Part 18
Back at the beach I load the four cars once more with D.H.Q. kit, and off we proceed on a second journey. I am alone in charge this time, for Badcock has to go up to Corps H.Q. The full moon brilliantly lighting up everything helps us to get along at a good pace. On arrival at the trees on the other side of the Salt Lake, where we had dumped the first loads, I find no signs of this first batch, and a few men about appear to know nothing whatever about it. We go steadily along, feeling our way carefully, for there is no road, towards Chocolate Hill. I leave the cars two hundred yards from Chocolate Hill and walk the rest of the way. I pass men hard at work digging a trench. I arrive at the foot of the hill and find it congested with all manner and kinds of parts of units of an army. There are some infantry of our Brigade awaiting orders—mule-carts with Drabis sitting cross-legged unconcernedly thereon. Bullets do not appear to worry them. I believe they think that they are butterflies. A first-line dressing station is chock full of wounded, and the M.O.’s are hard at work attending to the cases. Signal stations are tap-tapping and buzzers buz-buzzing. I walk up the slopes of the hill, wending my way past dugouts all around, to my right and left and above, in which are H.Q. of various Brigades. I step over poor, broken dead men, lying nestling in the gorse, and curse from the bottom of my heart the rulers of the German Empire; and seeing an officer standing outside a dugout, I inquire for Major O’Hara, of the 29th Division. Am told that he will be back shortly. I then ask for 88th H.Q., and he comes along with me to help me look for them. We find them eventually, and I learn that rations have been received. I also learn that the day has not gone well with us, but that we will probably attack at dawn, and that the 88th will this time be in action. The Yeomanry, shortly after arriving at Chocolate Hill, had gone up beyond to our front line under a terrible fire, but in perfect order, quietly and orderly as if on parade. We had not advanced our position, which was the same as before the battle. The gorse is burning fiercely on my right, lighting up the immediate neighbouring country. Several wounded were caught in it and burnt to death before they could be rescued, but many were saved, and some gallant deeds were done in their rescue.
Sir John Milbanke, V.C., has been killed. Practically his last words were, “Great Scott! this is a bloody business.” We go back to the dugout of D.H.Q., where we find O’Hara and also Bray, the A.P.M. I had often heard of Bray several years before the war, for my brother-in-law was his pupil. He asks me if I am any relation to his pupil’s wife, and so we meet and are introduced.
I hand the kit over to Bray. I am instructed to go back and fetch up two of the cars loaded with tins of water from “A” trench. As I leave, a rattle of musketry again bursts out from the jumpy enemy, and bullets zip past, seeming to come from all directions. Parties which have been standing about in the open move for cover. I again load up my four cars with wounded, one case being that of a man who has just been hit in the leg while digging in the trench that I had just passed. Back at “A” Beach I apply for water at the water dump, and am told that it cannot be issued without a chit from the officer. “Where is the officer?” “In his dugout.” “Where is his dugout?” “Two hundred yards up the beach.” Arrive at officer’s dugout. Officer asleep; wakened up. “Can’t have water without chit from Corps.” I reply, “I shall get my water, and at once, please.” He replies, “What’s that?” I repeat. I am refused a chit. I politely explain that the reason he is peacefully enjoying his slumber undisturbed by Turkish bayonets is because our Tommies are in the front busy seeing that the Turks do not come over our line and rush the trenches, also that some of those Tommies want water, and that I have been instructed to take it to them.
The water loaded on two cars, the other two holding kit, off we proceed once more on our third trip, but, alas! the moon dips down into the sea. A shout from behind, and a car full of kit overturns in a trench. It is left with the driver till morning. On we go, first bumping into large stone boulders, then into large clusters of thick gorse, and two more cars are finally out of action in deep holes. On I go with the third car, groping our way across the Salt Lake, for it is now pitch dark, and at last, when near the advanced dressing station, flames spurt out from the bonnet of the car, and halting, we find something afire in the almost red-hot engine. We stop. I walk over to the dressing station. There is not much firing, only an occasional sing of a bullet and no shells.
