Part 17
At the end of the terrace on the north side of the top of the ravine, my Brigade H.Q. is comfortably dug in, and it is a pleasure sitting there talking, with such a picturesque view to enjoy from the position. It is far the prettiest site our Brigade has had up to now for their Headquarters, and also convenient, for they are situated but a few hundred yards behind the front line.
As I am about to take my leave, four shrapnel shells come over from a Turkish battery on our extreme left, which burst low on the opposite slopes of the ravine, with the trenches of two regiments in reserve for a target. They are followed steadily by several salvos, one or two of the shells bursting in the air near our H.Q., and one in particular throwing a few bullets onto the ground at my feet, as I stand at the door of the General’s mess. The General invites me to step inside, saying, “Unless you want to get shot,” and gives me a topping breakfast of scrambled eggs on toast.
After breakfast I go back with Mathias and Arnold to Gully Beach and see 86th Brigade H.Q. and Sinclair Thomson, and then ride with Arnold to “W” Beach. Mathias and Arnold came to lunch, as a parcel had arrived, and we enjoyed the luxuries thereof.
After lunch I receive orders to go with 88th Brigade and 86th Brigade to the new landing. Way also under orders to go. So after nearly four months of hanging on to this tip of the Peninsula the poor old 29th Division is to leave and try its luck at the new landing, and Achi Baba still remains impregnable.
I look forward to the move with mixed feelings—relief at getting away from this end, and new feelings at the prospect of being more heavily shelled than we ever were here.
However, perhaps the move may be a successful one, and the end of the campaign in this area nearer than we think.
At 9 p.m. I go down to “W” Beach and make inquiries. As usual, nobody knows anything, and all is confusion. The piers are very congested with the baggage being shipped on to lighters, which are then towed out to trawlers. All such work, of course, has to be done after dark. At twelve, after making exhaustive inquiries and with no result, Way and I walk over to “V” Beach.
At the fort on the left of “V” Beach, looking shorewards, we find that a lot of Lancashire and Munster Fusiliers are taking shelter, as the Turks had been shelling the beach. We lie down just outside the fort on the stone floor and try to get some sleep. A perfect night, and as I look up at the stars I wonder what it was like here a year ago, when war had not devastated this land.
_August 20th._
At 1.30 a.m. we get up and go down to the _River Clyde_. The _River Clyde_ is now supporting a very fine pier that the French have constructed. The French are excellent people at organization. After waiting some time, an M.L.O. tells me that the 88th are not going till the following night, and so I say good-night to Way, who is going off with the 86th, and proceed to walk back the mile and a half to “W” Beach.
I take the wrong turning, inquire the way of a French soldier, who puts me wrong again, and I find myself in a perfect maze of French dugouts. Once in the maze, I have an awful job to get out, and after stumbling and falling about for some time, manage to find the road. Feeling very tired, I stumble along in and out of the shell holes, it being very dark, and at last I arrive at “W” Beach.
I find Major Blackburn, Camp Commandant, still at work in his office in a dugout on the side of the cliff, and he very kindly revives me with a whisky. It is now 3.30 a.m., and after chatting with him, he giving a most dismal and chilling outlook of Suvla Bay (20,000 casualties and only just hanging on to the low land), I go back to the tent. Have no bed, my kit having gone on. I lie down like a dog and sleep soundly till five o’clock, when I am awakened by the cold. I go out to try to get warm, and see the sun rise. The breath of the coming winter seems to be in the air. Phew! In winter we shall be washed off by rain, not driven off by the Turks.
I sleep again, and then have breakfast with Phillips. Heavy artillery duels all day and the Gully people get it badly—twelve men wounded.
I rest during the day, as I shall be up all night again to-night.
I wonder how many other people are keeping diaries on Gallipoli besides me. It would be interesting for me to read them, for they must all be told from far different points of view.
The impression the Gallipoli campaign has on the minds of the men in the trenches, by far the most important men in the machine of the Dardanelles Army, must be widely foreign to the impression made on the mind, for instance, of a lighterman. The man in the trenches, probably, if he has been to France, and many here have, sees no great difference from life in the trenches in the Ypres salient.
The A.S.C. baker views life here through quite differently coloured spectacles from the A.S.C. driver, the A.S.C. driver from the signal operator, the officer in the observation balloon from the M.O. of a regiment, the platoon commander from the M.L.O., the aviator to the gunner officer, the commander of a submarine from the veterinary officer; and yet each respective outlook on life, to each officer or man, is one of far more vital and of greater importance than all the views, opinions, thoughts, and actions of any of his comrades or neighbours, of any newspaper, or public opinion. It is for him his destiny. The carrying out of orders given to his particular self, though of seemingly little importance in comparison to the working of the large Army machine, is to him perhaps a matter of life or death. Death or grievous wounds may prevent him carrying out an order; in that event he will be excused, but while alive and effective, he must carry out that order to the letter.
