Q. and assures us that we are on the right track. On through the ruined village of Sed-el-Bahr we go, down through a poplar grove enclosing a Turkish cemetery, when we overtake the C.R.A., riding alone with an orderly. We are on the white road that I noticed in the afternoon, and the C.R.A. takes the lead, as he states that a part of the road further up is rumoured to be mined. Krithia lies ahead on our left in flames, a wonderful sight.

It has stopped raining; we pass several brooks, and from them comes the clamouring noise of loudly croaking bull-frogs. We pass one after the other four white pillars of stone, about a hundred feet in height. On my right I can see dimly the waters of the Dardanelles. Dawn is just developing. The C.R.A. raises his hand and we stop. He rides cautiously forward with his orderly, and after a minute returns and orders us to follow him. He turns sharply to the left, makes a wide circuit, we following, and comes out on the white road once more farther up. He then leaves us and disappears. We continue for three hundred yards, when I come to the conclusion that we are very near our destination, tell O’Hara so, and the command is given “Halt!” O’Hara and I walk on up the road. Not a sound is heard—no shells, no rifle fire whatsoever. I can see no one about. I look to my right, where Brigade H.Q. should be, and find nothing but some shallow dugouts. We go off the road to the right amongst bushes, and trip over a few poor dead Tommies. We come back to the road. O’Hara thinks I am wrong. Good Lord! supposing that I am wrong after all this!

We walk up the road further, and suddenly come to a sentry standing in a trench on our right. I look to the left and see another trench and a sentry a little way on, on guard. The road goes on into darkness. I am smoking a cigarette, and am ordered peremptorily by the sentry on my right to put it out. We question him, and find that we have arrived at our front line. Every man of four is on guard, the other three sound asleep in the bottom of the trench. The sentry tells us that the Turkish line is a good way ahead, and that he has seen or heard nothing from there since he has been on guard. He is shivering with cold, though muffled in his coat, but for all that looks a fine type of fellow. But he is “pukkah” and 29th as well. Finest troops in the world, bar none. The finished type of a disciplined British Tommy. Oh! for six more Divisions of this quality: Achi Baba would have been ours this day. He directs us to Brigade H.Q. Following his direction, we turn back down the road and come back to the shallow dugouts.

During our absence Thomas, of the Essex, and a Naval officer, smoking a huge pipe and muffled to his ears in his white muffler and blue overcoat, had arrived. They tell us the dugouts are the 88th Brigade H.Q. We inquire for Thomson and the rest, and are told that they have gone to 86th to confer. One by one the little patient mules are unloaded, and proceed down the road, to wait, and the boxes, rations, ammunition, and water are spread singly amongst the thick gorse off the road, so as not to be seen by the enemy in the morning. While this goes on I talk to the Naval officer, and learn from him that he is an observing officer for the ships’ guns; he appears a very cool customer. He tells me that he is a very unlucky man to talk to; that an officer yesterday was wounded while talking to him, and another killed last night under the same circumstances. I wish him “Good-night and good luck,” and go back to the mules, and help to hasten their unloading by helping myself. Colonel Patterson, O.C. Mule Corps, keeps on urging upon us the importance of not losing the ropes, as when lost they are difficult to replace. The last mule being unloaded, we search for the watercart, but it is nowhere to be found; but tins of water are up now, and we hear that a well has been found, the water pure and not poisoned, as we had feared. And so we start to trek back. A short way back and O’Hara shouts “Halt!” Then he says to me, “Gillam, where’s that —— mine we’ve heard so much about?” I answer, “Great Scott!” Somebody behind us gives a muffled cough, and a Tommy, one of the armed escort, steps forward and in a Tommy’s polite manner says, “Begging your pardon, sir, but we are standing on it.” O’Hara shouts “Walk—march!” and we move at a good four miles an hour until we arrive at the white pillars and the friendly sound of the croaking frogs; we realize at any rate that we are safe from land mines. Evidently this mine is a false alarm. Permission to smoke is given, and the Syrian boys exchange ration cigarettes and chatter to each other in Russian. Up to now they had been almost entirely silent. We pass many French troops sleeping in little hastily made camps, and we pass some Zouaves, looking picturesque in the early morning light in their quaint Oriental uniforms. And so through the silent cemetery and poplar-trees, through Sed-el-Bahr, now a large French camp, back past Hill 138 and home to “W” Beach. I give O’Hara a few of my iron-ration biscuits and almost stagger to my Supply depot, for I am hardly able to walk any further, and lie down on my valise, that my servant has thoughtfully laid out for me, beside the S.S.O. and Colonel Beadon, falling off to sleep with the satisfaction that to-morrow at any rate the 88th will have their rations.

April 29th.

I wake at eight, but am given permission to sleep all the morning. I have breakfast. Getting fed-up with biscuit. My servant rigs me up a “bivvy” and I roll up and go fast asleep. Lord, what a gorgeous sleep it was! I slept till one, and then had lunch, and after, a shave and a wash. I did little all day but watch the Fleet firing and the transports unloading everything imaginable necessary for an army. We have now rigged up a nice little mess with some ration boxes and a tarpaulin, and have quite a nice dinner at night with a boiled ham, bully beef rissoles, and biscuit pancakes. Our chef is “some” chef. A Naval officer at night, after dinner, is continually shouting “Any more for the Arcadian?” where G.H.Q. is. Reminds me of “Any more for the Skylark?” at Brighton. It is pleasant going to sleep at night with the sound of the swish of waves breaking on the shore in one’s ears. The Fleet guns roar away consistently all day.

April 30th.

To-day we have some shells on the beach, but not very terrible ones. Many of them go “fut” in the ground without exploding. If this is all the artillery they can put up against us, Lord help them! They must be having hell from the Fleet.

Go up to Brigade H.Q. via Sed-el-Bahr this morning with a rifle and dressed as a Tommy. All go up dressed like that now, for snipers are still about. On past the white pillars to Brigade H.Q., we pass the bodies, still unburied, of Turks and British—fallen heroes lying broken amidst wild flowers. I call and see Major Gibbon at his observation post, but from there can see nothing of the enemy. Before me is a simple, lovely summer scene; yet amidst the nullahs and the olive groves, the flowers and barley, Death lurks, alert to claim his toll. It is a long walk back to “W” Beach via Sed-el-Bahr. Snipers are still at large, which is remarkable, and we are warned not to walk across country, though to do so would be much quicker. I pass two snipers as we arrive back at the white pillars, prisoners in the hands of the French. One prisoner is limping badly from a wound in the foot. The French appear to have made themselves very much at home in Sed-el-Bahr. I pass an officers’ mess and lunch is on. I am surprised at the delicacies on the table, including many bottles of white wine. We are still on bare rations, and bully and biscuits at that, but they appear to have bread, probably from Tenedos, and probably for officers’ messes only; and they all seem very bright, as if it was a huge joke. As we are about to enter Sed-el-Bahr a French sentry stops us, and warns us not to go through the village, as two men have just been sniped. We pass at the back of “V” Beach. The view from here of the Fleet is magnificent. Occasionally one sees a whiff of yellow smoke shoot from the side of a ship, and a few seconds after a deafening report follows. It takes some getting used to.

We pass a company of Senegalese manning a trench dug at the back of “V” Beach. They lie in it, peering over the top, looking inland intently, as if they expect the enemy, who is more than three miles away, to rush down on them at any moment.

I pass General D’Amade at the H.Q. at the back of “V” Beach, and stop to chat with the French officer who was on the Arcadian with me, and also a French Naval officer who was on the Southland. The Naval officer inspects my rifle with interest, saying it is the first time that he has handled one of the short patterns. He tells me that he saw the fight from the Andania on Sunday morning, and says that he thinks that it will stand out as the most magnificent fight of the war.

MAY

May 1st.

