 Preface and Introduction of Gallipoli Diary In the kind and courteous letter which you will read on page 15, General Sir Elmer Hunter Weston says that it is not possible for him to write a preface to this book. That is my own and the reader's great loss. For General Hunter Weston, as is well known, commanded the 29th Division at the Landing on the Gallipoli Peninsula on April 25, 1915, and during those early months of desperate fighting, until, to the universal regret of all who served under him, he became one of the victims of the sickness that began to ravage our ranks. And as one of the chief players of the great game that was there enacted, his comments would have been of supreme interest, and would have added immeasurably to such small value as there may be in this diary of one of the pawns in that same game. But since the player cannot, the pawn may perhaps be allowed to say a few words by way of comment on and explanation of the following pages. Towards the completion of the mobilization of the 29th Division in the Leamington area in early 1915, I heard secretly that the Division was bound for the Dardanelles at an early date, instead of for France as we had at first expected. By this I knew that in all probability the Division was destined to play a most romantic part in the Great War. I had visions of trekking up the Gallipoli Peninsula with the Navy bombarding away for us up the Straits and along the coastline of the Sea of Marmora, until after a brief campaign we entered triumphantly Constantinople, there to meet the Russian army, which would link up with ourselves to form part of a great chain in circling and throttling the central empires. I sailed from England on March 20th, 1915, firmly convinced that my vision would actually come true, and that some time in 1915 the paper boys would be singing out in the streets of London for all of Constantinople, British link hands with the Russians, and I am sure that all who knew the secret of our destination were as firmly convinced as I was that we should meet with complete success. We little appreciated the difficulties of our task. For these reasons, and perhaps because the very names Gallipoli, Dardanelles, Constantinople sounded so romantic and full of adventure, I determined to revive an old, if egotistic hobby of mine, the keeping of a diary. Throughout the Gallipoli campaign, therefore, almost religiously every day and with very few exceptions, I recorded, as I have done in the past, the daily happenings of my life and the impressions such happenings made on me and the thoughts that they created. The diary was written by me to myself, as most diaries are, to be read possibly by myself and my nearest relations after the war, but with no thought of publication. But when the division was in Egypt after the evacuation, and just prior to its embarking for France, a supply officer joined us, whom I had met and talked to on the peninsula, as one meets hundreds of men without knowing or caring to know anything more about them than that they are trying to do their job as one tries to do one's own. His name is Lancelot Cayley-Shadwell, and we became firm friends. We talked often of Gallipoli, and one day in France I showed him my diary. He read it and then told me I should try to get it published. I laughed at the idea, but he assured me that these first-hand impressions might interest a wider circle than that for which they were primarily intended, but that beforehand the diary should be pruned and edited, for, of course, there was much in it that was too personal to be of interest to anybody but myself. I asked him if he would edit it for me. He consented and very kindly undertook the necessary blue penciling, and in addition to his labor of excision was good enough to insert a few passages describing, so far as words can, the exquisite loveliness of the peninsula. For these which far surpass the powers of my own pen I am deeply indebted to him. They will be found under dates May 2, moonlight at Hellas, May 13, the sensations one experiences when a shell is addressed to you, May 26, moonlight scenes, May 30, coloring of Imboros, July 15, Alexandria, September 16, and 17, the bathing cove. I am also indebted to the kindness of Captain Jocelyn Bray, the Assistant Provost-Marshall of the 29th Division on the Peninsula, for many excellent photographs. The diary next had to be submitted to the censor, who naturally refused to pass it until the Dardanelles Commission had finished its sittings, and it was nearly a year before it came back into my hands, passed for publication, but with a few further blue pencilings, this time not personal but official, and in this form hastily scribbled by me from day to day with a stumpy indelible pencil on odd sheets of paper, pruned, edited, and improved by Shadwell, and extra-edited, if not notably improved, by the censor, my diary is now presented for the consideration of an all-indulgent public. Have I been said to show if internal evidence did not shout it aloud, that my diary has no literary pretensions whatsoever? I am no John Masfield, and do not seek to compete with my betters. Those who desire to survey the whole amazing Gallipoli campaign in perspective must look elsewhere than in these pages. Their sole object was to record the personal impressions, feeling, and doings from day to day, of one supply officer to a division whose gallantry in that campaign well earned for it the epithet immortal. If in spite of its many deficiencies my diary should succeed in interesting the reader, and if in particular I have been able to place in the proper light the services of that indispensable but underrated arm, the Army Service Corps, I am more than content. I have now seen the Army Service Corps at work in England, Egypt, France, and Flanders, as well as in Gallipoli, and the result is always just the same. Tommy is hungry three times a day without distinction of place, and without distinction of place three times a day as regularly as the sun rises and sets, food is forthcoming for him, food in abundance with no cues or meat cards. The Army Service Corps must never fail, and it never does fail, for its organization is one of the most brilliant the Army knows. But few other than those in the Army Service Corps itself, or on the staffs of armies, can appreciate its vastness and its infallibility. To do so one should watch the supply ships dodging the enemy submarines and arriving at the bases, the supply hangers at the base supply depots receiving and disgorging the supplies to the packed trains, the arrival of the trains at the regulating stations on the lines of communication, whence they are dispatched to the railheads just behind the line, the staff of the deputy directors of supplies and transport of armies at work, following carefully the movements of formations and the rise and fall of strengths, to ensure that not only shall sufficient food arrive regularly each day at the railheads, but that there shall be no surpluses to choke the railheads. It is hardly less important that there should not be too much than that there should not be too little. The slightest miscalculation may easily lead to chaos, to the blocking of trains carrying wounded back and ammunition forward, or the deprivation of a few thousand men of their food at a critical moment. One should watch the arrival of the supply-packed trains at the railheads, where the supply columns of motor lorries or the divisional trains of horse transport unload the packed trains and load their vehicles regularly each day at scheduled times, under all conditions, even those caused by a fourteen-inch enemy shell bursting at intervals of five minutes in the railhead yard, causing all and sundry to get to cover except the Army Service Corps, who must never fail to clear the train at the scheduled time. One should watch the divisional train headquarters at work, following its division and arranging for the daily correct distribution and the delivery of the rations to units. Often horse transport, by careful managing on the part of train headquarters, is released for other duties than those of drawing and delivering supplies to units. Then one may watch the Army Service Corps driver delivering royal engineer material, etc., to the line, along roads swept by high explosive shell and shrapnel and machine guns, where all but the Army Service Corps driver can get to ground, while he must stand by