Part 23
We are woke up at twelve midnight by a dugout on fire, and all turn out to get the fire under and prevent it spreading in the strong wind to neighbouring dugouts. We curse heartily but manage to put the fire out in half an hour. No one is hurt.
_November 23rd._
Wind quieting down, thank goodness. We pull down our “summer residence,” in which we had lived for close on three months. In a short while not a sign of it is left, and we are hard at work shifting the whole camp into our new quarters in the late IX Corps Gully. Each regiment’s Q.M.’s staff, and a few regimental transport details and our A.S.C. Supply details move with us. Also the two Brigade post-offices. Our camp is not properly finished, but we are all glad to be in it, for it is much warmer at night in our dugouts.
_November 24th._
The weather is now much more settled. It was making us all very anxious, as landing stores was very difficult for the Navy. Brigade H.Q. country walk again. But life very monotonous. Battleships now and again pop off. A little shelling from the Turk, but not half a dozen all day. Hard at work on new camp.
_November 25th._
Hunt very seedy, so I send him to Field Ambulance. At night hear a rumour that the evacuation of Suvla Bay has been decided on. Go down on beach in the evening to see about arrangements for getting off, but am led to believe it is only baggage for a Division which is leaving.
_November 26th._
Yes, I think evacuation has been definitely decided on, so our little camp has been built for nothing. However, it keeps us employed, for life is deadly dull. This, then, is to be the end! After all these months of blood and sweat, of feverish anticipation and dismal results; after all the toil, the hardships, and sorrows, with the little graveyards getting fuller and fuller every day as I have passed them—all this is for nothing, and we are leaving. I am glad, yet full of regrets—excited, too, at the prospect of getting back to civilization once more. Alexandria and all its delights will seem like Paradise; the cosy dinners at the club, the shops, and the meeting with old friends left behind. These are some of the emotions that I experience at the thought of evacuation.
The wind is getting up once more, and the sea becomes stormy. The Field Ambulance receive orders to evacuate all patients at once to casualty clearing stations. At the clearing station they are hard at work evacuating all cases on to the lighters for transmission to the hospital ships.
_Afternoon._
The sea is very rough. A lighter full of sick and a few wounded has been washed ashore. Two cases have been drowned. All further evacuation has stopped.
The battleships are heavily bombarding Turkish positions. Over Imbros black clouds, heavy with rain, are sailing towards us. We are in for a dirty night.
We are in the middle of loading our A.T. carts when heavy spots of rain drop, and looking up, we see the sky getting blacker and blacker with storm clouds. Luckily, issuing is nearly finished. The transport of many of the battalions has moved off, when a flash of forked lightning rushes from the sky to the sea, and almost instantly a deafening crash of thunder bursts overhead. This flash is followed by another and another, and then several in different parts of the sky stab the black clouds at the same moment. The rain gently begins to hiss, the hiss getting louder and louder, developing into a noise like the sound of loudly escaping steam, until, as if the clouds have all burst together, water deluges the earth in a soaking torrent. Black night soon falls upon us, changing at short intervals momentarily into day as the forked flashes of lightning stab the earth, sky, and sea. The beach men, bending double under the downfall of water and the struggle against the wind as they walk, appear in vivid detail and disappear in the fraction of a second as the lightning plays overhead. Soon a pouring torrent of water a foot deep is raging down the gullies, turning the ravines, large and small, down the slopes of the hill into rushing cascades, washing away dugouts as if they were paper, and filling to the brim every crevice and hollow on the lower land. The new camps of trenches into which men have rushed for shelter are half filled with water, which, in less than an hour, overflows the drains on either side that we had dug to prevent such an event happening. All the weary weeks of Engineer labour lost in a short time. I go back to our new dugout and meet a sorry sight. Our cookhouse, wherein our dinner was being prepared, washed off the face of the earth. The roof and the back part of the messroom had fallen in, covering furniture with mud and debris, and flooding the floor with water 6 inches deep.
I have to go to the Corps Transport depot about some water-carts for the trenches, so, taking my torch, I cross the gully. The rain is pouring in torrents, and as I walk the rushing water from the hills washes round my feet high above my ankles. Parts of dugouts, boxes, men’s kits, etc., continually come floating down on top of the rushing stream. The thunder crashes overhead and my torch is unnecessary, for the incessant flashes of forked lightning illuminate my way. The wind beating against my face takes my breath away, and makes the climb up the high slope exhausting. I arrive at the mess dugout of the IX Corps Transport. Their dugout is intact, for it is on steeply sloping ground, but their floor is over 6 inches deep in water. They are all sitting at dinner with gum-boots on, and are a merry party. Afterwards I climb to D.H.Q., arriving breathless. Back in our dugout, the storm still raging, appearing to go round and round in circles, first dying off somewhat, then rushing back with renewed fury; it runs its wild course till about eight o’clock, when it seems to pass away over Sari Bair, leaving heavy clouds pouring their burden of rain into the flooded gullies and trenches. Towards nine the downfall slackens, and shortly after stars become visible, and the black clouds gradually roll away over the hills of Gallipoli. We have a meal of bully beef and bread, for our dinner has been washed away and no hot food is possible. The wind from the north-west still blows with great violence, and it becomes steadily colder and colder. Two of our dugouts are intact, and we turn into these and get off to sleep, wondering if the drainage system in the trenches has answered its demands.