I learn that they are getting water now from a well, but want receptacles. I off-load my tins from the car into an ambulance-wagon, which proceeds up to Chocolate Hill, two hundred yards away. We wait until the engine is quite cool, and then grope our way back; dawn is breaking, and it becomes gradually lighter. Arriving at my “bivvy,” I fling myself on my camp-bed and am fast asleep in two seconds.
_August 22nd._
We did not attack at dawn, and so the 88th have not been in action. We are as we were—yesterday’s battle is not to be recorded as a victory for us. Machine guns again from right, left, and centre fired from behind great boulders of stone and hidden hillocks covered with gorse, and wave after wave of our men were mown down as with a scythe. Twice we captured the Burnt Hill, but twice were driven off, and Burnt Hill remains Turkish. The Yeomanry were unable to get to grips with the enemy: but for gallantry in that march from Chocolate Hill to our front line, four hundred yards in front across the open in the daylight, under a hail of shrapnel and machine gun bullets, their behaviour could not have been excelled.
Their officers represent the best blood of England, and their men good old country blood of the hunting and farmer class of Old England, with many a man of good birth in the ranks. How could such men behave otherwise than gallantly? To-night I take up the remainder of D.H.Q. kit to their new quarters, not so far forward as Chocolate Hill, to a rocky hillock covered by gorse, inland from the mainland, a distance of about a mile in a line with our promontory. The place, if found out by John Turk, will prove to be a perfect shell-trap, and shells bursting on solid rock will burst “some.” They will be foolish to stay there.
_August 24th._
To-day we had a terrific thunderstorm; forked lightning all over the sky and heavy rain, but it lasted only an hour.
We chose a new site further up the side of the slope of the promontory, yet under cover of a slight rise of ground. The formation of the land here is full of dips and rises, not noticeable from a distance, and thereby affording excellent cover, for which we thank Providence. We have to move, for the Corps Reserve depot is getting such an unhealthy spot on “A” Beach that it is shortly moving to where we are now.
All day long the battleships pop off at the Turks on shore, the row from the guns echoing and rebounding with deafening reverberation from the hills and sides of the promontory.
I go up with rations to our Brigade to-night—a beautiful night—with a convoy of mule-carts driven by the imperturbable Drabis, who merrily chant Indian songs. The moon at night simplifies our work considerably. By day it is dangerous for transport to go far afield.
_August 25th._
It is now four long, terrible months since we landed, and we are still on the low lands at the three landings. The positions in front of us are formidable, almost impregnable, and unless the Balkan States are drawn in on our side, never shall we open the Dardanelles. The task is now impossible for us, and we have lost our opportunity at the start by only landing with one Division. Our effort has failed, though we have made good our landing. The shipping here gets shelled as at Helles, and this morning a battleship was hit twice.
We can hear heavy firing down at Helles.
_August 26th._
Everywhere everybody is hard at work making dugouts. In the line our infantry are feverishly making a line of defence, digging night and day without cessation. “A” Beach gets shelled, but no shells reach our end of the promontory. Our battleships’ guns roar out continually all day, as if in sullen anger at the recent failure—at what I am afraid will be our last effort. My Brigade has moved over from Chocolate Hill, and is in the line on the low part of the slope of the high hills which form the left flank, next to the sea, of our position, and Brigade H.Q. is dug in behind a hillock in a gully which has been called Lone Tree Gully.
_August 27th._
A violent gale blowing to-day. Carver, Petro, and Phillips are now here as transport officers.
Work on the beaches now goes on feverishly, night and day. Each day a new sand-bagged dugout appears. Additions are made to the piers. Two off West Beach are complete. One further up, towards the end of the promontory, is being built rapidly and skilfully by a bridging party of regular Australian Army Engineers. I am told by their warrant officer that there is a regular Australian Army, but that it is being jealously guarded in Australia, and that really it is only a framework of an army. The bridging section, however, at Suvla is part of this. The fighting army of Australia and New Zealand is voluntary since the war, yet is superior in fighting qualities to the Prussian Guard.