his horses and get cover for them and himself as best he can. Although one has only seen the skeleton framework of this vast service, and has had no opportunity to go into the technicalities of the system or to investigate the many safety valves of base supply depots, field supply depots, reserve parks, and emergency ration dumps in the line, all of which are ready to come to the rescue should a packed train be blown up or a convoy scuppered, nor to study the wonderfully efficient organization of transport covering mechanical transport, horse transport, fodden lorries and tractors, which ply from the base to the line, carrying as well as supplies, ammunition, royal engineer material, and every imaginable necessity of war, and moving heavy guns in and out of position at times under the very noses of the enemy. Yet one cannot fail to have gained a great respect for that vast and wonderfully silent organization, the Army Service Corps, J.G.G., France, May 1918. End of preface. Introduction. Letter from Lieutenant General Sir Almer Hunter Weston, Knight Commander, Most Honorable Military Order of the Bath, Companion of the Bath, Distinguished Service Order, Member of Parliament, Deputy Lieutenant, who commanded the division at the landing, April 25, 1915. Dear Gilliam, the diary of a man who like yourself took part in the historic landing at Gallipoli and was present on the peninsula during the subsequent fighting, will I know be of interest to many besides myself. There are but few of us who in those strenuous days were able to keep diaries, and even fewer were those who had the gift of making of their daily entries a narrative that would be of interest to others. I should like to have time to write a preface for this book of yours, giving the salient points of our great adventure and the effect it had both on us and on the enemy. I should also like to have shown the influence that you and the Army Service Corps generally had on our operations by the successful manner in which you were able to keep the troops fed and supplied under circumstances of apparently insuperable difficulty. But being as I am in command of a big Army Corps on one of the most difficult parts of the front, it is impossible for me to find any time for writing such a preface. I can but wish your book the greatest success and hope that it will be widely read. Yours sincerely, Elmer Hunter Weston, Headquarters Eight Corps, British Expeditionary Force, February 18, 1918. End of introduction. Part one of Gallipoli Diary. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Sue Anderson. Gallipoli Diary. By John Graham Gillum. Section 1. The Climate at the Dardanelles by Henry E. Pears. Author's note by Graham Gillum. After the evacuation of the peninsula, the following article which appeared in the Westminster Gazette early in September 1915, was shown to me. After reading it through, I compared the weather forecasts that the author sets forth, and was interested to find that they agreed very closely with the notes on the weather that I had made in my diary. The article is therefore republished here, as it may be of interest to the reader, J. G. G., end of Gillum's note. The dispatch of August 31 of Reuters Special Correspondent with the Mediterranean Forces, of which a summary was published in the Westminster Gazette of the 18th instant, speaks of the weather at the Dardanelles, and as to there being two months of fine autumn weather in which to pile up stores, etc. It would be more correct to say three months rather than two. It may be interesting to some of your readers to have a few remarks on the weather in the Marmora. Such remarks are based on the results of observations made by a close observer of nature during a period of over thirty years. The fact that particular interest was taken in weather conditions at such a place arose from a cause other than a meteorological interest in the weather, the object being an endeavour to throw light on the migration of birds. Bird naturalists in general, and especially Frenchmen, have fully recognized that the two stretches of land, namely the shores of the Bosporus and that of the Dardanelles, being the closest points of juncture between Europe and Asia, as also the European coast between these points, are the concentrated passageway or route for the huge migratory flocks of birds proceeding from the western half of Europe into Asia. Three results stand out in respect to this migration. First, the absolute regularity of the autumn migration or passage. Secondly, certain conditions of weather at almost fixed dates. Thirdly, the result of the weather conditions as affecting the density of the flights, the resting and stopping of various birds at certain places. The subject is a very wide one, and is somewhat foreign to the real purpose of my remarks. Taking the month of September to begin with, the weather is very fine, a continuation of summer, cloudless skies, day after day, with perhaps a rain and thunderstorm or two, only one generally in the first week and another about September 17, but always brought on by a north to northwest wind. As a rule, the constant summer land breezes northeast about are of less intensity in September than in August, which allows for a keeping up of an average day temperature, as the Marmora, Bosporus and Dardanelles owe their moderate day temperature to these daily breezes, called Mel Tem, from the north to northeast during the summer. The wind generally dies away at sunset, which fact, however, rather tends to make the night temperature higher during the summer, the result being that, as between day and night temperature, when the north wind blows during the day, there is but little drop in the temperature and the nights are hot. About September 21 to 24, there is, however, a marked period in the weather. It is either a calm, as regard winds, and consequently very hot, or such period is marked by southerly winds, but not of any great intensity or strength, very dry, hot winds. These are the first southerly winds of autumn, but as a general rule, such period is, in nautical terms, calm and fine, with southerly airs. From such time up to the end of September, the north or northeasterly winds set in again, but later on, generally about the first week of October, the winds get more to the north and northwest, and there is a heavy thunderstorm or so, and as a result a drop in temperature. From October 10 to 14, there is a period of uncertainty, sometimes a southwesterly wind which veers round to the northwest and a good rainstorm. The first distinct drop in temperature now takes place, about the tenth to the fourteenth. One feels autumn in the air, the nights continue fairly warm, and this period continues fine and generally calm up until about the twentieth, sometimes the eighteenth or nineteenth, when a well-defined and almost absolutely regular period is entered upon. This spell begins with three or four days of very heavy northeasterly or northeasterly wind, sometimes a gale, generally accompanied by rain for several days, and it is this period from October 20 to 25, which is intensely interesting to naturalists, owing to the big passage of all kinds of birds, the arrival of the first woodcock, the clockwork precision of the passage of the stock-doves, pigeons, in fact it is the moment of the big migration, when the air night and day is full of birds on the move. Toward the end of October and in the way of counter-coup or reaction to the northerly gales, there is generally experienced a fierce three or four days of southerly winds, sometimes gales. It is to be noted that these gales, or changes in the weather, are usually of three or seven days duration, the first day generally being the strongest, and for some of these regular winds the natives have special names. November almost always comes in fine, with a lovely first ten days or so. It, however, becomes rather sharp at night, and a very marked period now of cold weather is to be expected, a cold snap, in fact. This snap is generally in the second or third week of the month, and only lasts a few days, the weather going back to fine, warm and calm till the end of the month. Barring such cold snap the month is marked by fine weather and absence of wind, and many people consider it the most glorious month of the year, the sunsets being especially fine. The cold snap is rather a peculiar one. Snow has been seen on November 4th, and if I remember