_November 27th._
We wake up to find a drizzly rain falling, blown by a strong north wind. Mud is everywhere, and the whole of the beaches a quagmire. What were once dugouts are now large puddles full of water. The system of trenches for winter quarters across the various gullies and nullahs has ceased to exist. Many of these are full to the brim with water; all have water and mud covering their floors. Twelve men taking shelter in their trench, which was roofed by corrugated iron, and which is situated in the gully in which we lived up to a week ago, have been drowned by the roof collapsing. We have orders to send up medical comforts. We send them up by A.T. carts. For the first time a convoy of A.T. carts is seen on the Gibraltar road in broad daylight.
A gale develops in the afternoon. Elphinstone and I go up to Hill 10. The road is in many parts under water, and the whole a bog of wet, tenacious clay that clings to one’s boots and almost pulls their heels off as one raises each foot. What before was a pleasant country walk is now a hard, exhausting “slow treadmill” made in a gale that one has to determinedly bend one’s back to, to make any headway at all. Last night the pack-mules had the greatest difficulty in getting the rations up, and one or two that fell into ravines were drowned. We call at the West Riding R.E., and in Major Bailey’s dugout I find the floor a foot deep in water and Major Bailey perched up on a table, his feet resting on a ledge of the dugout, endeavouring to get warm from an oil-drum fire. He appears as cheery as ever; in fact, every time I see him he is always merry and bright, evidently a habit, and a habit worth cultivating. We arrange the position of the new ration dump, though it is difficult to find cover for it. A line of bushes is the only protection we can find. We go over to the Dublin camp in the reserve trenches by Hill 10, and, of course, it is flooded, and the men in a wretched condition. We see the officer in charge about fatigues for the unloading of rations. As we come away we meet Colonel Fuller, our G.S.O.1, who asks as to the conditions of the roads on our left, and we cannot give him anything but a bad report. We continue our way past the barbed wire and second-line trenches to the 86th and 88th Brigade H.Q. Turkish artillery is dead quiet, and hardly a rifleshot is to be heard. Both Brigade H.Q. have withstood the storm well, protected as they are by the small hills on the side of which they have been constructed, the ground sloping away in front.
At the 86th Brigade we hear that our trenches on the low land have been flooded to the brim, and in some parts are now completely under water. Sentries are lying flat in the mud and water outside, behind the trenches, watching the enemy and in full view of him. There they lie, keeping guard under such conditions as have hardly been known before, sniped at now and again, and occasionally becoming casualties. The 86th, being in the lowest trenches, suffered the worst, for suddenly, as their trenches became kneedeep in water, a torrent burst into a saphead, and in a few minutes had swallowed up the first-line, the dugouts and communication trenches. Men floundered about, swarmed here and there, and clambered out on to the open. A few less fortunate were drowned. Could it ever have been imagined that men would drown in a trench? This has now happened, and their bodies lie half floating, half resting on the bottom of the trench, waiting to be dragged out when nightfall comes.
In this terribly cold northerly wind, gradually beginning to freeze, those waiting sentries, with their clothes soaking wet through, watch for the enemy, who probably is worse off than we are. As often as possible they are relieved, the relief creeping up in the broad open, chancing the sniper’s easy shot. As we talk, a man comes past, leaning on the arms of two R.A.M.C. men, who are taking him to the advanced dressing station, a little way back. His face is blue and swollen, and his teeth chattering as if with fever. We go round to the H.Q. of the 88th Brigade and ask for instructions as to what to send up in the way of food and medical comforts. In talking to General Cayley, we make the remark that we are glad that his dugout has not been washed away, but immediately feel reproved for having said this by his replying that “it is not his dugout, but the poor chaps in the trenches that he worries about, because he can do nothing for them.”
It takes us about a quarter of the time to get back, for the wind literally blows us along, and it is difficult for us to keep our feet in the sticky mud. Once I slip while negotiating the side of a deep puddle, and fall backwards into it, much to the amusement of some passing gunners. At night it steadily becomes colder and colder, and the driving, misty rain turns to snow, a northerly cold blizzard setting in. I am up late arranging about the carting of the rations and blankets to the sea of mud that was once our trenches. It is freezing cold, but we shiver the more when we think of those men lying out in the open behind our front line.