Further up, towards the end of the promontory, two small beaches or coves are rapidly being turned into fitting order to receive the steady requirements of food, ammunition, S.A.A. stores, ordnance, etc., and piers there are rapidly being thrown out. At night, long convoys of A.T. carts and pack-mules form up loaded with rations, A.S.C. and Ordnance stores and ammunition, and proceed along the promontory towards the mainland. On arrival there they branch off in various directions to their respective destinations, just behind the line. Early on their journey they encounter the song of bullets flying from the Turkish line continually all night. I think that the Turks in the front line must be given so many rounds of ammunition and told to loose off in the air in our direction, not aiming at anybody, but firing blindly in the hope of a victim. Now and again a bullet does find a victim, but on going up regularly each night one gets so accustomed to the sound of their flight, that one walks on, taking no notice; although, if by any chance a rifle is pointing directly your way, even at a thousand yards’ range, it sounds as if it is fired close to your head, and almost simultaneously, “whizz-ping,” goes past you very near, and then unconsciously you duck.
The drivers on the A.T. carts, however, worry about the bullets less than anybody, remaining sitting on their carts and chanting away contentedly.
To-night, trouble with water occurs, and I am up with O’Hara and Hadow, our Staff Captain, at Brigade H.Q. on the job. Our H.Q. now are at Lone Tree Gully, about four hundred yards behind our front line. One is quite safe there unless they choose to shrapnel it, but a gully in front was badly shrapnelled the other day, and the Royal Scots, being caught in it, were severely mauled. Further back on the road, though, for some distance one has to walk along through a zone of “overs,” and two found a target to-night in a sergeant and corporal on transport duty. As I walk along that road, I am always ready waiting for the sledge-hammer blow from the unseen hand, always hoping that it will be a Blighty one, through the soft part of the arm or leg.
A large proportion of our water has to be brought ashore by water-lighters, pipes leading from them to the shore. Tanks are filled from the pipes, and all kinds of receptacles filled from the tanks, such as petrol-cans, milkcans, fantasies, and goat-skins. The cans can be loaded on to the A.T. carts, while the fantasies and goat-skins are loaded on to mules, in each case two on a mule, one hanging on either side. The A.T. cart form of transport is much preferable to the pack-mule, for the latter is fond of bucking and throwing off his load, which on a dark night on convoy means great trouble.
The Engineers are hard at work finding wells, but such wells as we have cannot by any means supply even half of the requirements of water.
After we have turned in to-night we hear a heavy roar of musketry from Anzac, and soon the battleships and shore batteries join in. It is a clear night, and the roar of the musketry echoes over the bay remarkably loudly. I have never heard such concentrated rifle fire so loudly before.
It lasts for about two hours, and then dies suddenly away to the incessant crack-crack-crack of the regular nightly rifle fire.
_August 28th._
Gale still high.
To-day, I, with Foley, pay my first visit to a battleship, the _Swiftsure_. She is easily distinguishable from other ships by two large cranes in position amidships on either side. I had previously signalled to Fleet-Surgeon Jeans on board, sending an introduction to him given me by General Cayley, our Brigadier. A pinnace arrives for me; we skim over the calm water of the bay, smartly pulling up alongside the great ship. My quest was a case of whisky for Brigade H.Q., stuck up in dugouts in Lone Tree Gully, with no chance of getting any. This is the first time that I have been on a battleship, and as I climb up the rope ladder, I remember that I had read somewhere that in the days of Nelson one saluted the quarter-deck when one steps thereon. As I was first up I did not know whether it was correct, but I did so, and noticing some Naval officers following me behind also saluting, saw that I was correct.
They entertained us royally on board. I nearly had a nervous breakdown when they offered me a whisky and soda. Naval officers cannot be beaten as hosts.
A howitzer has been potting at us to-day, a good many of the shells going right over the cliff into the sea on the other side.
Convoy work again at night to Lone Tree Gully, and a chat with the General in his dugout. A lovely moonlight night, and calm again after a three days’ beastly gale.