rightly, the battle of Lulay-Burgaz three years ago was fought on November 5th, 6th, and 7th, and during such time there raged a storm of rain and sleet, succeeded by two or three nights of hard frost, which caused the death of many a poor fellow who had been wounded and was lying out. Another year there was a very heavy snowstorm on November 16th and 17th. Although the weather may be of this nature for several days, it recovers and drops back into calm, warm weather. In the last days of November or the first days of December another period is entered upon. There is generally a heavy, south wind lasting from three to seven days, which is succeeded by a lovely spell of fine weather, generally perfectly calm and warm, which brings one well through December. From a little before Christmas or just after, the weather varies greatly. The marked periods are past. The weather may be anything, sometimes calm and mild, sometimes varied by rains, with strong north winds, but no seriously bad weather. In one word no real winter weather need be looked for until, as the natives put it, the old New Year, otherwise the New Year, old style, which is January 14th, our style, comes in. After January 14th or a few days later the weather is almost invariably bad. There is always a snow-blizzard or two, generally between January 20th and 25th. These are real bad blizzards, which sometimes last from three to seven days, and anything in the way of weather may happen for the next six weeks or two months. The snow has been known to lie for six weeks. Strong, southerly gales succeed as a rule the northerly gales, but one thing is to be noted, that the south and west winds no longer bring rain. It is the north and northeast which brings snow and rain. This winter period is difficult to speak of with anything like precision. Nothing appears to be regular. Some years the weather is severe, other years snow is only seen once or twice. Winter is said to have finished on April 15th. The only point about a severe winter is that a period of cold is generally followed by a period of calm, warm weather of ten days or so. It has often been noted that a very cold winter in England and France, etc., generally gives the southeast corner of Europe about which we are speaking, a mild winter with a prevalence of southerly airs, whereas a mild winter in England and France marks the southeast corner of Europe for a severe winter with a prevalence of northerly winds. No doubt experts will be able to explain this. Of late years no great cold has visited the Marmora. In 1893 the golden horn from the inner bridge at Constantinople was frozen over sufficiently for people to walk over the ice, and the inner harbor had flows knocking about for some weeks. That winter, however, was an exceptional one. But even then the winter only began about January 18th, lasting into March. The great point about the climate is that, however hot or cold a spell may be, it is always succeeded by calm weather, a blue sky, and a warm sun, quite a different state of things from winter weather under English conditions. To those who have relations or friends at the Dardanelles, and I quote from a letter from a friend, let them send good strong warm stockings for the men, besides the usual waist coats and mufflers, and, as for creature comforts, sweets, chocolate, and tobacco, especially cigarettes. It is the Turks who will suffer from the cold. They cannot stand it long, and, being fed generally mainly on bread, they have no stamina to meet cold weather. Most of their troops come from warm climbs. Gallipoli Diary by John Graham Gillum Section 2 Prologue March 1915 And April 1st to 23rd Prologue March 1915 On March 20th, 1915, I embarked on the SS 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 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! balled 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 nearby came alongside. We dropped two bags of males 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 a buff color against the blue sky, and the creamy color of the flat-roofed houses made a buff color scheme. As we went slowly up the fairway of Valletta Harbor, we passed several French warships, on one of which the band played God Save the King, followed by Tipperary, Armin cheering by way of answering the compliment. The grand harbor was very interesting, swarming with shipping of all kinds, the small native boats darting over the blue water interested me greatly. The buff background of the hills dotted with the creamy colored 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 stroll 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 headdress 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 state the diary proper begins. End of prologue. Gallipoli diary, April. April 1st to 17th. We arrived at Alexandria on April 1st. The harbor 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 harbor 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 in turn. 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 saltwater lake nearby with a big saltworks quite near it. In the center 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 hobbles sheltering grimy women and still grimeier 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 passerby 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 SS Southland. There are a lot of our staff on board, also French staff, including General De Maude, the French general officer commanding, who did such good work in France in the retreat. He is a distinguished looking old man with white hair, mustache, and imperial. I hear that Wei and myself are to be the first supply officers ashore at the landing. Half the Army Service Corps have been left behind in Alexandria, and there are only five of my people with me. Sunday, April 18. We are now steaming through crowds of little islands, some as small as a cottage garden, others as large as Hyde Park. See, 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 mule. On account of drifting mines we are keeping off the usual route. Two o'clock. Arrived at our rendezvous, 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 a while, 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 Aragonne, on which is my brigade staff and the Hampshire's, 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 Gammage. French headquarters staff and General De Maude leave and go on board Arcadian. The transport Manitou, one of the boats on which I ate and slept, and which left Alexandria too in front of our transport, was stopped by a Turkish destroyer off roads 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 Aragonne with Hampshire officers Anne C. Panton. Also talk to brigade major and Captain of Hampshire's. Monday morning, April 19. 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 22. This is a fine harbor 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 horseboat lying in the mouth of the harbor 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 penis that was a 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 Calipoli. 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 Hampshire's. The Hampshire's and the Worcester spend the day marching with full kit on round the deck to the cheery strains of popular heirs played by a talented Tommy. The effect with the regular tramp is very exhilarating. Later I am ordered to join another ship, the Don Gola, in which are the Essex and the Royal Scots, the other regiments of my brigade. Two Essex officers were staying in the Worc arms with me and it was good seeing them again. The harbor at night is a fine sight. A moon is shining and not a cloud in the sky and the temperature about fifty degrees. 