The position that Destiny has placed him in, as part of the huge machine, controls his thoughts, actions, character and outlook on life. His daily work may bring him in a constant danger of sudden death, and he naturally views his life from the point of view of the probability of leaving it suddenly, and possibly in an awful manner. That constant thought usually makes a man braver than we would expect, for his will forces him to carry out to the letter his orders and rules his mind, which is fully aware of the danger he incurs in doing so. As well as making him braver, the thought decides his will to make the most of the pleasures of life that may pass his way, and as a result he is usually to be found of a cheery, optimistic nature, easily pleased and hard to depress. For optimists, go to the front-line trenches—or the Navy—and for pessimists, go to overworked administrative officers.
If it were possible for all ranks, from O.C. to private, in an army fighting in any certain campaign to keep an accurate diary of all they do and see, then there could be published a perfectly true record of the development and history of that campaign, so it is not possible, and never will be, for the truth of all happenings in that campaign to be known. And it never will be in any campaign. Hundreds of deeds, gallant, tragic, cowardly, and foolish, occur which are never, and can never be, recorded. When the daily Press, arm-chair critics in clubs, etc., criticize any statesman or Army Staff, they are simply talking hot air, for how is it possible for them to judge, when their source of information is as unreliable as a “W” Beach rumour? So why waste words? Much better go and do something useful, or shut up and go and hide. War is like a big game. This war we must win—or we shall lose.
If we lose, it is on too huge a scale to be through any man’s fault—it will be Destiny.
At 9.30 p.m. I walk over to “V” Beach again and find much more order there than last night. Our Brigade is moving off systematically from the pier alongside the _River Clyde_. I embark with the Essex on to a small trawler. Algy Wood is with me. We are a merry party. We cast off and steam out to a paddle-boat, which we come alongside, and make fast to tranship. We are packed very closely together. The skipper makes all the Tommies laugh by shouting through a megaphone, in a deep Naval drawl, to a small tug in the offing, “Finished with you, Jessie!” and off we steam north, for our unknown fate at Suvla Bay.
A Tommy expresses his feelings by the remark, “I don’t know where I am going to, but I shall be glad when I get there.”
So shall I. I take a farewell glance at the _River Clyde_ and Sed-el-Bahr, and express the prayer that I shall not see either again during this war, and lie down on deck to sleep.
_August 21st._
I awake at 2 a.m. and find a blaze of lights on our starboard, and so sleepy am I that for the life of me I cannot make out what is happening or where I am. There seem to be thousands of little fairy lamps, and at first I think that we are entering an English watering-place alongside an illuminated pier. Coming to my senses, I find that we are passing close to three hospital ships, which are always illuminated at night, and entering a small bay. After a lot of manœuvring, we get off into lighters and are towed for a mile, coming finally alongside an improvised pier, where we disembark, thence on to a sandy beach, where inquiries are made as to our future. I go off in search of a Supply depot, but can only find one belonging to the 11th Division. The Brigade move off inland to a place called Chocolate Hill, the other side of a salt lake, and I lie down for an hour behind some hay.
I awake at 5 a.m., get up and shake myself and wander about, endeavouring to gain some information. I find Panton, with whom I go up on to the high ground behind the beach.
I learn that this is called “C” Beach. It is a small beach, flanked on its north side by a high rocky promontory called Lala Baba, the other side of which is Suvla Bay. Suvla Bay is in turn flanked on its north side by a high rocky promontory, jutting nearly two miles from the mainland into the sea. Where the bay washes the mainland, there starts a salt lake, looking like a large flat, sandy plain, evidently under water in the winter. In the background are high rocky hills, covered with gorse, looking beautiful in the early morning sun. At the foot, on the left and right of the Salt Lake, lies meadow land, with occasional clusters of olive groves. The hills on the promontory to the north of Suvla Bay continue in a range inland, curving round the low land immediately in front of us, when to the right of where I am standing they join and rise to a high peak called Sari Bair. Sari Bair, which commands the right of our line—for I learn we are on the low land—sweeps down to the Australians’ position at Anzac or Gaba Tepe.
One or two smaller hills, from fifty to a hundred feet high, stand near to us, rising out of the low meadow and wooded land. Some are in our hands, and some are still Turkish. One hill in particular, lying at the other end of the Salt Lake, inland from its centre, is called Chocolate Hill, and I learn D.H.Q. are to be there to-night. I hear also that there is to be a battle to-day. Many troops are landing, including a whole Division of Yeomanry, amongst them the Warwicks, Worcesters, and Gloucesters.