_August 29th._
Go to D.H.Q. in the morning, who have now moved back to a gully alongside Corps H.Q., nicely dug in the side of a hill near us. Their quarters, as well as those of Corps, are built amongst the green gorse, which, with paths running in and out and terraces about, makes a lovely garden. Very nice conditions under which to work. I am writing this on the heights of the shale cliffs of the northern promontory of Suvla Bay. The sea is calm and a deep, lovely blue, suddenly changing to green at the foot of the rocks. Suvla Bay, with Salt Lake and the wooded and gorsed low land and the hills and the mountains in the background, are laid out in beautiful panorama. Achi Baba can be seen in the distance south, and I have been so used to seeing it from Cape Helles that the view is quite a novelty.
Off the bay are three battleships, supply ships, and trawlers, lighters, etc. An aeroplane is humming overhead, and our guns on shore are continually barking away, while little puffs of shrapnel from the Turkish batteries burst over and about the wooded low lands, Salt Lake and Chocolate Hill, where our front line runs, denoted by the crackle of musketry.
The view is most interesting, the brownish-green gorges—leading to the sea—with their clouds of dust denoting the industry within. Behind me, purple Turkish hills, every point of which is held by the enemy. Then in between our line and the hills the scrubby low-lying country, all buff and green, the cultivated land, and the olive groves. I look at it hopelessly—for I know now, as we all do, that the conquest of the Peninsula is more than we can hope for. All that is left to us is to hang on day by day. It is anything but a cheery prospect. Death in various forms walks with us always; the sad processions of sick and wounded—chiefly the former—move down to the hospital ships every day; we see all our best friends taken, one after the other—and to what end? The golden chances have been allowed to slip by; we can never win through now—so we have to “cling on” to the bitter end.
_August 30th._
A beautiful day again! Turkish batteries very busy all day. Shrapnel and high explosive shell, and also duelling between Fleet and land batteries. Otherwise all quiet, nothing doing. Brigade moves down from trenches to “A” Beach West, and news that we are to go to Imbros for a rest is circulated. Enemy aeroplane swoops over like an evil-looking vulture and tries to drop bombs on Fleet, but has no direct hit to record.
At nightfall Brigade starts to embark, ready to sail at daylight. Officers have cabins, and so I am enabled to have a sleep. Am suffering from one of my beastly colds, however.
Nice to get away, after the disappointments of that worst of all months, August, when we had expected so much.
_August 31st._
Arrive at Imbros at 8 a.m., and Brigade proceeds to camp on the low land by the sea. I mess with the General and Staff, and again parcels arrive opportunely with masterpieces of cakes and sweets, which are seized by the mess waiter and daintily served up at table.
Oh! the relief to get away from shell fire and the chill atmosphere of death in its crudest form.
SEPTEMBER
_September 1st._
Start off with my man Lewington on donkeys and a pack pony across the hills, over a stony, narrow path, with three little boys in charge of the animals. The way is sometimes over and sometimes round a line of irregular, conical-shaped hills, some almost mountains, covered with thick green gorse, large boulders, rocks, and small stones. The few valleys are beautifully wooded and dotted with vineyards growing luscious dark grapes, and also groves of fig-trees.
One gets glimpses of the blue Ægean now and again, and the distant Isthmus of Gallipoli and the Island of Samothrace, with the coast of Bulgaria still further off. After two hours’ trek, during which I felt as if I was a character in the Scriptures, we sighted the village of Panaghia, and we had a sporting trot down a narrow, sandy, steep path.
One little boy on a donkey, who joined us, raced me and beat me by a short neck. Poor old Lewington was hanging on to his moke with a pained but polite expression on his face, and heaved a sigh of relief when we arrived at the village.
We pulled up at the Grand Britannia Hotel, recently so named by a Greek. It is a little broken-down house, having on the ground floor a boot shop, and on the first and top floor two small bare rooms.
After a meal of partridge, omelettes, and honey, with German beer to drink, I am taken out to an empty house, and shown to a room furnished only with a bench.
My man slept on the landing and I in the room, and I soon fell fast asleep. At midnight I am awakened by certain creepy insects. I light candles and awake my man, and we conduct a massacre. Our landlord arrives on the scene much disturbed, and places my bed in the centre of the room, whereupon I turn in again and sleep peacefully for the rest of the night.
