Part 4

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_April 28th._

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

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

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

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

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

_5.30 p.m._

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

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

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

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

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

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

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