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 signaling to one another silently sending orders, planning and arranging for the great adventure. Have to go up to the signaling deck above the bridge to take a message flashed from a tiny little tinkerbell light away on our starboard. The sight is wonderful. Busy little dot dash flashes all around the harbor, how the signalers 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 hoped to go over her tomorrow. Also the ass-gold, a Russian cruiser with five funnels. Tommy's call her the packet of woodbines. It is interesting to note the confidence the army and navy have in each other. While being rode over here by some blue jackets, 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 Tommy's is that the landing will be a soft job, with Queen Bess and her sisters pounding the land defenses with shells. Then the confidence French, British and Russians have in one another is encouraging. The feeling prevails that when, once the landing is affected, Turkey will cave in and that will have a great influence on the duration of the war. But, as Scotsman said to me today, remember Kitchener said a three years war. Sir Ian Hamilton this evening sent around a brief exhortation beginning, Soldiers of France and of the King, which bucked up everybody. April 23. A bright day took estimate of stores on board to see if troops had enough rations, found shortage, signaled 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. Foreign 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 conardor, the alkania with some of the 86th brigade on board, great cheering, what a drama and how impressive the Russian national anthem is. Evening again, little tinkerbell flashes begin to get busy. On lower deck the Tommys 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 Guilford. But what about the Tommys 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 24. 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 tomorrow beats me. I try to 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 twenty-fifth was awakened up at four by the noise of the distant rumbling of guns and coming to my senses I realised 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 days 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 the non-commissioned officers 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 ass-gold distinctly. Atami said, There's the old packet of wood-binds, giving them the 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 clear 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 Millward, 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 in shore 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 wind 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 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 onto 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 sea-plane 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 into 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 Bullford. 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 Bar 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 Millward 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 see 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 and getting out of the boats into the shallow water, where they found venomous barbwire was thickly laid. He laid out four John Turks and then copped it through the thigh, and three hours later was picked up by sailors. And then, any chance of blighty serve? And I said, I am 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. 12.00 a.m. We are going closer in again, and the royal Scots are leaving. The quartermaster, Lieutenant Steele, 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. 12.15 p.m. I have a dismal lunch just like the breakfast. I can see French troops pouring out of small boats now onto 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. Millward 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 today 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 has 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, varies 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 Millward 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 in shore by nightfall. But he expresses surprise that we have only the 29th and the 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 small arms 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 water-spouts 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 penis 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. Passing across the bowels of the Implacable we nearly have our heads blown off by the blast of her forward guns. And the funny thing is I can hardly see a man on board. Penises, tugs, destroyers are rushing in and out of the fleet of transports and warships. A tug passes close to us on its way to the Vangola, the ship I have just left, loaded with wounded. All slight cases and they give us a cheer and shout, best of luck, boys. We wave back. We approach close into W Beach, where lighters are moored to more lighters beached high on the sand. And then the snotty, making a sweep with his penis, swings us round. He gives the order to cast a drift and then shouts at a baby voice, I can't do any more for you. You must get ashore the best you can. We, fortunately, manage with difficulty to grab a rope from one of the moored lighters and make fast, while the two boats are rowed ashore. There we stick. I dare not leave these seven days rations and water for four thousand men, and I shout to semen on shore to try to push us in and so beach us. The bombardment begins to ease off someone. The sun begins to sink behind imbrose, and gradually it turns bitterly cold. I sit and shiver, munching the unexpired portion of my day's ration. I want to coat badly, but by this time my kid is on shore with my servant. We appear to have been forgotten altogether. On the cliffs in front of us Tommy's are limping back wounded. One comes perilously near the edge of the cliff, stumbling and swaying like a drunken man. We shout loudly to him as time after time he all but falls over the edge. Two royal army medical corps grabbed him eventually and let him safely down. I have a smoke and view the scenes on shore. Gradually the beach is becoming filled with medical stores and supplies. It is gruesome seeing dozens of dead lying about in all attitudes. It becomes eerie as it gets darker. At this beach at dawn this morning there landed the Lancashire fusiliers. They were waited for until their boats were beached, when, as the troops stepped out of the boats, they were fired on by the Turks, who subjected them to heavy machine-gun fire from two cliffs on either side of the beach. The slaughter was terrible. On the right-hand side of the beach the troops had a check and terrible fighting took place. Finally, one by one the machine guns were pulled from their positions in the cliff, and the sections working them killed in hand-to-hand struggles. On the left side of the beach the troops found no barbed wire, and so were able to get on shore. And to the cry of lads, follow me, from an officer they swarmed up a fifty-foot steep cliff clearing the upper ridge of Turks, but losing heavily. They fought their way inland and, after a while, were able to infillate the Turks holding up our men on the right of the beach. Until it passed by six a.m., the whole beach was one, and John Turk was driven five hundred yards or more inshore. Midshipmen and naval lieutenants were in charge of the penises towing strings of boats, and as they approached the shore, fired for all they were worth with machine guns mounted forward, protected by shields. Then swinging around they cast the boats adrift. Each boat had a few sailors who rode for shore like mad, and many in so doing lost their lives, shot in the back. To row an open boat, unprotected, into murderous machine gun and rifle-fire, requires pluck backed by a discipline which only the British navy can supply. Some of the sailors grabbed rifles from dead and wounded soldiers and fought as infantrymen. I can see many such dead naval heroes before my eyes now, lying still on the bloody sand. I am sitting on the boxes now, and ping goes something past my head, and then ping, ping, with a long ringing sound follows one after the other. The crackle of musketry begins again, and faster and faster the bullets come. At last I know what bullets are like. The feeling at first is weird. We get behind the pile of boxes, and bullets hit bully-beef and biscuit-boxes, or pass harmlessly overhead. At last boats come alongside and we unload the boxes into them, and I go ashore with the first batch, and there I meet eighty-sixth and eighty-seventh supply officers, who landed two hours earlier. My servant meets me and asks where shall I sleep? What a question! What does he expect me to answer? Room forty-four, first floor? I say, oh, shove my kit down there, pointing to some lying figures on the sand. Five minutes after he comes up and with a scared voice says, them is all stiff corpses, sir, you can't sleep there. I reply, oh, damn it! Go and sit down on my kit till I come back. I start to work to get the stores higher up the cliff. Oh, the