A few shells, but none very terrible, come over; one, however, in our depot. Beautiful weather. Heavy rifle fire heard at night. Now and again a Turkish shell lands over from Achi. The rifle fire last night was Turkish; nothing happened. Probably “wind up” on their part. Letters arrive. While sitting on a box reading, a shell comes beastly near, but bursts in a not very frightening manner twenty yards away. But I and the few near me fall flat to the ground. I have been advised to do this by an officer who is an expert in shelling, and he tells me that by so doing, though a shell may burst ten yards from you, one should be safe. My servant rolls over and over, shouting “Oh!” and I rush to him, asking him if he was hit, but find that a stone had caught him on the forehead, and but for a nasty bruise he was none the worse. This afternoon I have a bathe off “W” Beach. Crowds are bathing. What a contrast to this time last week! Only a week ago we landed, and now “W” Beach is like a seaside resort as far as the bathing is concerned. I felt in holiday mood, and with that delightful refreshed feeling that one has after a dip, I strolled along the sand up to the depot for a cup of tea. But the scream of a shell overhead from Achi, which fell in the water beyond the bathers, brought my holiday mood to an abrupt end. The mouth of the Dardanelles and the sea at the end of the Isthmus is full of warships, from battleships to small destroyers and their necessary small craft, transports, hospital ships, trawlers, and lighters. Engineers, French and English, are working feverishly at the building of piers and finishing those already begun. Stores are being unloaded, and marquees for their storage are being erected.

The scene here is extraordinarily interesting. I have never seen such a motley gathering in my life. The beach is crowded with figures, all working for dear life. The sea is dotted with lighters, out of which are being poured all kinds of military stores—wood, sand-bags, wire-netting, galvanized iron, cooping, and the like; all these things are being conveyed to the piers and from there put ashore. On the shore itself parties are at work erecting tents and marquees, and other parties are hard at work making dugouts, plying picks and shovels with a will. Here they are erecting the signals station, a contraption of beams and sand-bags. Outside, wires are being laid, and so the work of the beach parties goes busily forward. Yet to my untutored gaze the scene is wonderful. The whole beach is a hopeless mix-up of French and English, with a good sprinkling of Naval men—presenting a kaleidoscopic effect, with the afternoon sun shining upon it, such as I have never seen before. It is of course quite an orderly mob really—but this is only recognized when one watches the work of one group at a time. Here is the real business of a military landing on a hostile shore, everybody knowing what to do and how to do it, and so the work goes on without a hitch.

At 7 p.m. I start off with a long convoy of pack-mules with rations for Brigade H.Q. via the Sed-el-Bahr–Krithia road. At present it is impossible to use vehicles, for the first line is served by but two roads, which are nothing but farmers’ tracks. An armed escort of the Essex Regiment accompanies us. The Padre of the 88th Brigade, who is just joining, comes along with me, intending to join the Worcesters in the trenches. Just entering Sed-el-Bahr we are halted by a French officer, and almost immediately my head feels as if it is blown off by four spouts of flame stabbing the darkness just a few yards away, followed almost instantaneously by four deafening reports. A French “75” battery is in action, and that means business. Almost immediately after No. 4 gun had fired, No. 1 fired, then No. 2, No. 3, and No. 4 again, and so on, shell after shell following each other in rapid succession into the night, towards Achi Baba. The gunners, crouching like cats by their guns, were lit up fitfully by each flash, disappearing again in the pause of a fraction of a second between each round. An officer in a dugout behind, with telephone glued to his ear, shouts incessantly directions as to range, elevation, and depression to an officer who is standing nonchalantly smoking a cigarette behind the battery, who in turn shouts orders to the guns. The guns reminded me of two couple of hounds held in leash at a coursing meeting, barking with eagerness to be let loose. Our little pack-mules are greatly concerned at first, but become surprisingly docile as the firing goes on. A sharp order is given by the French officer standing behind the weapons; the gunners relax their tense attitudes and begin attending to parts of the guns. The officer who had first stopped us most charmingly and politely apologizes in English for delaying us, and our convoy proceeds on its track. I chat to the Padre; find he is fifty-five years of age and before the war a peace-loving rector. What circumstances to find one’s self in after fifty-five years of peaceful life! I record him in my mind as a very gallant old gentleman. We pass through the French camp down through the trees to the poplar-grove cemetery, which always now fills me with a curious awe, so ghostly do the graves look in the moonlight, lying peacefully amidst the poplar-trees. It is a most beautiful sight, with the glimmering water of the Dardanelles beyond.

Ahead on our right the reflection of the bright beam of Chanak searchlight, swinging round from east to west across the Narrows, can be seen in the sky, searching for any of our ships, should they make a dart up the Straits. Past my friends the loudly croaking bull-frogs, past the stately white pillars, on up the white road that leads to Krithia and towards our dumping-ground—Brigade H.Q.—the little mules pad carefully and surely along, led by the Syrian mule-drivers, who chatter confidentially to each other in Russian, for they now are at home in their new life, and delight in the thought that they are doing their bit in the great cause.

BATHING OFF GULLY BEACH, HELLES.

“Y” BEACH, CAPE HELLES, WHERE THE K.O.S.B.’S LANDED ON APRIL 25, 1915, HAVING TO EVACUATE THEREFROM ON THE FOLLOWING DAY.

The beach was captured later from the land by the Gurkhas. Its situation remained close behind our front line during the whole campaign. The high ground was well within rifle range of the enemy during the whole campaign. The enemy lines are behind the camera.

We arrive at our destination, and lo and behold! no one is there. Phillips and I confer. I decide to go on with Smith, Q.M. of the Hants, to find H.Q. We take an orderly each from the armed guard. I take an Essex man. We follow the white road, and arriving at the front-line trenches are pulled up short by the “’Alt, who are you?” “Supply Officer.” “Advance to be recognized.” We advance. Smith asks where Battalion H.Q. are, and learns they are a hundred yards to our left. We find, a hundred yards along, a part of the trench dug back a bit to serve as Battalion H.Q. The trenches are deeper now; one can stand up in safety, but only just. Smith asks for Captain Reid, the Adjutant; he steps out to us. We express surprise at the quietness of things. There is absolutely no firing on our front, but we can hear desultory firing on our right from the French line. Reid offers us cigarettes and lights one himself. I remark to him that it is unwise to light a cigarette standing in the open, to which he replies that the enemy are a long way away. He directs me to Brigade H.Q., further along the line. I wish him “Good-night,” and with my orderly proceed cautiously in the direction he had pointed, for it is now pitch dark. I am challenged again and again, and find myself after a bit among the Royal Scots, and one of their officers kindly lends me an orderly, who takes me to Brigade H.Q., dug in a dry brook, some two hundred yards behind the front line. Thomson is asleep, and it is with regret that I have to wake him. He tells me to dump rations in the same place as the last night’s. I start to go back, steer my way by the front line once more and in the dark miss the direction, and find myself about to walk across a track which runs through our front line towards the enemy’s and an alert sentry bringing me to the halt with a sharp challenge, I find my mistake. I then leave myself in my orderly’s hands, who takes the lead and guides me back to the Brigade dump, when I find that Phillips had met Q.M.S. Leslie and had nearly finished the unloading of the pack-mules. I really believe that if I had not been challenged and had passed through our lines towards the enemy’s, my orderly, one of the “doesn’t reason why” breed, would have calmly followed me. Some one taps me on the shoulder, and a Tommy asks me, “Where’s your rifle, mate?” I reply that I haven’t one. He then says, “Ain’t you one of the ’Ants?” and wonderingly I reply that I am the Supply Officer, and the man brings himself erect with a sharp click, begging my pardon. The reason of his mistake then dawned on me; I have on a private’s tunic.

