Part 2

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.

_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.