sand! It is devilish heavy going, walking up and down with my feet sinking in almost ankle deep. It is quite dark now, and I stumble at frequent intervals over the dead. Parties are removing them, not for burial, but higher up the beach, out of the way of the working parties. I run into the brigade quartermaster sergeant and ask him, how's the brigadier? He replies, killed, sir. I can't speak for a moment. And the brigade major? Killed also, sir. That finishes me. It is my first experience of the real horrors of war, losing those who had become friends whom I respected. And I had worked in their headquarters in England every day for two months, knew them almost intimately, and looked forward with pleasure to going through the campaign on their staff. How did it happen, Leslie? I asked. The general was shot in the stomach while in the penis before he could step onto the hopper alongside the river Clyde and died shortly after. The brigade major got it walking along the hopper. The river Clyde was to have been brigade headquarters, and the brigade was to have taken V-beach that day. So far V-beach was still Turkish. Their machine guns kept our men at bay. I wonder what it is like on the river Clyde at present and whether those few men are still crouching behind that sand dune. Wei comes up and says it is going to be a devil of a job getting those stores ashore and that he can't get enough men. I have a few seamen, Cooper, Whitburn, and my servant, so put them onto it and I myself help. Thus we struggle on over the sand and up to the grass on the slope of the cliff. Phew! It is work, and I am getting dead tired. We work till eleven o'clock, and then Foley and I have a rest behind a pile of boxes on the sand. Bullets steadily ping overhead, and now and again a man gives a little sigh of pain and falls helplessly to the sand. The strange part is that I do not feel sick at the sight of the dead and wounded. I think it is because of the excitement and because I am dead tired. I get a bit cold sitting still and can't find my coat, so I huddle against Foley behind the boxes. A philosophical naval officer sits alongside smoking a huge pipe. Crack, crack, crack goes the desultory fire of the rifles. The ships cease firing. It is awfully quiet and uncanny. Suddenly the musketry and rifle fire breaks out with a burst which develop into a steady roar. The beach becomes alive with people once more. All seems confusion. The naval officer goes on steadily smoking, and we sit still wondering how things are going to develop. The fleet is silent. But I can just see the outline of the warships with a few lights showing. Then I hear an officer shouting angrily. Now then, fall in, you men. Who are you? Well, fall in. Get a rifle, find one then, and damn quick. Then another officer shouts. All but Royal Army Medical Corps fall in. Who are you? Fall in. Interfile. Right turn. Quick march. About a dozen or two march off into the night up the cliff. Officers, servants, Army Service Corps, seamen, Royal Naval Division, every man who was not either Royal Army Medical Corps or working on the dozen or so lighters that had been beached. I pause a bit. I feel a worm skulking behind these boxes while these events are happening. I express my feelings to Foley, and he says, he feels the same. I say, we must do something. And he replies, let's get rifles. And off we go searching for rifles, but can find none in the dark. I lose my temper while I have an only nose. I see some men falling in, and I go up to them and say, fall in, you men. Why aren't you falling in? Although I know they are, and I find an officer in charge and feel an ass. They move up to man, the third-line trench just running along the edge of the cliff. All the beach parties have moved up to this trench. I have lost Foley, and so I follow up with no rifle and no revolver and shivering with cold. But I feel much better, although I am still in a temper. In the darkness I am annoyed with everybody I see. Nerves I suppose. Then a petty officer comes along and shouts, now then, you men, where the is the dash ammunition? And in the darkness I discern some seamen carrying boxes of small arms ammunition. I go to the first pair, carrying a box between them, and take one side of the box from one of the seamen, and immediately feel delighted with myself, the sailor and everybody. They have got a definite job. Up we pant. Halfway up the cliff. I find Foley on the same job. A voice shouts, have you got the ammunition, Foley? It is O'Hara's voice, our deputy assistant quartermaster general, and he comes running down to us. Suddenly the fleet opened fire, and the infernal den begins all over again. The flashes lighting up the beach, silhouetting men on shore and the ships lying off, and all the time the song of bullets. Red hell and a Sunday night. And this is war at last. I never thought I should ever get as near it as this when I was a civilian. O'Hara says, who's that to me? And I answer my name, and he says, Brighto, give us a hand with this little lot, lad. He bends down, and he and a sailor lift a box. Foley and I lift another. And six seamen, I find they are off the implacable, lift the others. And off we pant up the cliff over that third-line trench, lined with men of the beach parties with fixed bayonets. It's a devil of a walk to the second line, and it reminds me of hurrying to the railroad station with a heavy port manteau to catch a train. Foley and I constantly change hands. The seamen too find it heavy going. We arrive at the second line and run into the agiton of the Lancashire fusilliers, calmly walking up and down his trench with a stick. We halt, open the boxes, and hang the strings of ammunition around our necks and over our shoulders. I am almost weighed down with a load. We have a rest, taking cover in the trench now and again as bullets come rather thicker than usual. The firing is frightful. Now a roar of musketry, and now desultory firing, while the ship's guns boom away in the same spasmodic way. O'Hara then says, come along, follow me, and we go, headed by the agiton of the Lancashire fusilliers to show us the way, and on over the grass and gorse into the blackness beyond. We are lucky, for it is a quiet moment, and we have only to go three or four hundred yards. But just as we approach the first line, outbursts a spell of machine gun and rifle fire rapid, and I fall headlong into what I think is space, but which proves to be our front-line trench. I fall clean on top of a tommy who is the opposite of polite, for my ammunition slings have tapped his nose painfully. I apologize and, feeling a bit done, lie down in the mud like a frog. The coolness of the mud soon reviving me. We pass the ammunition along, each man keeping two or three slings. O'Hara wanders along the trench, having to keep his head low, for it is none too deep and bullets are pretty free overhead. While I remain in chat to the tommy, another Lancashire fusillier who is shivering with teeth chattering and wet through, for it is raining, a tommy on the other side of me is fast asleep and snoring loudly. The one awake describes to me the landing of the previous early morning, the machine gun fire and the venomous barbed wire with the sea just lapping over it and the exciting bayonet work that followed. I am enjoying myself now, for I am in the front-line trench with a regiment which has just added a few more laurels to its glorious collection. It is curious but no shells are coming from the Turks and bullets are such gentlemanly little things that they do not worry me. It is funny but everybody up here appears very cool and confident, while on the beach they are all inclined to be jumpy. O'Hara comes back with the two sailors. Foley has disappeared and the other four sailors also have gone. We push along to the end of the trench and the firing, having died down somewhat, we climb out into the open and wind our way back. We seem to miss our bearing and go wandering off a devil of a way when another burst of firing from a few machine guns forces us to dive promptly into a hole which by providence we find in our path. The two sailors have disappeared somewhere. We find two men crouching in the hole and on asking who they are find they are Lancashire fusiliers separated from their regiment. I can hear the swish of the machine gun bullets sweeping nearer and nearer further and further from me and then nearer as the guns are traversed. We