Our goods delivered, we trek back, and on arrival at Sed-el-Bahr the sound of heavy rifle fire breaks out, but by the sound it is from our own rifles. We wonder what is happening, and think ourselves fortunate that we had finished our job before this activity started. I am in rear of the column, walking with my orderly about fifty yards behind the last mule, when I have a bad nerve shock. I have had many during the past week, but this one takes the biscuit. Out of a hole in the side of a broken-down house there leaps a French soldier. He shouts something to me in French and points a rifle, with gleaming bayonet fixed, at my chest. In days long gone past, it has sometimes happened that one of my young sisters or a brother with a warped sense of humour would leap round from the corner of the landing in our early home, just as I might be passing along, and shout “Boo-h!” I used to go hot and cold with fright, and appeared to cause intense amusement by my state of nerves. When this boy sentry, who by his looks could not have been more than nineteen, jumps out from his hole in the wall, my heart seems to stand still, until it feels that it is never going to start its job again, and then with a bound it carries on its job at about ten times its normal speed. My mouth feels like dry blotting-paper, and all I say is, “Oh, hell!” at the same time throwing my hands well over my head. My orderly, who appears most unconcerned, comes to my rescue and says with a Cockney accent “Ongley,” and our gallant ally brings his rifle to the order and allows us to pass.

Previous to this incident I had been chatting to my orderly about his life in the Army in peace days, but now walk on in silence until we have overtaken the convoy, finding the mules halted. Suddenly the French battery that we had passed earlier in the evening opens a terrible fire. I go along to its position and find that half our convoy had passed earlier, but that, the battery being suddenly called into action, the rear half of our column had been ordered to stop. In the excitement two of the mules get adrift, and with good instinct trot off to their own lines, ignoring the cries in Russian from their drivers and the angry bark of the little “75’s.” A halt of ten minutes, and, again with polite apologies, the pleasant French gunner officers, wishing us “Bon soir,” allow us to proceed. Home to bed and a good night’s rest.

May 2nd.

A Taube flies over and drops one bomb on our new aerodrome to the left of Hill 138. One of our machines which is up swings round, heading straight for it, and quickly drives it back. A couple of aircraft guns from one of the ships put in some good practice, little white puffs of shrapnel bursting perilously near. A few wounded come in from a little show last night, and amongst them are wounded Turkish prisoners.

We are issuing stores now from one depot for the whole Division, and to all others who come. Way and Carver are running it. I simply hold a watching brief for my Brigade, but give a hand when I can in helping the business to run smoothly. Foley is up the coast a short way at “X” Beach, running his own depot for the 87th Brigade, and wires constantly come in from him indenting on us for stores he has not in stock. It is just like a business store, and we are running short of supplies, but a Supply ship has come in to replenish our stock and form a large reserve depot. Our depot is the hot-bed of rumours and news, and we feel the pulse of the Division through the news that the Quartermasters and ration parties bring. Bad news has arrived this morning. Captain Reid, to whom I was talking last night, has been killed, and Major Lee, his C.O., with him. I inquired as to what time it happened, and learn that it was at eleven o’clock. I was talking to him at ten. It appears that shortly after I had left him, word was passed down the trench for C.O.’s and Adjutants to go to the end of the trench to meet the Staff. Major Lee, accompanied by Captain Reid, immediately went, and met two officers dressed in khaki with Staff tabs. One of these officers fires a revolver in Major Lee’s face, killing him instantly, while the other murders Captain Reid. In their turn they were quickly bayoneted by Lee’s and Reid’s orderlies. The line is attacked by some two hundred Turks, who are met in the open by our men and quickly retire, getting hell from the French “75’s” in doing so. The two officers dressed in our Staff uniform proved to be Germans, and their action was an attempt to break our line.

I hear also that Godfrey Faussett, Colonel of the Essex, has been killed. This upsets me far more than danger, and I have the nightmare question running in my head sometimes now, when talking to my friends or seniors whom I knew so well in England, “I wonder if I shall see you alive again.”

A few snipers have been caught, and they present a weird and uncanny appearance. They wear uniforms of green cloth, to which in some cases are attached or sewn sprigs of gorse-bush and small branches of trees. Their rifles, hands, and faces are painted green, and they can be passed unnoticed at but a few yards’ distance. Most of them have been found in holes and dugouts underneath clusters of bushes, with two or three boxes of ammunition, and enough bread and water to ration them a fortnight.

This morning the Fleet and the few guns which are on shore are bombarding the Turkish positions heavily, and the slopes of Achi Baba are alive with bursting shrapnel and spouts of earth and smoke shooting skywards, but through it all Achi Baba looks calm, dignified, and formidable, like a great giant saying “Thus far and no further.” Verily it looks the fortress gate of the Peninsula, and we are but on the threshold, or rather on the footpath leading to the threshold. Turkish artillery replies but feebly with shrapnel, but the shooting appears good.

I hear the crackle of rifle fire and learn that we are again attacking. Good luck to the 29th!

Afternoon.

Guns of the Fleet and shore batteries steadily boom away. Rifle fire has died down. Wounded are beginning steadily to come in, and as fast as possible are evacuated on to hospital ships. I go up to Headquarters and find site for dump for rations retired somewhat. I passed many wounded and stretcher-bearers coming back. I saw Colonel Williams, our new Brigadier, calmly walking about in the most exposed positions. A regiment of Gurkhas are on the right of our line, and those in support have dug themselves each a little dugout, just room enough for a man to lie in, rolled up. These little dugouts are in regular lines, and each one being occupied with a little Gurkha makes a most quaint scene. I take snaps of one or two, to their intense delight. They look very workmanlike in their shirts, wide hats, and shorts.

It is now dusk and we hear that we advanced, but soon after had to return to our former positions. We are now badly outnumbered. The enemy have lately received many reinforcements, and are receiving them daily. We want several more Divisions to carry this business through. We have dinner, and I go to bed rather depressed. Heavy rifle fire bursts out at night, and in the middle of the night our Adjutant has to get up and organize a convoy of pack-mules to take up ammunition.

May 3rd.

It is a perfect morning, but it is getting very hot. I ride up about 10 a.m. with the company sergeant-major to as far as the furthest of the white pillars, and there we tether our horses to a tree and walk the rest of the way up the white road. All is absolutely quiet on the front—not a shell, not a rifle shot.

All firing from the Fleet has ceased, and the gunners on shore are busy cleaning their guns and digging gun-pits and dugouts. It is quiet and peaceful. At the front line I cannot see any signs of the enemy. I chat with Major Barlow of the Essex, who was at Warwick with me. He is now O.C. Essex. It is strange being without the roar of the guns once more.

The Fleet has been treated to rather a hot reception, and finds it advisable to lie a little further down the entrance to the Straits, which it accordingly does. The mouth of the Straits looks glorious: the intense blue of the sea, with the warships and transports with their motley collection of lighters, picket boats, etc., all stand out strongly against the steely blue of the sky. Further off, the lovely Isle of Imbros shimmers like a perfect gem set in a sapphire sea. One can just make out the lovely violet tints of her glorious vales, tempered by the pearly grey mists that lightly swathe her mountain crests, as she stands out sharp against the sky. A beautiful sight and not easily forgotten. Looking landward, the trees are all bursting into leaf, the country is wrapped about in a cloak of flowers and flowering grasses, with Achi Baba as a grim and rugged sentry, its sides sloping away to the sea on either hand. Truly a grim and forbidding sentinel, but one which most certainly has to be passed if we are to do any good at all.

To-day an enterprising Greek landed in a small sailing vessel with a cargo of oranges, chocolate, and cigarettes, and in a very short time was quite sold out. We shall be having a Pierrot troupe on the beach next.