I meet one of our D.H.Q. Staff, and he, with Panton, proceeds to Chocolate Hill, while I continue to make inquiries as to where I am to go. Nobody appears to know or to care, and so I go on to the top of Lala Baba and have another look round. On the opposite side of the bay I see the promontory alive with troops. In the centre of the bend of the bay I see hospital tents pitched. Four battleships are at anchor in the bay, together with a few transports and Supply ships. They are shut in and protected from submarine attack from the outer sea by a boom of submerged nets stretching between the ends of two flanking promontories. Over the wooded low land now and again there begins to burst Turkish shrapnel. Half-way up the promontory on the opposite side of the bay I see stacks of Supply boxes. I go back to “C” Beach and call at the depot to make further inquiries, and learn that the Supply depot that I have seen on the other side of the bay is on “A” Beach, and, as no orders have been received to feed the 29th from “C” Beach depot, the “A” Beach depot must be my destination.
As I stroll across “C” Beach I notice a damaged aeroplane, around which men are clustering, inspecting it with curiosity. A Naval Lieutenant comes up and clears them away, saying to me that if only a few men collect together in a bunch they are very soon shelled by a Turkish 6-inch gun on Sari Bair, which commands the beach.
I walk up to the back of the beach once more, and start for a tramp round the bay to the Supply depot that I see in the distance. It is to be a long tramp, and I feel a bit tired and devilish hungry. On the other side of Lala Baba I pass 18-pounder batteries in position, hidden from the enemy by little rises of the ground and screened from aeroplane observation by gorse-bushes. Their position tells me that our front line cannot be very far inland. Presumably the same thing has happened that happened at Helles on April 25th. We have got on shore all right, but that is all. The Turks hold all the prominent positions, and appear to have us in the hollow of their hands. I walk along on the sandy beach, very tiring for my feet, until I reach “B” Beach, which is in the centre of the beach running between the two promontories of the bay; there I come to a casualty clearing station of the Welsh Division. I am dog-tired and almost faint from hunger, and call in, begging some breakfast. They tell me breakfast is at eight, and make me lie down to get an hour’s sleep, for it is seven o’clock. At eight I wake up and join the officers at breakfast. Hot cocoa, without milk, for milk is reserved for the patients; bacon, biscuits, and jam. No bread has been issued at Suvla up to now. I then learn some news. We had actually taken the high hills on the left of Anafarta Village, which lies just behind the lower hills in front of us. The Gurkhas and Australians had actually been on top of Sari Bair—had been treated to the joy of looking down on to the Dardanelles on the other side.
Something went amiss. Our troops had to retire, and now our line ran from the hills on the left of the bay, but about a mile and a half inland on the mainland, dropping down to the low lands in front, continuing in front of Chocolate Hill, which was ours, across the low land on the right of Chocolate Hill, then running gently a short way up the slope of Sari Bair, finally joining hands with the Anzacs in position some distance up the slope of the hills in front of Gaba Tepe.
Burnt Hill, a small eminence in front of Chocolate Hill, is to be attacked to-day. This is so named because of the gorse which had been burnt by the shelling at the landing. We saw this burning gorse from Helles on the 7th and 8th.
Once Burnt Hill was ours, the Turks would be forced to retire to Anafarta. A further attack on our part would capture Anafarta and the high hills on our left, enabling the Anzacs to capture Sari Bair. Thence to Maidos, Achi Baba cut off, and the Dardanelles forced.
I am just about to leave, thanking them for their hospitality, when shrapnel burst outside overhead. I say to them, “Surely this hospital does not get shelled?” And they tell me that now and again a stray shrapnel does burst here, but that they are shelling a small column of carts passing along the beach, a small cluster of horsemen riding in Salt Lake, or a few men passing over the flat wooded country. No target appears too small for their shrapnel, even people bathing. The shore in the centre of the bay is within easy reach of their field-gun shrapnel, but as a rule they respect this Welsh hospital, though it is within full view and easy range of their guns.
I continue my walk and keep close to the water’s edge, for shrapnel now and again bursts not more than a hundred yards inland. I reach the Supply depot that I had seen from Lala Baba, and learn that we are now IXth Corps, that I have arrived at the Corps Reserve Supply depot on “A” Beach, that they get shelled regularly every day, also that Foley and Way are further up the road, towards the end of the promontory.
I walk up there and find them sitting in a small depot that they have formed, with a little camp of wagon-covers and ground-sheets, supported by logs obtained from a broken lighter. I feel glad to see them. O’Hara comes up soon after with Badcock, who is over from G.H.Q. to get transport in order, having been here since the landing. We make ourselves a little more comfortable during the morning; a bivouac for Way and myself is made of a tarpaulin stretched over balks of timber, forming a little house open at the sides. We are out of range of shrapnel, but I learn that high explosive and howitzer shells often come our way.