are evidently lying in a hole which was dug to begin a trench but which was abandoned. It is practically only a ditch the shape of a small right angle. O'Hara and I fall one side and the two Lancashire fusiliers the other and we crouch for three quarters of an hour. If we kneel our heads are above the parapet. After a while O'Hara says to me I am awfully sorry for getting you in this fixed gillum and I reply automatically just as one might in ordinary life not at all a pleasure sir. Really though I don't like it much but I am much happier here than I would be on the beach. The firing dies down again. The ship's guns are still banging away steadily. O'Hara disappears somewhere. I follow where I think he is gone but I hear his voice after a minute talking to an officer and I therefore lie down. But for a while I can't make out the situation. Firing starts again and I can almost feel the flight of some bullets and I lie flat. It dawns on me that I am lying in front of a trench. I wriggle like a snake over the heap of earth in front of me into the trench behind and find it not nearly so deep as the one I have just left nor so roomy. The firing gets so hot that I try to wiggle in beside the form of a man perfectly still. An extra burst of firing sends me struggling for room into the trench and the man whom I thought was dead moves, which sends a shiver down my spine. I apologize and he makes room for me. A little later the firing dies down again. Two figures run past our trench shouting, all correct sir. And an officer shouts, all correct. They are runners sent up from the beach. I can hear O'Hara talking to some officer the other of a traverse. Then he calls me and joining him I follow him down toward the masts of the ships that we can just see silhouetted against the brightening sky. Suddenly an advanced sentry cries, alt, who are you? friend, who are you? friend, friend, friend, shouts O'Hara. Hands up, advance one. And for some stupid reason I think he means advance one pace, which I solemnly do. O'Hara catches me a blow in the tummy and nearly wins me saying, Stand still you dash fool. And I stand stock still gasping for breath with my hands above my head, while he walks slowly forward with hands up. And I can just see the sentry covering him with his rifle for a while. I can hear them talking and after a few sentences O'Hara calls me and I follow still with my hands up until I reach the sentry. I think this frightened me more than all the events of this night. We continue our way. It is not so dark as it was and it has ceased raining. Then a horrid thing happens. I fall headlong over a dead turk, with face staring up into the sky and glazed eyes wide open. He wears a blue uniform and I think he must have been a sailor from Sed El Bar Fort. Ugg. I almost touched his face with mine. Shortly after this mishap we arrive at the third-line trench, crowded with troops of all kinds made up from the parties on the beaches and get challenged again by some engineers. Safely passing these we stumble down the slope to the beach. O'Hara sends me off to look for the stores and I last see him going back once more with a rifle in bayonet. I run into Foley who I find has had an adventurous time. Having had to find us, but turned the wrong way up the trench. He got out into the open after a bit and wandered, apparently, just behind our front line towards V Beach, while the other side of W. The rifle fire was so hot there that he crawled like a caterpillar back to the second line and from there doubled back to the beach, steering himself by the mass lights of the ships. We see that the stores are OK and then run afterwards I find my friend Major Gibbon of the Howitzer Battery, busy getting his guns ashore. Foley and I then go back to the boxes and we lie down like dogs, falling to sleep at once on the soft comfortable sand. Don breaks over the hills of Asia. And of Section 3. Section 4 of Gallipoli Diary. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org recording by Sue Anderson Gallipoli Diary by John Graham Gillum Section 4, April 26 to April 28 Monday, April 26 I wake about 7 and find myself nestling up close against Foley who is still asleep. I wake him and he promptly falls asleep again murmuring something about that dash machine gun. The beach quickly becomes alive with men all working for dear life and we get to our feet, go down to the water's edge and bathe our faces, and start to finish the work of making a small supply depot which we left last night. My servant comes to tell me that breakfast is ready and we go up the cliff and join whey and carver at every past of biscuits, jam, bacon, and tea. But the tea tastes strong of sea water. All water had been carried with us in tins and we had stuck a bad batch for most of them leaked. And then our day's work begins in all seriousness. By night O'Hara wishes us to have a proper supply depot working. The quartermasters coming with fatigue parties presenting their B-55s and rations to the full are promptly issued and accounted for in our books. At frequent intervals the fleet bombard, but we are quite used to the roar of guns now. I am covered and coated with clayy mud and have no time to clean myself properly. We have to take cover continually from snipers, unknown enemies who fire at us from Lord knows where. One open part of the beach is especially dangerous and I cross that part about six times during a day. Not a very wide space but I feel each time I cross than I am taking a long journey. The dead are still lying about and as there is no time to bury them we pass to and fro by their bodies unheedingly. In addition to these snipers who pick off one of our number now and again we have spent bullets flying in all directions for our firing line is but a few hundred yards away. The Turk however does not appear to have a proper firing line. He only seems to have advanced posts strongly held and must have retreated well in shore. It is a blessing for us that no shells come along only these spent bullets and the deadly shots from the unseen snipers. Heavy firing sounds however from V-beach a rattle of musketry and a roar of the battleships and torpedo boat destroyers lying at the mouth. Colonel Beden and Major Stridinger are getting a proper system of supply and transport working. We become venturesome in the late afternoon and many of us, quite two to three hundred, go up on the high land on the right and left of the beach and make a tour of the lately captured trenches. Turkish dead are lying about in grotesque attitudes. The trenches are full of equipment and I notice particularly bundles of remarkably clean linen and many loaves of bread, one loaf sticking out of the dead Turk's pocket. Several of the dead are dressed in navy blue uniform with brass buttons but most are in khaki with gray overcoats and cloth hats. Suddenly a whistle blows and several cry get off the skyline and we all run helter-skelter for the safety of the beach. When darkness arrives we have a proper supply depot working and strings of packed mules are hard at work carrying stores. Guns, ammunition and men are everywhere. The engineers have run out a pier already everyone is in the best of spirits for we have tasted a brilliant victory and organizing brains are still at work in preparation for further ventures. I go to sleep behind boxes with the sound of heavy rifle fire disturbing the night. Tuesday, April 27. I am ordered to make a small advanced depot just behind the firing line using packed mules under Colonel Patterson of the Zion Mule Corps. The drivers are Syrian refugees from Syria and curiously enough speak Russian as their common language. While up there but a very short walk from the beach I sit down on the layers seat of one of the 18 pounders of one of the batteries in position just behind our line. The battery is not dug in at all. I look through a telescopic sight but only see a lovely view of grass, barley, gorse, and flowers, hillocks, nullas, and the great hill of Achibaba in the background looking like polyphemus in dito aninaeus with an ugly head and arms outstretched from the straits to the Aegean. I ask where the Turks are and they point to a line some two thousand yards away marked by newly turned earth which is just distinguishable from the others. I can see no sign of life but a way up on the ridges of Achibaba columns of earth and smoke suddenly burst from the ground caused by the shells of our fleet. Rifle fire has died down hardly a shot on our front comes over and no shells at all. On our right shell fire continues. I hear that V-beach is taken. It was taken midday yesterday but with heavy casualties. Colonel Hans had the job and the Hans did magnificently. Colonel Williams, the first general staff officer, behaved most gallantly. Snipers were worrying after the village was taken and in crossing a certain part of the village he exposed himself by mounting a wall and standing there for a time looked down saying to men round him, you see there are no snipers left men. They leapt after him like a village in no time. Man after man had been hit on that wall that morning. 