At night as the moon rises to the full the picture is perfect. The coast of Asia—that land of mystery and romance, with the plains of Troy in the background, immortalized for ever by the sweet singers of ancient Greece. One can almost picture those god-like heroes of the past halting in those titanic fights which their shades perhaps wage nightly in the old battlefields of Troy, halting to gaze in wonder and amazement on the strange spectacle unfolded before them—modern war, that is, and all its attendant horrors. Hector, Achilles, and Agamemnon in their golden harness—their old enmities forgotten—must surely gaze in astonishment on the warlike deeds and methods of another age than theirs. The soft, shimmering sea merges into liquid silver where in the dim distance the little wavelets lap around the silent sleeping isles. There is Tenedos, standing like a sugarloaf in a silver bowl, silent as the night itself, and filled with mystery. Further off Imbros, that queen of the isles, sleeps like a goddess wrapt about in a garment of violet and silver, all unheeding apparently of war’s alarms—surely on such a night as this the mythology of the ancients becomes a living thing, and it does not tax the intellect much to imagine Diana, queen and huntress, surrounded by her attendant maidens, pursuing the quarry through the violet vales of the isles. Again, one can almost hear the splashing of Leander as he swims the Hellespont to keep his tryst with the lovely Hero.

Most of those living on the beach have dugouts now, but I still live in a little house made of biscuit-boxes. The Royal Scots came into action the first time last night. The Munsters were taken by surprise and had their trench rushed, and the Royal Scots were given the job to retake it, and cleared the trench of the enemy with two platoons at the point of the bayonet in twenty minutes. Greek civilian labour has now been landed, and we use them for unloading the lighters. A Turkish spy could with ease pass himself off as a Greek labourer of one of the gangs. Personally, I think we are making a mistake in employing them.

Carver tells me that the other day he noticed one sitting half-way down the cliff in full view of Yen-i-Shehr, waving to and fro a fly-whisk with a metal band fastened round the handle which clasped the ends of the horsehair; he feels confident that by the way he was waving the whisk, with the rays of the sun reflecting from the metal band, he was signalling by code to the Turkish observation post on Asia. I think it was quite possible for him to do so, for a bright piece of metal reflecting the strong rays of the sun in the clear atmosphere of this part of the world can be seen a long way off, and I should say quite easily as far off as Yen-i-Shehr is from “W” Beach. To a casual passer-by the Greek would appear to be waving flies away from his face with the whisk. Flies are daily becoming numerous here. One of the Greek foremen, who spoke English, assured me that it was only a matter of weeks now before Greece would come in on our side, and that he looked forward to the day when he would take his place in the ranks.

It is strange how very silent everything is to-day—not a gun nor a rifle shot—and we stroll about the beach chatting with the Naval officers.

Afternoon.

I hear that there was an armistice declared for the purpose of burying the dead of both sides. It lasted about two hours, during which both Turks and our men sat on their respective parapets watching each other with interest while parties were out in front, mixing freely with each other, clearing away their own dead. It was an extraordinary situation. One of the Turks picked up two of our live bombs which had fallen short and had failed to explode, and was making back to his trench with them, when his officer, spotting him, called him back and made him hand the bombs back to our men, and apparently gave him a good cursing in strong Turkish. A short time after, both sides are back in their trenches, and if a head should appear over the parapet of either side it is in danger of being promptly blown off.

At dinner I express the thought that I wished Turkey would throw over the Germans and become our allies. Our Tommies and theirs were so near this morning, and, by God! they would fight well side by side. I say that Turkey is the most valuable asset to have on either side. If she were our ally the Dardanelles would be open to the Allies, and the Central Empires would be utterly defeated in a year. As an enemy she will cause the war to drag on Lord knows how long, providing we are unsuccessful in forcing the Straits. I am “howled down,” and am told that Achi Baba will be ours in a month’s time, and once ours, Turkey is finished. But strolling up to the top of the cliff after dinner, I take a long look at Achi. Ours in a month? I wonder. I turn, depressed and pessimistic, into my house of biscuit-boxes, and bless the man who invented sleep.

May 4th, 5th, 6th.

Nothing much to record. Have been very busy these last few days forming a Supply depot of my own for the 88th Brigade. I go up to Brigade each day, riding as far as the white pillars, but go bang across country now and not through Sed-el-Bahr. Our line is quite deep and well dug in now. Firing going on steadily at night. Quite heavy rifle fire, but it is mostly Turkish. I learn that at night he gets the “wind up” and blazes away at nothing. One or two parties have made sorties, but our machine guns have made short work of them. The Division is like one big family party; we all know each other so well now, and one can go through the trying vicissitudes of war with greater vigour if with men who have become intimate friends. The horrible part is losing friends; much worse, I think, than having to go oneself. Good friends leave such a large gap. Tommies seem pretty cheerful at night on the beach. After dinner we sit outside our biscuit-box houses and have coffee (not a word! I got some coffee by exchanging jam with a Frenchman the other day—strictly against rules), and looking out to sea, enjoy some excellent cigars of the C.O.’s. “Any more for the Arcadian?” is constantly shouted out by a Naval officer on the beach, calling those who live at G.H.Q. who are billeted on the Arcadian to the pinnace. I often wish I could say “Yes” one night, and go on board and have a good bath and a whisky and soda. Tommies play on mouth-organs and sing Tommy’s tunes. At Lemnos, Tommy was marching round the decks of the transports singing “Who’s your Lady Friend?” A few days after he goes through one of the most sanguinary fights of the war; a week after he is on the beach with a mouth-organ making a horrible execution of “A Little Grey Home in the West.” A unique creation, the British Tommy. If he ever does think of death or getting wounded, he always thinks it will be his pal and not he who will get hit, and goes on with his mouth-organ, washing his shirt, or writing to his latest girl at the last town he was billeted in. Those with girls are the cheeriest.

May 7th.

To-day we are bombarding Turkish positions heavily and the village of Krithia preparatory to advancing our lines to the slopes of Achi Baba in the hope of my Brigade taking the hill. In the morning I issue at my dump, and after lunch ride with Carver and Sergeant Evans to find our respective Brigades. We ride up the west coast across grass and gorse, and arriving at a gully, encounter shell fire, which is now getting more frequent. We leave our horses with an orderly at this gully and proceed on foot, skirting the edge of the coast. Shells are bursting furiously over Krithia, which is again on fire. We reach a very deep and beautiful gully, which appears to run inland some long way, and we climb down its slopes to the shore. There we find an advanced dressing station, to which wounded are continually being brought by stretcher-bearers, or helped along by R.A.M.C. men. Several of the wounded are R.A.M.C. also.

I inquire at a tent, which is a signal station, of the Signal Officer in charge, as to the location of 88th Brigade H.Q., and learn that they are inland. We chat awhile to this officer, who appears strangely familiar to me, and at last I place him. I find that I dined with him four years ago in Edgbaston, and his name is Mowatt, a Birmingham Territorial in business on his own, which through the war has gone to the winds. He tells me he has been here for four days and is often troubled by snipers. They had caught one four days previously in a dugout which, facing the gully, allowed his head and shoulders to appear, giving sufficient room for him to take aim through a screen made by a bush growing in front. The entrance to his dugout was from the cliff side facing the sea, along a passage ten yards in length. He gave himself up, though he had food and water for some days more. As we talk, two wounded limp down the gully through the water, for the bottom of the gully is in parts a foot deep in water, and I question them as to how they were wounded. They reply, “Either spent bullets or snipers,” and that they were hit about a mile further up the gully.