_November 28th._
We wake up to find it bitterly cold and a northerly blizzard driving with great force down the Hill. A Staff officer comes into our dugout early and instructs me to get as many medical comforts as possible in the way of rum, brandy, milk, Oxo, etc., up to the line. I go down to the Main Supply depot, and there find shelters made of boxes and sailcovers built as temporary hospitals. They are full of men frostbitten in legs, arms, and faces, who lie in great distress, suffering agonies as their blood warms up and circulates to the frozen parts of their bodies. A hospital ship is standing quite close inshore off West Beach, but five hundred yards from the pier, the closest a hospital ship has moved to the beaches as yet. Hodsall, the O.C., a temporary A.S.C. Major, does all he can for me, and I collar all the comforts and fuel I can lay my hands on. There is a plentiful supply, in spite of the heavy demands of yesterday. Again, as yesterday, these are conveyed up by daylight, and yet the Turks do not shell us. We are extraordinarily free from shell fire. Our line is held very thinly, only by forward parts, relieved in daylight at frequent intervals regardless of snipers. Last night the frost was severe, and the men lying out in the mud behind the soaking trenches suffered the greatest hardship that a soldier could endure—namely to lie out in the soaking clothes, which freeze stiff in a biting wind, while the temperature rapidly falls to below zero.
The enemy is more inactive than he has ever been, showing that he has suffered as badly as we have, if not worse. In front of the 86th Brigade the Turks hold slightly higher ground than we do, and I think that they must have opened one or two of their sapheads when their trenches were flooded, thus allowing the water to rush over to our side, engulfing all our first-line dugouts and communication trenches. The gale blowing from the north-east to-day is the fiercest that I have known, for, as well as being biting cold, it drives stinging sleet before it with terrific force. As I talk to an officer on the hill of IX Corps Gully, outside my dugout, I have to stand with my legs wide apart, bending my body against the wind to prevent myself from being blown backwards on the frozen ground. Many Turkish prisoners have come in, in as bad a state of collapse as our men. Last night a party of forty came over unmolested as far as the gully behind our support trenches. Seeing some of our men crowding around a coke brazier endeavouring to get warm, they walked up to them with hands up, but were “shoo’d” away like a lot of sheep by our half-frozen Tommies, who advised them to “get to Hell out of it.” Pondering, they walked over towards the Salt Lake and were taken in by the casualty clearing station on “B” Beach. This morning a few have died. Officers in the line, if they were not on watch, were huddled together all night endeavouring to get warmth from each other’s bodies. Ration carts were unable to get to many parts of the line owing to the mud and water in places being over the axles of the wheels. Quantities of rum and rations were lost in the mud. Telephone communication broke down, and many men, cut off from the rest and having to watch the enemy, froze and died at their posts.
To-day, walking cases are streaming and staggering down the roads from the trenches to advanced dressing stations, from advanced dressing stations to the casualty clearing station, which is rapidly becoming overcrowded. Such an influx of cases has come in so unexpectedly, that the staff is unable to deal with them quickly. Frozen and frostbitten men continually stagger in, collapse on the damp floors of the tents and marquees, exhausted, to wait their turn for medical attention. The sea is rough, and it is impossible to get the cases off to the hospital ship. One lighter has been swamped and a few cases drowned. Motor-lorries are busy plying between the casualty clearing station and West Beach all day, for the casualty clearing station is crowded out. More improvised shelters have been put up in the Main Supply depot, in the Ordnance marquees, and in dugouts on the beaches. Three exhausted men staggering down the Gibraltar road to the advanced dressing station are a unique party. Linking arms, they painfully stumble along to the refuge of a dressing station, where, on arrival, they are received with surprise and interest, for two are British Tommies and the third a Turk, all allies against a common enemy.
_7 p.m._
Colonel Pearson, O.C. Lancashire Fusiliers, of Lancashire Landing fame, visits us in an exhausted state, his clothes damp and sodden. We provide him with an outfit of dry clothes, gathered from our respective kits. He talks about going back to his regiment to-night, which is sheltering in the C.R.E. nullah, by our forward ration dump, but I think soon he will collapse altogether and have to be evacuated. He was all last night holding a portion of our flooded, sodden and freezing line. At night Horne and I go on to cart some of the rations from the C.R.E. dump to Hill 10 by A.T. carts. On arrival at the camp of the Royal Dublin Fusiliers, we find a poor shivering fatigue party waiting for us. I had expected to find these men in a miserable condition, for their camp has suffered heavily in the storm, and even the best built dugouts have been washed entirely away. We have brought with us whisky-bottles filled with rum and water. As the last cart is unloaded, we hand the bottles to the sergeant, who calls the men up one at a time. They come forward eagerly as each name is called, “Private Murphy! Private O’Brien!” etc., and drink a tot from the bottle handed to them.