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 Beden 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. I go down to V-beach for a fatigue party of the Royal Naval Division 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 15 minutes maneuvering for positions 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 a Royal Naval Division 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 road 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 Gosling of the 88th Field Ambulance is standing near me and he goes over to the form, bends down and gently uses a khaki handkerchief covering the face. I then see that it is Major Kostaker, 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 learned that he was hit 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 penis on his way to the river Clyde by a machine-gun bullet in the stomach. Just before he died he said to Sinclair Thompson, our captain, get on the Clyde and tell Carrington Smith to take over. A little while later he apologised for groaning. Good heavens, I can't realise 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 King's Own Scottish Borderers who is the Military Liaison Officer and he hands over supplies to me. I clear the beach, make a small fly-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, a Royal Naval Division 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 dropping like flies into the sea. A drop of twenty feet. Some of those who fell wounded from the hopper in the shallow water close in shore drowned through being born 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 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 Hans is gone. He met his end in the village of Sed El Bar. 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 and, of course, 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 oversensitive, 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 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 Bar 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 today by a hare running across the beach chased by French Paul-U and being very nearly rounded up. At five 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 overcomes 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 poof only against splinters. The nearest falls but twenty yards away and does not explode. I see through my glasses the destroyers creep up towards the enemy 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 signaler 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, officer commanding signal 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 I am stopped by sentries for snipers are still at large there and several casualties have occurred today 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 28. 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 reported 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 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 Wedgewood MP and being interested get into conversation with him. He is a most entertaining man and tells me that he is officer commanding armored cars but that as it is not possible for his cars to come on shore he has been instructed to use his intelligence and 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 managed 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 toward 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 Damod and his staff. A French officer takes some steps 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 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 Royal Naval Division beach party and come back to W. Beach with the senior supply officer who is coming over. Senior supply officer arrives shortly after. I hand over to the senior officer of the Royal Naval Division a fine old boy with a crown and a star up who tells me I am to hand over to 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 Don Gola 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 penis which takes us alongside a very good pier considering the short time the engineers have had to construct one. Unsure I find the King's own Scottish borderers 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 Coal, 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 officer commanding company has gone inland with some packed mules he comes back later with rather good 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 ship's guns the battle develops in the afternoon to a general attack on our part we are well in shore 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 in the country 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 division headquarters I asked 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 over a difficult country I make a beeline inshore and after a quick walk of 15 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 signalers 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 signalers at work laying cables doctors dressing wounded and bearers carrying them to the rear I discover that we have had a setback I learned that we were heavily outnumbered but that at 5 p.m. the Turks had retreated hastily to almost beyond Krythia 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 headquarters 88th are on my way there I pass Captain Parker and Major Lee of the Hance 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 Malian 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 headquarters I see Thompson who looks very ill and tired but appears very cool and quiet I shall never forget his smile when he saw me saying hello Gillum in a quiet voice I see Panton busy at dressing wounded for alongside headquarters 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 shutter 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 learned at Brigade headquarters that the white road ran between Krythia and said El Bar and mentally I made a note of the way I should take rations on my return journey namely to said El Bar 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 Don Gola 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 around the shoulders of two men one his servant unwounded and the other a man wounded through the arm Cox tells me that he took cover in a nulok when hit and remained there all day twice the French advanced over him treated leaving him between the enemies lines a third time British and French advanced and he was rescued and helped back I wish him for the 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 I am very soon pulled up short by the challenge of a sentry I discover it is signals of divisional headquarters and am directed to headquarters where I am interviewed by a general staff officer who asks me the position of troops I tell him French on the right and then 88th, 86th and 87th I learn that I am on hill 138 the future name of divisional headquarters I am directed back to W. Beach and then endeavor to find O'Hara after 15 minutes I find him and report what I had done and am told that he had learned 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 side of the Sadel Bar on the 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 packed 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 headquarters is 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 manhandled to the two brigades but for the 88th the dump is right out of it we meet Phillips our 88th transport officer and officer commanding number 4 company a good soldier Ford quartermaster of the Essex and Grogan transport officer of the king's own Scottish borderers a delightful chap and passing them we arrive at pink farm where I tell my tale to Colonel Beden and Major Stridinger it is now raining hard and I have no coat it is hard work getting through the clay 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 200 yards