We go back, climbing up the cliff, and walk along the cliff’s edge to where we had left our horses. A detachment of New Zealanders, I should say about a thousand, are moving slowly in several single files across the gorse to take their place on the left of our line to relieve some Gurkhas, and I have a good opportunity of studying them at close quarters. I am struck by the wonderful physique of the men, all of them in splendid condition. I am rather surprised to see them, for I thought that they were up country with the Australians. I leave Carver at this point, and Sergeant Evans and I cut across country, and trotting up the track which is now called the West Krithia road, reach Pink Farm. We go beyond there, find H.Q. in a trench, and learn that rations are to be dumped at Pink Farm. We are warned that we should not be riding about there, as we might draw shell fire. Krithia is getting it terribly hot from our shells, and is well on fire now. We learn that the French have had a check, and that we in consequence have been unable to advance. We come back and have a delightful canter all the way back to “W” Beach. I have a meal, and then, with Williams, at dusk escort rations, this time in limber-wagons as well as on pack-mules, up the West Krithia road to Pink Farm, where I find Leslie waiting, and we come back on a limber, I squatting on the rear half and Williams in front; quite an enjoyable ride. Star shells are now in use, and they go up at odd intervals, poising in the air for a second and then sailing gracefully to earth, illuminating the immediate vicinity. It was fairly quiet all night; just an odd shell or two fired by our Fleet at intervals.

May 8th.

Before breakfast this morning I am ordered to take two hundred rations up to some Lancashire Fusiliers (Territorials) who have found themselves in our part of the line. Arriving at Pink Farm, shrapnel begins to come over, and I get the mules under cover of the farm as best I can and go on to H.Q. I continue to walk along the road, and then cut across the open country to the trench where the Brigade are. They are sitting in the trench having breakfast, and tell me that the Lancashire Fusiliers have now gone to the beach. Festin, of the Border Regiment, is now our Brigade Major, and he asks me to take a message to the Field Company of Engineers attached to the Brigade, just behind Pink Farm, off the road. As we talk, shrapnel bursts over Pink Farm and to its left, probably trying to get at a battery which is in position there. I take my leave, and on getting back to Pink Farm I find that one of the Syrian mule-drivers has been hit in the stomach by a shrapnel bullet. He is lying on the ground behind the walls of the farm groaning, and on seeing me cries piteously to me in Russian. I send over to an Indian Field Ambulance close by, and in a few minutes two native orderlies come running over noiselessly with a stretcher. They stoop down, and with the tenderness of women lift the wounded boy on to the stretcher and carry him away. We trek back, and on the way I deliver the message to the Field Company.

For transport we now have little A.T. two-wheeled carts, known in the Indian Army as ammunition transport, drawn by two little Indian mules. These are in camp near the lighthouse, between “W” Beach and “V” Beach. Delightful place this, and most interesting. The orderliness of everything is astonishing; the quaint little tents—oblong, with sloping sides—are arranged in neat rows. The inhabitants are surely the most cleanly people on earth. Here I see groups of them, stripped except for a loin-cloth, busy washing their shining, dusky bodies. After this, little brass jars are produced, from which oil is poured over them and rubbed in. Others, having finished this, are industriously combing their long black locks and bushy beards. Others, again, are making chupatty, a species of pancake, in broad, shallow metal bowls—I taste one and find it excellent. Other groups of these dark warriors are sitting outside their little tents smoking hookahs; all the men we meet salute punctiliously. Near by are the white officers’ tents, quite luxurious affairs. The whole place is delightful and looks almost like a riverside picnic, only everything is very orderly. As to the carts before mentioned, these are most ingenious. They are little two-wheeled affairs with a pole, like the old-fashioned curricle; each is drawn by two small mules, not larger than ponies. Wonderful little fellows they are, bred in Northern India—Kashmere and Thibet, I believe. Lord! how they work—they can pull almost anything, and they are so surefooted and the little carts so evenly balanced that they can go about anywhere. It is a very interesting sight to see a convoy of these carts on the move, with their dusky, turbaned drivers sitting crouched up like monkeys on them, chanting some weird Oriental ballad as they go, to the accompaniment of jingling harness. They are well looked after, too, these little mules—the drivers have had the care of them for years, perhaps—and their training is perfect. They look as fat as butter, and their coats shine like satin—very different from the hulking, ugly brutes that we have brought—American. They appear to be quite docile, and it is not necessary to have eyes in the back of your head when walking through their lines.

I hear to-day that Major Barlow, to whom I was talking a few days ago in the trenches, has been badly wounded.

One aeroplane has been very busy going out and coming back after short trips over the enemy’s positions, followed by little puffs of bursting shrapnel when over their lines. The weather is perfect.

Swiftsure and Queen Bess are now up the coast off the gully, and are giving the left slope of Achi Baba and Krithia something to write home about. Torpedo destroyers are also joining in, and later the shore batteries take up the tune, and a bombardment similar to yesterday’s starts, preparatory to another battle.

French “75’s” are barking away incessantly, and the bombardment is increasing in ferocity.

New Zealanders are on the extreme left, then the 87th Brigade, next the 88th and 86th, or what is left of it, with the new Territorial Lancashire Fusiliers. Next come Australians, up on the hill by the White House; and on the extreme right down to the edge of the Straits, the French. The line forms the shape of a

, the extremes resting on ground on either side of the Peninsula.

Through glasses at six o’clock I can see little figures running here and there on the high ground to the extreme right beyond the White House—now taking cover, now running forward, now disappearing on the other side; ugly black shells rain amongst them and make a sickening sight. Turkish artillery appears to have increased considerably. Their shells rain all along our line, but none come on the beaches. All their artillery seems concentrated on our trenches. Again and again I see shells fall right in the middle of men who seem to be running. It is difficult to discern whether they are Turks or our men.

I watch till the sight sickens me, and then I come away and arrange the rations to go up to-night, seeing the boxes roped up on to the pack-mules or loaded on to the A.T. carts. Two shells come near the beach, bursting with a black explosion in the air. Rifle fire goes on all night, but artillery dies down to fitful shelling. I hear that the net result of to-day’s work is a gain of five hundred yards, but that we have had great casualties.

May 10th.

Another most perfect day. All day yesterday wounded were being evacuated as fast as possible. I now have to feed a Brigade of Australians as well as my own Brigade. I go up in the morning to their positions, and for the first time get amongst them at close quarters. They have honeycombed the land near the white pillars with dugouts and have their H.Q. at the White House on the hill. I see Captain Milne, their Supply Officer, and arrange matters with him.

Our Vet. (Hyslop) and Sergeant Evans ride to-day with me and we call at our Brigade H.Q., now moved some few hundred yards behind their former position of a week ago, dug in a dry nook surrounded by trees, in a spot similar to a park of some large house in England. Their mess is simply a table of earth dug out by digging a square trench in which they sit, the centre of the square being the table. There I find Colonel Williams, Thomson and our new Brigade Major. I find that Festin was wounded yesterday whilst standing up in the trench in which I was talking to him the day before. Troops have found little springs and an ancient well, and so there is now a plentiful supply of water—and beautiful water too. In addition to Australians and the Punjabis in camp by the white pillars, there are now Lancashire Fusiliers and Manchesters, the whole making one large camp of dugouts and trenches in orderly rows.

It is fortunate that there is very little rain, otherwise the place would be a quagmire in five minutes.

The Punjabis have built walls of mud and stone shell-proof shelters, and are much handier at making themselves comfortable than our white troops. In the battle of the 8th the Australians showed marvellous dash and individual pluck—not a straggler among them. Many deeds of great heroism were performed, and if a man gets an honour in their ranks it will be one worth having.

It is difficult to pick up exactly our front-line trench, and the Q.M. of the Worcesters the other day, finding a trench containing Munsters, inquired as to the whereabouts of his regiment, and was told that they were on in front; he walked on, and finding nothing, came back. He was told that if he walked much further “he wouldn’t ’arf get Worcesters.” He was walking bang into the enemy’s lines.

Two aeroplanes are up to-day, circling energetically around the slopes of Achi Baba.

Our batteries are busy, steadily plugging shells into the enemy’s lines.