_September 2nd._
Awake in the morning with the sun streaming in and with the sounds of cocks crowing and chickens clucking. Looking out, the view of the conical beautiful hills makes me almost catch my breath, and, God bless my soul! a Greek peasant maiden, beauteous to look upon and fair of complexion, is feeding her pigs and chickens.
After breakfast at the Grand Britannia Hotel (sounds like the Ritz, London, doesn’t it?), Duff, of all people, rolls up with Munro. We all lunch together, and then roam round the village, buy a few things, and take photographs.
After tea, Duff goes on to Castra, by the sea on the other side of the island, and Munro and I go back to camp. It is beautiful riding back through the hills in the late afternoon. Perfect day and colouring gorgeous. Nearing camp we get a fine view of Gallipoli. All is so peaceful where we are, but just over that narrow strip of sea, war rules in its most horrible form.
Have dinner with Cox, of the Essex, who turns in at 8.30, and I go back to Headquarters and have an after-dinner smoke with the General and Staff, sitting round a little table in the marquee lit by candle-light.
_September 3rd._
Start off with Phillips on a donkey and pony respectively over the hills again. A gorgeous morning, and it is good to be alive. Peasants give us delightful grapes as we ride along. Sheep are grazing, their bells tinkling, with a few cows and bullocks, and now and again a covey of partridges rises.
Arriving at Panaghia, we have a bottle of beer, and then go on along the road to Castra, by the sea. Castra is situated on a high hill overlooking the sea, with a few fishermen’s huts on the beach.
The Isle of Samothrace, which is a cluster of mountains rising sheer from the sea, lies opposite. The sea is dead calm, and of a gorgeous blue. A few fishing boats lie in a tiny little harbour on the right of the little bay, which is flanked by hills. In the background are more hills and low wooded valleys, and we feel as if we had stepped into the Garden of Eden.
Duff is here, and we have lunch, after which Duff returns to camp. Phillips and I go up on the cliff and have a delightful sleep. Everything is dead quiet, and there is not a cloud in the sky. We are right away from the world, and the scene before us—that of the blue Ægean with Samothrace a few miles away—has not changed for thousands of years.
After tea, we have a bathe in beautifully clear, warm water, and no rocks. The evening closes in, and the colouring thrown by the declining sun on Samothrace is beautiful. A boat with a square sail comes sailing home, looking like “the return of Ulysses.”
After dinner we turn in and sleep on the floor of the veranda.
_September 4th._
Wake up early. A perfect morning, but a high wind. Scene beautiful. Talk to an old Greek, who has been all over the world, and in all the ports of England, and who has come home to his native island for the rest of his days. Try fishing, but catch nothing. After lunch, start back to camp on ponies, stopping at Panaghia for tea, arriving home at 6.30.
_September 5th._
Start off again for Panaghia with Duff and Elliott, and have lunch there. After lunch we go off to another village, where an annual holiday is being held. Bands are playing and the inhabitants are dancing weird native dances, appearing very solemn about it. Parties are going round from house to house, visiting and partaking of refreshment, such as grapes, figs, wine and liqueurs. An old Greek invites us in, and his wife forces us to have grapes, melon, jelly, and liqueurs. I took a bite of cake and was nearly violently ill.
We came back another way through vineyards, where grapes can be had for the asking, olive groves, and fig-tree orchards.
_September 6th._
A fine day again, but windy. No news, but a rumour that Bulgaria is against us now, and that we shall be in Gallipoli for the winter. We go back to-morrow night.
We get up a concert, which takes place in the evening. We rig up a platform, borrow a piano from the Y.M.C.A., and make up a programme. I snaffle some champagne for Headquarters, and after a cheery dinner we go to the concert. We have some excellent talent, and everybody thoroughly enjoys it. It is a sight worth seeing—the platform lit by candles, and the Brigade seated around on the sand: some of those who took part in the landing, some recently in the fighting at Suvla, and new drafts who had not yet tasted war.