beyond there where I will find Thompson and 88th brigade headquarters and to arrange with him for fatigue parties to come back and carry up water they say they have just been talking to Thompson this puzzles me and I start off for that bush I hate bushes just now I pass it and come to a book 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 200 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 I'm glad to receive an answer of I I go up to them and find that it is our front line and inquire where Brigade headquarters is a little light to my right but behind rather is pointed out to which I go there I find Thompson 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 had a lot of iterations taken to the spot that he had pointed out in the afternoon I find that I am at 86th Brigade headquarters and that Thompson 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 dogs and make for it it comes from the brook that I had passed and from there I go towards what I think is Pink Farm but find that it is a collection of the packed mules under Philips and I unload my feelings in horribly bad language then Philips gives me a packet of cigarettes which I am entirely without I am wet through now to the skin and dog tired my pocket is full of iron ration biscuits and between puffs of my cigarettes I munch on them not a sound of a shot not a flash of a gun old John Turk has had a nasty knock and is over a thousand yards away nothing but the sound of the hiss of the gently falling rain I follow the farmer's track up to Pink Farm and tell my troubles to Colonel Beeden Colonel Williams, who had distinguished himself at Seddell Bar is there without a coat and soaked to the skin as I am instructed to take the remaining mules back to W. Beech link any which I pass that are on the way up onto my convoy and also pick up any which are starting off from W. Beech make one convoy take stock and make note of it and take the whole through Seddell Bar up to the spot Thompson had pointed out to me in the afternoon I think of the tale of the odd job man who has been given every imaginable job in the world by his old lady mistress and who asked her if her house was built on clay as he would very much like to make bricks in his spare time I go back to Phillips the convoy is turned round and off we trek I at the head Phillips in the rear I meet Davy on the way up with a convoy of his and accordingly instruct him to join onto my convoy he says look here I'm old boy you're fagged out and are making a mess of things go back to bed old boy I know all about it and we have to take these mules to Pinkfarm I wish Pinkfarm elsewhere express my feelings to him in forcible language and finally convince him under protest however we are soon friends again and his convoy links up in rear of mine we hear three reports of a rifle ring out on our right a sniper still undiscovered at work we arrive at W Beach arresting the start of another convoy which in turn also becomes part of ours and I go to find O'Hara having found him I told him my tale of woe he says he will come with me to the 88th brigade and after taking stock and tacking a water cart onto the rear of the column we trek off to hill 138 stopping there O'Hara has a chat with the assistant provost who has been to the 88th headquarters and assures us that we are on the right track on through the ruin village of Sed El bar we go down through a poplar grove enclosing a Turkish cemetery where we overtake the commanding royal artillery riding alone with an orderly we are on the white road that I noticed in the afternoon and the commanding royal artillery takes the lead as he states that a part of the road further up is rumored to be mined ahead on our left in flames a wonderful sight it is stopped raining we pass several brooks and from them comes the clamoring noise of loudly croaking bullfrogs we pass one after the other four white pillars of stone about a hundred feet in height on my right I can dimly see the waters of the Dardanelles dawn is just developing the commanding royal artillery raises his hand and we stop forward with his orderly and after a minute returns and orders us to follow him he turns sharply to the left makes a wide circuit we following and comes out on the white road once more further up he then leaves us and disappears we continue for three hundred yards when I come to the conclusion that we are very near our destination tell O'Hara so and the command is given halt O'Hara and I walk on up the road the sound is heard no shells, no rifle-fire whatsoever I can see no one about I look to my right where brigade headquarters should be and find nothing but some shallow dugouts we go off to the right amongst bushes and trip over a few poor dead tommys we come back to the road O'Hara thinks I am wrong good lord supposing that I am wrong after all this we walk up the road further I look to the left and see another trench and a sentry a little way on on guard the road goes on into darkness I am smoking a cigarette and am ordered preemptively by the sentry on my right to put it out we question him and find that we have arrived at our front line every man of four is on guard the other three sound asleep in the bottom of the trench the sentry tells us that the Turkish line is a good way ahead and that he has seen or heard nothing from there since he has been on guard he is shivering with cold though muffled in his coat but for all that looks a fine type of fellow but he is puka and 29th as well finest troops in the world bar none the finished type of a discipline British tommy oh for six more divisions of this quality Archibaba would have been ours this day he directs us to brigade headquarters following his direction we turn back down the road and come back to the shallow dugouts during our absence Thomas of the Essex and a naval officer smoking a huge pipe and muffled to his ears in his white muffler and blue overcoat had arrived they tell us the dugouts are the 88th brigade headquarters we inquire for Thompson and the rest and are told that they have gone to 86th to confer one by one the little patient mules and proceed down the road to wait and the boxes, rations, ammunition and water are spread singly amongst the thick gorse off the road so as not to be seen by the enemy in the morning while this goes on I talk to the naval officer and learn from him that he is an observing officer for the ship's guns he appears a very cool customer he tells me that he is a very unlucky man to talk to that an officer yesterday was wounded while talking to him and another killed last night under the same circumstances I wish him good night and good luck and go back to the mules and help to hasten their unloading by helping myself Colonel Patterson, officer commanding mule corps keeps on urging upon us the importance of not losing the ropes as when lost they are difficult to replace the last mule being unloaded we search for the water cart we found but tins of water are up now and we hear that a well has been found the water pure and not poisoned as we had feared and so we start to trek back a short way back and O'Hara shouts HALT then he says to me, Gillam what's that dash mine we've heard so much about I answered, great Scott somebody behind us gives a muffled cough an Atami forward and in Atami's polite manner says begging your pardon sir but we are standing on it O'Hara shouts walk march and we move at a good four miles an hour until we arrive at the white pillars and the friendly sound of the croaking frogs we realize at any rate that we are safe from land mines evidently this mine is a false alarm permission to smoke is given and the Syrian boys exchange ration cigarettes and chatter to each other in Russian up to now they have been almost entirely silent we pass many French troops sleeping in little hastily made camps and we pass some zwobs looking picturesque in the early morning light in their quaint oriental uniforms and so through the silent cemetery and poplar trees through said El Bar now a large French camp back past hill 138 and home to W. beach I give O'Hara of my iron ration biscuits and almost stagger to my supply depot for I am hardly able to walk any further and lie down on my release that my servant has thoughtfully laid out for me beside the senior supply officer and Colonel beaten falling off to sleep with the satisfaction that tomorrow at any rate the 88th will have their rations intersection four