An aeroplane is up and the Turks are trying to pot it. Aeroplane sails up and down Turkish lines unconcerned.

The curious thing about being under shell fire is that when a shell comes near you, you duck down and take cover, and immediately after resume your conversation.

This morning at the white pillars I said to the Australian officer, “What is your strength?” He said, “Look out!” Down we bobbed. A sound like tearing linen, ending in a shriek and a bang. Up we jump, and he calmly continues the conversation.

Met Duff, my H.A.C. pal, again; so funny seeing him; both of us ride together. Last time we rode together was at Goring, side by side in B Sub., A Battery. Never thought that we should both be officers riding side by side on the Gallipoli Peninsula. Have a delightful bathe off “W” Beach to-day; the water crowded with bathers, French and English. By far the best bathing I have ever had in my life.

May 11th.

Rather cloudy to-day, and much cooler. Rode up to Brigade H.Q. with Hyslop, to the same place as yesterday. Saw Australian Supply Officer. As I was talking to him a few shells came over our way—not singly, but by twos and threes. I have got used to the sound of them passing through the air now, and know by the sound whether they are coming my way or not. Again, as yesterday, the Australian officer gave me the warning “Look out!” and we dived for a dugout. The Australians get awfully amused when they see people doing these dives out of the way of shells, and it certainly does look humorous.

My Brigade is moving back to the reserve trenches for a rest, and they need it. The reserve trenches are those by the white pillars, occupied at present by the Lancashires and Manchesters (Territorials). I meet General D’Amade and his Staff, including the officer that I knew on the Arcadian. They are all riding. He stops me, asking if I have seen General Parish, the Australian General. I express regret that I have not, at which he appears annoyed. One of his Staff asks me to point out 29th D.H.Q., and I direct him to Hill 138, in rear of us. I point out the Australian camp to the General, who goes off then to inquire for General Parish.

I leave Hyslop, who has another job on, and start to ride back across country, having a few jumps over the new rest trenches. I am overtaken by an officer who is the Adjutant of one of the Lancashire Fusiliers (Territorial) Battalions, the 6th, I think. Lord Rochdale is in command. He tells me that they have been in Egypt training for a long time, and cursing their luck at being seemingly sidetracked, with not much opportunity of seeing any active service. Suddenly they were wired for, and in twenty-four hours left Egypt for here. On arrival they marched straight up to the trenches, and at 5.30 p.m. the next day went into action and lost heavily. As I was being told all this I heard a most weird noise, as if the whole of the sky were being rent in two, ending in a deafening explosion, and looking over my shoulder in surprise, I see twenty-five yards to my left, over a little mound, a spout of smoke and earth and stones flung into the air. I say to my companion, “I think we had better trot,” which we do. It is strange, but my old horse did not seem to worry much when the shell burst. It must have been a 6-inch, and is the first big one that I have had near me so far, and may it be the last. Its sound is unlike that of any shell I have heard up to now, and far noisier in its flight; I think that if they chuck these sort about on the beach I shall be jumpy in a very short time. I only hope the beaches are out of range, or will be before very long. Evidently they have a new gun. At times I feel very optimistic, looking forward confidently to our trip over Achi Baba; at other times Achi Baba looks so forbidding that I feel we shall all spend the rest of our lives hanging on to this tiny bit of land. I can canter to Brigade H.Q. from the beach in fifteen minutes, and walk from there to the front line in another fifteen, and that gives an idea of how far we are on. I ride over to the aerodrome—we are fortunate in finding such a perfect one—and over to “V” Beach, which the French have got into a much more shipshape order than ours. I count seven battleships and seven destroyers up the entrance as far as Morto Bay; the “packet of Woodbines” is still off the Asiatic coast and touches up Yen-i-Shehr and Kum Kale with 10-inch shells. From the high ground overlooking “V” Beach the Fleet at the entrance makes an imposing spectacle, waiting for the Army to open the gates of the Straits before they dash through to the Marmora. The Goliath and Prince George fire odd shots now and again at Chanak. Late in the afternoon we get a few light shells over on “W” Beach and a few men are slightly hit. In a little gully between “W” Beach and “X” Beach preparations are being made to start a field bakery, and we are promised real bread in a few days. One of our mares has given birth to a foal; my mare, much to the mother’s annoyance, is much interested.

Our train is in camp now on the high ground on the left of “W” Beach looking inland, and have made very good lines. All the men have built little shelters out of wagon-covers, sail-cloths, and tarpaulins, in rows opposite their horse lines, the whole looking like a well ordered gipsy encampment. I made myself very unpopular there to-day by saying, “You won’t ’arf cop it in a day or so when John Turk finds you out.”

Saw General Hunter-Weston making a tour of the beaches to-day. He appeared in very good spirits. Our trenches in the front line are now getting quite deep, and sand-bagged parapets are being rapidly built. The Gurkhas do not like trench warfare at all, and cause much anxiety to their white officers by continually popping their heads over to have a look round. The Turkish line has crept much nearer to ours since the last battle, and they are also rapidly digging in. A party of Gurkhas were ordered out to capture a machine gun in an emplacement on an advanced knoll in front of the Turkish right and our left. The gun was captured, and one little Gurkha brought back a Turk’s head, and it was difficult to make him part with it. Heavy firing broke out at eleven o’clock to-night and lasted an hour or two.

May 12th.

It is raining hard this morning, and very cold as well. I visit the Senegalese camp at “V” Beach. They are physically very well built men, well up to the average of 6 feet in height. They are as black as coal, with shiny faces, like niggers on Brighton beach, and very amusing in their manners. At the last battle they charged magnificently with horrible yelling, frightening the poor Turk out of his wits. They are equipped with wide, square-bladed knives about 14 inches long.

Wireless news is now typed and published nearly every day. To-day we hear that the Lusitania has been sunk and that Greece and Italy are likely to come in. An extract from a Turkish paper says that we have been pushed into the sea, and almost in the same paragraph that “the foolish British will persist in attacking.”

We have quite a comfortable little house now at our Supply depot on the beach, made out of boxes with a sail-cloth overhead.

Hardly any firing to-day. Shore batteries remarkably quiet, but Fleet firing intermittently.

Afternoon.

Go to Brigade H.Q. in the afternoon and find the rest camp at the white pillars an absolute quagmire of mud, many of the dugouts being half full of water. Two 60-pounder guns are now in position on the cliff to the west of “W” Beach, and this afternoon I go up to have a look at them firing. Their target is at a range of 9,600 yards, well up on the left shoulder of Achi Baba, and an aeroplane is up observing for them. The flame of the explosion shoots out some feet from the muzzle and from the breach also, and makes a terrific roar, which echoes all round the ships lying off, the sound playing ducks and drakes from one ship to another. One can see with the naked eye the shell hitting its target on Achi Baba. Our Fleet gets busy again, and later the batteries on shore join in, and a bombardment starts. At 6.45 p.m. the Gurkhas come into action on the left, and quite a big battle develops. We can just see the men through glasses. Crowds from the beach flock up on to the high ground to have a look, getting into direct line with the 60-pounders, much to the Gunner Officer’s annoyance, and police finally are posted to keep them out of the way. A shell exploding with a black burst over our heads, but very high, causes the watching crowd to scatter in a somewhat amusing fashion. Gregory and I move forward to a trench in front and look at the battle through glasses. All I can see now is a host of bursting shells on the left and intermittent shelling on the right and centre. Suddenly another of these black devils of shells bursts over our heads and covers me with small hot cinders which sting. We go back to dinner whilst the battle is still going on.

May 13th.

At two o’clock this morning I was awakened by a most curious noise. It sounded like thousands of men off “V” Beach crying and shouting loudly. Shortly after I see searchlights, about eight of them, flashing from the battleships at the entrance to the Straits. The noise goes on for about half an hour and then suddenly ceases. I stand for a few minutes puzzling what it is, and watching the searchlights still wielding their beams of light around, and then turn in again.