In the morning I see Cox, who has returned from Alexandria, and learn that the 88th Brigade are not to be in action to-day, for which I am thankful. We get ready to send up rations by A.T. carts and pack-mules to-night.
At 1 o’clock Way goes up to see his Brigade H.Q.—the 86th—on Chocolate Hill. The 87th and 88th are there as well, and D.H.Q. and other H.Q. of other Brigades, and the side of the hill must be very congested. I can see hundreds of troops sheltering on the low ground by Lala Baba across the bay.
_2.30._
The four battleships and all our guns on shore open a heavy bombardment on the Turkish position on the hills in front, and especially on Burnt Hill, and an hour later the gorse on that hill and on the low ground to the right of Chocolate Hill catches alight, and is soon burning like a roaring furnace, spreading like the fire on a prairie. At 3.30 I hear rifle fire and learn that our attack on Burnt Hill has started. The artillery simultaneously increases its range. The bombardment, however, does not ring so confidently as did our bombardment in the victorious battle of June 28th, nor does it appear to be so powerful.
I see the Yeomanry now marching steadily in open order across the Salt Lake. It is the first time that they have been in action. Several years ago I was a trooper in the Warwickshire Yeomanry, who are now with the rest marching into battle. The Worcesters, Gloucesters, Middlesex, Sharp-shooters, Sherwood Foresters, Notts and Derby are there, and I think several other regiments, all troopers and troop leaders on foot, their horses left in Egypt. Little did they think, when they trained on Salisbury Plain for cavalry work, that when the hour came for them to go into battle they would go in on foot as infantry. When they did their regular fourteen days’ annual training, some of their friends used to laugh at them, saying that they were playing at soldiers. What I see before my eyes now is no play. Yet they look the same as they did on Salisbury Plain. Ah! the real thing for them has come at last, though many of them only landed this morning, for I see a white puff of shrapnel burst over their heads. It is quickly followed by another and another, developing to a rapid concentrated fire. They run the gauntlet without losing their Salisbury Plain steadiness, except for an occasional bunching together here and there. Soon casualties occur and prostrate khaki figures can be seen lying on the sandy salt of the lake for the stretcher-bearers and ambulance-wagons to pick up—the harvest of war. At last they are at Chocolate Hill, where they nestle under its slopes for protection till further orders.
At 6 p.m. Way returns, and tells us that Chocolate Hill was “Red Hell” while he was there, smothered in shrapnel and flying bullets; that an officer in D.H.Q. has been killed quite near him, but O’Hara is safe. It was not safe for Way to leave until five o’clock.
Dusk arrives, and the moon is rising. Major Badcock is going up with kit for D.H.Q. to Chocolate Hill on four little box cars, and I ask if I can go with him to see my Brigade H.Q. He gives me a lift, and off we go along the bumpy track from the promontory to the mainland, when, bending to the right, through clusters of trees and in and out of gorse-bushes and boulders, we arrive at last on the flat, growthless plain of the Salt Lake. Instead of being heavy going over soft sand, as I thought it would be, it is very good going over a hard, binding surface, and we get along at a fine pace, which in the moonlight, on such an occasion, is very exciting and enjoyable. Soon I see the shadow of trees and cultivation, and know that we are nearing Chocolate Hill, and almost at the same time I hear and almost feel the unpleasant whiz of many bullets overhead, about, and around. We stop, but the noise of the pulsating engines of the car drowns all other sounds, and we walk a little way in front and hear the regular rattle of heavy rifle fire. The spot where we are standing is receiving the benefit of the “overs,” many of which kick up the dust around us. Now and again shells scream over, but not many. We drive on to the trees in front, and dump our kit. At this point the bullets are flying fairly high, and we feel safer, though I expect all the time that blow of a sledge-hammer which comes with the hit of a bullet. We unload the kit by some trees, and some men near by are instructed to go on to the Division and tell them that the first batch of their kit had arrived, and one man is left in charge. We turn to go back, and I notice a wounded man on a stretcher being carried away, and I ask them to put him in the car. I offer him water, but he refuses, saying that he has been hit by a shrapnel bullet in the stomach, and water makes him vomit. His voice sounds familiar to me. I look at his face—I ask him if he is Howell of the Warwickshire Yeomanry—he replies “Yes.” We rode next to each other, years ago, as troopers. Many wounded are lying here, there, and everywhere, and we load up our empty cars with as many as we can, and steadily and gently go back. Firing dies down. It was only “wind up” on the part of the Turks. I leave Howell at the Welsh Casualty Clearing Station on the “B” Beach. He is quite cheerful. His experience of actual war started when he had landed this morning, and ends now as he lies wounded, waiting to be properly attended to, and he had trained and given up his spare time for years past for these few hours! He shakes me by the hand. After this war I do not think that people will be amused at the “playing at soldiers” of Yeomanry and Territorials.