It is amusing to watch them standing waiting their turn, with keen anticipation, for a pull at the bottle under the superintendence of their watchful sergeant, who regulates fair play in the length of the drink by interrupting an extra long one by snatching the bottle from the man’s mouth, now and again. As we go away, several of the men shout, “The blessings of Jasus be on you, sir!” in a Dublin brogue, and we leave the poor devils to shiver in the camp the rest of the night. We are delayed in our return by a chase after two mules, which we capture after much difficulty amongst gorse-bushes, trees, and boulders. Calling in at the Australians’ dugout on Kangaroo Beach, we see them sitting round a welcome log fire, and as we warm ourselves, a figure covered in a blanket, his head swathed in a cloth, creeps in stealthily like a cat. He is a half-frozen Drabi, edging towards the fire to warm himself. An Australian makes him understand that he had better go back to his camp, and orders him out. He creeps out, but after a pause I see him come back stealthily once more, unnoticed by the others, and sit at the back of the stove on his haunches, his hands spread out for warmth. He is at last noticed, but some one says, “Let the poor devil be!” and we go on talking, taking no notice of him.
_November 29th._
The gale is still heavy, but the blizzard has stopped. The sky is clear overhead, but it is freezing hard, and the steady stream of casualties from the storm still continues to be evacuated. The whole country-side has frozen hard. All day we are hard at work sending up comforts to the line and to the C.R.E. nullah, and nursing the casualties who have arrived in our little camp. The wind is slackening a little, and in consequence the sea is going down. Advantage is therefore being taken of this to thin down the overcrowded casualty clearing station and the many improvised shelters, which are overflowing with cases. The hospital ship is standing close inshore, only five hundred yards off West Beach. My visits to D.H.Q. on the top of the hill above our gully are made to-day with great exertion in the teeth of the bitterly cold gale, and I arrive at the top each time absolutely exhausted. Before I go into the D.A.Q.M.G.’s little dugout, which is his office and bedroom combined, I have to sit down on a boulder to recover my breath.
Horne and I go up with the A.T. carts to take more of the forward reserve rations from the C.R.E. nullah over to the left of Hill 10, for two forward dumps have to be made of equal numbers of rations, and the one we have now is therefore being halved. Hill 10 is a position of which several of our batteries have taken advantage, and in consequence is a favourite target of the Turkish gunners. One veritably walks on a surface of shrapnel bullets around this hill, lying like pebbles on the shore. On arrival at the nullah we find that all the Supply boxes, with their tarpaulin covers, have been built up to form a large improvised dressing station. They are full of cases of frostbite and exhaustion. From all around comes the sound of men groaning. And so the carting of rations to Hill 10 is off to-night. As I walk back, I hear a groaning voice calling “Mother, mother!” and peering through the darkness of the night, I see the form of a man lying under a gorse-bush. Poor devil! His mother, to whom he calls, is probably knitting him socks at home. We carry him along to the 89th Field Ambulance Dressing Station, just to the right of the nullah, having to negotiate a muddy brook on the way. We walk back fast, to get up a circulation, and find on arrival that a nice fire has been kept up. The roads are hardening with the frost. This will aid the solution of the transport difficulties, which have been almost insuperable during these awful last few days, for the wind has been so strong as to almost prevent the use of the light motor-ambulance, and horse transport is restricted, owing, I find, to animals having already been evacuated just before the storm.
_November 30th._
We awake to find the gale has died away. It is a cool, beautiful day, with not a cloud in the sky. In fact, the sun is beaming warm. It is hard to believe that we have just passed through a terrible blizzard. The beach is crowded with cases of frostbite waiting for evacuation, which is rapidly going on now. Men lie about everywhere on the beaches, with their limbs swathed in bundles of bandages. Many cases are serious, and not a few will lose their limbs. The Main Supply depot is now a large hospital of shelters built of boxes and sailcovers. All over the beaches men are hunting about for lost property buried in the mud. Dugouts and trenches are being drained of the remaining water. The beaches are gradually becoming themselves again. The Division has suffered heavily.
On the inspection of the Royal Fusiliers to-day, one company, on being called to attention, proved to be a company consisting of Captain Gee, a sergeant-major, and a private. Captain Gee shouted, “Sergeant-major, call the company to attention.” The sergeant-major then shouted, “‘W’ Company, ’shun!” and the one man left, who was the company cook, sprang to attention.
Gee, forty-five years of age, and who at the best of times could not be called robust-looking, stuck this storm through at his post in the trenches, which are situated on the lowest ground—trenches which in consequence suffered the worst of all—until he was relieved.
He told me after that on coming back on relief he came to a small nullah, and that he was so weak and finished that he actually cried like a child before he could summon up the will-power to get across that little brook, which at ordinary times he would have cleared at a leap.
_Later._