At 6 a.m. I am told that the Goliath has been torpedoed and sunk. A Turkish destroyer came down the Straits and got her clean amidships, and she sank in half an hour. I hear that half the crew is lost. The destroyer, if seen at all, disappeared in the darkness. Poor old Goliath! and it was only the other day that I was watching her in action.

We now move our depot upon the high land on the left of “W” Beach and further inshore, and divide it into four, one for Divisional troops and one for each Brigade. While on this job at 7 a.m. I hear the sound of bagpipes coming nearer and nearer. It is the first time that I have heard bagpipes since I was on the Southland with the K.O.S.B.’s. Sure enough it is the K.O.S.B.’s, “all that are left of them,” some three hundred strong out of the strength of eleven hundred that they landed with from the Southland. They come swinging down to the beach with one officer at their head, and to see them marching well behind the inspiring skirl of bagpipes almost brings tears to my eyes. Three hundred left out of a crack Scottish battalion, average service of each man five years. I ride up to Brigade again this morning and find all very quiet on the front. I hear that we were successful in yesterday’s and in last night’s battle, and that the Gurkhas have taken a large important bluff on our extreme left on the other side of the gully.

I bathe in the afternoon, and while enjoying the pleasure of doing side-strokes with the sea having a slight swell on, I hear that terrible rending noise of a 6-inch shell, similar to those that dropped near me the other morning, which “bursts with a bang at the back of the beach.” My bathing is promptly brought to an end, and I go back to my “bivvy.” I feel safer there, somehow, but why I should I cannot explain. But all who have been under shell fire will bear me out in the statement that even if one is in a tent one feels more confident under shell fire than if in the bare open, with the exception, of course, of when one is caught under it going to some definite place or finishing some urgent definite work. Then one’s mind is concentrated on getting to that place or finishing that job. But sitting down on the beach hearing the heavens being torn asunder by an unseen hand, as it were—the noise of the tearing developing into a mighty hiss and shriek, ending in a great explosion which shakes the earth under your feet and echoes far away into the distance, followed by the whine of flying pieces of hot metal, sometimes very near your head—is a most disconcerting and unnerving position in which to find oneself.

For the benefit of those who have been so fortunate as to never have heard a shell burst in anger, a slight description of it may prove interesting. The first thing one hears is a noise like the rending of linen, or perhaps the rush of steam describes it better. This gets louder and louder, and then, as the projectile nears the end of its journey, one hears a whine, half whistle, half scream, and then the explosion. If it is very near there is an acrid smell in the air. One’s feelings are difficult to describe. You duck your head instinctively—you feel absolutely helpless, wondering where the thing will burst, and as you hear the explosion a quick wave of feeling sweeps over you as you murmur, “Thank Heaven, not this time!”

Unfortunately, they have got the range of our beach accurately now, and are beginning to do real damage. The little shells that we had earlier did not frighten us much, but these beastly things make us all jumpy.

Several men have been hit to-day, and about a dozen horses and half a dozen mules killed. All are taking cover as best they can. If one hits this bivouac where I am now writing, this Diary comes to an untimely end.

I wish our aeroplanes could find this gun; it appears so close up to us, and if it takes it into its head to fling these beastly things about all day long, this beach will be untenable. A damned fool near me has just said, “If they go on much longer they will hurt somebody.” I chuck a book at his head.

In France they do get a chance of rest behind the scenes now and again, but here it is one constant “Look out!” and down we bob. After a bout of shelling one imagines shells coming. For instance, when an aeroplane sails over, people duck their heads, as it sounds just like a shell; and then also there are so many ships in harbour that one is constantly hearing the noise of escaping steam, sounding just like a shell.

One of our men has just had the side of his boot torn away; fortunately, however, only the skin of his foot was grazed and bruised.

Fifty horses have now been killed, and three men killed and a few wounded.

Had to go on duty at depot at head of beach. Shelling stopped. Finished duty 6.45. Shell immediately came, and I fell flat behind some hay. After that a few more came over and then stopped.

May 14th.

Big gun started searching the beach with large high explosive shells at four, for two hours. Every one had to take cover. Aeroplane reconnaissance cannot locate gun, which is a damned nuisance. They come with a terrific scream and burst with a deafening explosion, most upsetting to one’s nerves. We all take cover behind the cliff. Not a soul can be seen on the beaches. All animals are removed to down under the cliff.

Casualties, twenty-three mules and three men wounded.

One piece of shell fell at my feet, and I picked it up, only to drop it quickly, as it was so hot.

After being under fire of such awful shells one laughs at mild shrapnel.

Getting very hot, but perfect weather.

Saw Laird for a few minutes and had a chat with him.

Not much time for writing to-day. Go up to Laird’s “bivvy” and have a long talk with him over old times. He landed on that first Sunday on “S” Beach, and though in the Engineers, had the experience of taking part in three bayonet charges. He was in a neat little dugout when I went up, and was busy looking for a scorpion. I helped him look for it, and it seemed so strange that after all these years we should meet on the Gallipoli Peninsula, and before sitting down to talk of old times should be looking for a scorpion that had got into his dugout.

Scorpions and snakes about three feet long are becoming more numerous here, but I believe they are harmless, except in self-defence.

May 15th.

All was quiet on the front last night, but to-day there has been one long artillery duel.

I go up to Brigade H.Q. this afternoon, and go round by the road through Sed-el-Bahr this time, because “I don’t like them shells; run as you may, you can’t get away from them.” On the way I passed Ashmead Bartlett riding with a Naval officer. The latter came and had tea with us later, and said he was on the Implacable, and Ashmead Bartlett was “bivvying” there as well. He is a correspondent for several papers.

Several battleships which were moored at the entrance move off at nightfall now, after that feat by the Turkish destroyer which sank the Goliath.

There is to be a general attack to-morrow night, Sunday. Some of the Tommies do not like attacking at night; they say, “Let us get them in the open, by day.”

The knocking out of a sniper by some of the South Wales Borderers was described to me to-day by one of their officers. Two officers were standing up in their trench by a machine gun, one holding a periscope, when a bullet went through the sleeve of his coat, wounding the officer to whom he was talking. The first officer spotted a sniper bob down immediately after. He then got down in the trench beside the man working the machine gun, and pointed out to him the bush behind which the sniper had crouched. The machine gun was laid on to it. Then the man on the machine gun and the officer took cover, the man holding his hand up to the machine gun ready to pop off. The officer then cautiously raised the periscope over the trench and looked carefully at the lower mirror. He saw in the mirror a head slowly appear above the bush eight hundred yards away, then a rifle lifted. He said to the machine gun man “Fire.” Pop-pop, and the sniper rolled over dead on his side beside the bush.

5.30.

Two Taubes have just come overhead flying at a great height. Anti-aircraft guns are firing and there is some good shooting, but the Taubes have turned and are going back to the Turkish lines. One of our aeroplanes has gone up.

A beautiful clear day, and one can see in detail the Asiatic side and the Isle of Imbros. No heavy shells to-day so far on this beach.

Invitations to lunch and dinner, etc., go on every day here, and it is a regular custom for men in the firing-line to invite men from the base (only four miles back) to a meal and vice versa. This campaign is quite unique in many ways.

May 16th.

Perfect day again. Saw Brigade H.Q. and hear they are moving further to the left up in the firing-line, about half a mile beyond Pink Farm.

Hear that our wounded, and French and Australian, have been arriving in great numbers at Cairo and Alexandria. The British are now being sent to Malta. Hear that 20,000 Turkish wounded have arrived at Smyrna, and 12,000 at Constantinople. Put in divisional orders to cheer us up. Fancy a civilized nation sending round statistics of the result of their slaughter to cheer and exhort! Yet it cheered me. Strange how quickly one becomes bloodthirsty and savage.

Fighting proceeding on our right by French. No general attack being made to-day, idea being to strengthen line, push forward steadily by sapping, and then, when in strong position with three or four lines of supports, to make a rush. This will probably happen in a few days now.

Big gun has not been knocked out after all, for we had a dozen of the best over to-day, but I was up in front and so missed it.

Gurkhas on left have pushed forward well up to left of Krithia. Still a few snipers behind our lines on left of Krithia.

We had divine service this morning behind 88th Brigade lines. A service under such circumstances is most impressive, every soul there being within easy distance of a horrible death. It is a lovely morning, and as the soldiers sing the hymns with lusty voices, an accompaniment is provided by the screaming of shells overhead. But the singing continues unabated. Here one hears the same dear old tunes of our childhood, but under what different circumstances! At home, the breeze softly whispering in the trees outside the ancient church, with the shaded light glimmering through the stained glass and men and women mingling their voices in praise to God; and then, out here, the breeze murmurs as at home, the birds are singing and the sun is shining—but over the congregation, the bareheaded rows of khaki figures, even while they sing the same old hymns as of old, the Angel of Death hovers with naked sword. Then the benediction in level tones from the Padre and the service is ended. Surely the most impressive I have witnessed. For here in a double sense one stands face to face with one’s Maker.

May 18th.

Our Brigade has now moved up about three-quarters of a mile in front of Pink Farm, and I go up this morning to find them. I ride up to, and leave my horse at, Pink Farm, and walk the rest of the way down past a ruined house, on over a small nullah, along the road past a battery up to a white house called Church Farm, where I think it is about time to halt and inquire the way. A few Tommies encamped in this house tell me Brigade H.Q. is two hundred yards further on in the trenches, and I walk on. I notice a Tommy walking in the same direction with a biscuit tin on his shoulder, which he has rubbed over with mud to prevent the sun glittering on it. I continue on in the direction indicated, and hear a few “pings” past my head, but thinking they are the usual spent bullets, take no notice. Suddenly something “zips” past my head, making a row like a huge bee flying at high speed; the noise being unlike the usual “ping” of a bullet passing harmless overhead, I conclude that I am being deliberately fired at by a sniper, and so bend double, and steering a zigzag course, jog-trot across the remaining fifty yards to a nice deep trench. On arrival, I inquire where Brigade H.Q. is, and am directed to a communication trench, which I go along and find myself at length in a square dugout with no roof, in which are General Williams, busy at work with a spade, Thomson, Farmer, and Reave. Concluding my business, and being instructed that the little ruined house in front of Pink Farm is to be the dump for rations, I say good-bye. Thomson says, “Now, Gillam, run like a bunny,” but, those bullets being a bit free at present over the trenches, I follow my own route back and walk along the hindmost trench, which I am told leads to a nullah which goes back in the direction of Pink Farm.

I pass Worcesters and Royal Scots in the trenches, and finally the trench dips down to a wide open space under cover, with a small brook running its course, out of which two nullahs run. This, I am told, has been officially named “Clapham Junction.” Unfortunately, a few shrapnel then burst immediately over “Clapham Junction,” and I therefore go to look for a waiting-room, refreshment-room, or booking-office in which I can take cover until the rain has stopped. I find a “refreshment-room” in the shape of an advanced dressing station, and two officers there very kindly give me breakfast. After breakfast I walk along the nullah, which I learn is now to be called Krithia Nullah, back towards the rear, and when the sound of bullets pinging away overhead ceases, I step out on to a newly made road, which is still under construction by the Engineers, and then come across the Manchesters again in a newly dug trench forming reserve lines. Walking back to Pink Farm, I mount my mare and canter back to the beach. Last night the Turks made a raid on the part of the line held by the Lancashire Fusiliers, endeavouring to capture a machine gun, but very soon gave up the idea. They lost heavily and left six prisoners behind.

Supply depot for my Brigade alone now working smoothly. We draw rations for the whole Division, men and horses, at six o’clock each morning by G.S. wagons. This takes two hours, during which the rations are carted from the Main Supply depot some three hundred yards inland from our depots at the back of “W” Beach, and sorted out to each of the three Brigade depots and the Divisional artillery depot. Breakfast at eight, and at 9.30 I go to my depot again and issue the rations to my units, meeting the Q.M.’s who have arrived with their transport. Receipts for the rations are then given me by the Q.M.’s, who cart them away to their own lines, where their first-line transport is encamped only a distance of three to five hundred yards away on the other side of the beach. At night they are taken up to the various ration dumps, and from there taken the rest of the way to the trenches either by hand or on pack-mules. At the forward ration dumps the work of redistribution is carried on under a continual flight of spent and “over” bullets, and standing there one is in constant danger of stopping one. Up to now several casualties have been caused, but mostly slight wounds. After five minutes one becomes quite used to the singing of the bullets, which sound quite harmless. It is only when an extra burst of fire breaks out that it is necessary to get into a trench or behind some sheltering cover. I ride up in the afternoon to Brigade H.Q., who have now dug themselves into a dry watercourse just in front of Pink Farm. I see General Williams and Thomson. Afterwards I walk up to the trenches where the Worcesters are, up beyond Church Farm, and across that open space. At Church Farm I am told that at this side of the building I am out of aiming distance from a rifle, and can only be hit by an “over,” but that at the other side of the building I come under range, and that it is not wise to loiter in that neighbourhood.

I therefore get across the three hundred yards of open space as quickly as possible, and vaulting into the safety of the trench, I inquire where Battalion H.Q. is, and following the direction given, pass along nice deep trenches with sand-bagged parapets. Trench warfare in dead earnest has now begun, and for the first time I realize what it is like: an underground world, yet not an underground, for one can see grass, flowers, and trees growing, but only close to. Walking from Church Farm to the trenches, I see nothing but lovely country leading up to frowning Achi Baba, and near by, in front, rows and rows of thrown-up earth. No sign of animal life of any kind. Yet once in the trenches I found myself in a world alive with energy—men cleaning rifles, writing letters, washing clothes, making dugouts, laying cables. I pass dugouts, little rooms of earth dug out of the side of the trench; some are cookhouses, some officers’ bedrooms, some messes, and some orderly-rooms, with tables and chairs. All this world has been created underground, and unseen by the enemy, only a few hundred yards away, in the space of a few weeks; and this is trench warfare, materialized by spade and shovel, by hundreds of strong arms, night and day. I come at last to H.Q. Worcester Battalion, and am directed to the mess—a nice dugout roofed in by timber. Major Lang is sitting at a table reading letters from home. I ask for letters for Captain Bush; am told they have been sent down to the beach by an orderly; am offered a drink, talk about the heat, which is getting tiresome now, and hear that soon we are to be served out with pith helmets. I say good-bye and start back. I am in a maze, and have to be directed back to the trench that I jumped into. I vault out and, zigzagging, jog-trot, for I am told to go quickly back to Church Farm, and hear two bullets singing their faint song far away over my head. I come to a nullah, where I find horses and mules in dug-in stables in charge of Roberts, Brigade Transport Officer, just in front of the little ruined house in front of our Brigade H.Q., and arriving there, hear that Thomson has gone back to Hill 138 with the Brigadier. I go back to Pink Farm, mount my mare, and cantering along the West Krithia road, catch them up. On either side of the road are now dug rest trenches, organized as camps—the trenches not as deep as the front trenches, but sufficiently so to keep the men under cover. I trot along the road through one of these camps, and am soon pulled up by an M.P. with the sharp order, “No trotting, please.”

29TH DIVISIONAL HEADQUARTERS, GULLY BEACH, AT THE FOOT OF THE GULLY, HELLES.