 Section V. of Gallipoli Diary I WAKE AT EIGHT, BUT I AM GIVEN PERMISSION TO SLEEP ALL THE MORNING, I HAVE BREAKFAST, GETTING FED UP WITH BISCOT. My servant rigs me up a bivvy, and I roll up and go fast to sleep. Lord, what a gorgeous sleep it was! I slept till one, and then had lunch, and after a shave and a wash. I did little all day but watched the fleet firing, and the transports unloading everything imaginable necessary for an army. We have now rigged up a nice little mess with some ration boxes and a tarpaulin, and have quite a nice dinner at night, with a boiled ham, bully-beef-rissoles and biscuit pancakes. Our chef is some chef. A naval officer at night after dinner is continually shouting any more for the Arcadian, or General Headquarters is. Reminds me of any more for the Skylock at Brighton. It is pleasant going to sleep at night with the sound of the swish of waves breaking on the shore in one's ears. The fleet guns roar away consistently all day. April thirtieth. Today we have some shells on the beach, but not very terrible ones. Many of them go foot in the ground without exploding. If this is all the artillery they can put up against us, Lord help them, they must be having hell from the fleet. Go up to Brigade Headquarters via said L-bar this morning with a rifle, and dressed as a tommy. I'll go up dressed like that now, for snipers are still about. On past the White Pillars to Brigade Headquarters we pass the bodies, still unburied of Turks and British, fallen heroes lying broken amidst wild flowers. I call and see Major Gibbon at his observation post, but from there can see nothing of the enemy. Before me is a simple, lovely summer scene, yet amidst the Nulahs and the olive groves, the flowers and barley, death lurks alert to claim his toll. It is a long walk back to W. Beach via said L-bar. Snipers are still at large, which is remarkable, and we are warned not to walk across country, though to do so would be much quicker. I pass two snipers as we arrive back at the White Pillars, prisoners in the hands of the French. One prisoner is limping badly from a wound in the foot. The French appear to have made themselves very much at home in said L-bar. I pass an officer's mess and lunch is on. I am surprised at the delicacies on the table, including many bottles of white wine. We are still on bear rations and bully and biscuits at that. But they appear to have bread, probably from tomatoes and probably for officers' messes only, and they seem all very bright as if it was a huge joke. As we are about to enter said L-bar, a French sentry stops us and warns us not to go through the village, as two men have just been sniped. We pass at the back of V. Beach. The view from here of the fleet is magnificent. Occasionally one sees a whiff of yellow smoke shoot from the side of a ship, and a few seconds after a deafening report follows, it takes some getting used to. We pass a company of Senegalese manning a trench dug at the back of V. Beach. They lie in it, peering over the top, looking inland intently, as if they expect the enemy, who is more than three miles away, to rush down on them at any moment. I pass General Damod at the headquarters at the back of V. Beach, Anne stopped to chat with a French officer who was on the Arcadian with me, and also a French naval officer who was on the Southland. The naval officer inspects my rifle with interest, saying it is the first time that he has handled one of the short patterns. He tells me that he saw the fight from the Andania on Sunday morning, and says that he thinks that it will stand out as the most magnificent fight of the war. May 1st. A few shells, but none very terrible, come over. One, however, in our depot. Heavy rifle fire heard at night. Now and again a Turkish shell lands over from Achi. The rifle fire last night was Turkish. Nothing happened. Probably wind up on their part. Letters arrive. While sitting on a box reading, a shell comes beastly near, but bursts in a not very frightening manner twenty yards away. But I and the few near me fall flat to the ground. I have been advised to do this by an officer who is an expert in shelling, and he tells me that by so doing, though a shell may burst ten yards from you, one should be safe. My servant rolls over and over, shouting, O, and I rush to him, asking him if he was hit, but find that a stone has caught him on the forehead, and but for a nasty bruise he was none the worse. This afternoon I have a bathe off W. Beach. Crowds are bathing. What a contrast to this time last week. Only a week ago we landed, and now W. Beach is like a seaside resort, as far as the bathing is concerned. I felt in a holiday mood, and with that delightful refreshed feeling that one has after a dip, I strolled along the sand up to the depot for a cup of tea. But the scream of a shell overhead from A.C. which fell in the water beyond the bathers brought my holiday mood to an abrupt end. The mouth of the Dardanelles and the sea at the end of the Isthmus is full of warships, from battleships to small destroyers and their necessary small craft, transports, hospital ships, crawlers, and lighters. Engineers, French and English, are working feverishly at the building of piers and finishing those already begun. Stores are being unloaded, and marquees for their storage are being erected. The scene here is extraordinarily interesting. I have never seen such a motley gathering in my life. The beach is crowded with figures, all working for dear life. The sea is dotted with lighters, out of which are being poured all kinds of military stores—wood, sandbags, wire netting, galvanized iron, coping, and the like. All these things are being conveyed to the piers, and from there put ashore. On the shore itself, parties are at work, erecting tents and marquees, and other parties are hard at work making dugouts, plying picks and shovels with a will. Here they are erecting the signal station, a contraption of beams and sandbags. Outside wires are being laid, and so the work of the beach parties goes busily forward. Yet to my untutored gaze the scene is wonderful. The whole beach is a hopeless mix-up of French and English, with a good sprinkling of naval men, presenting a kaleidoscopic effect, with the afternoon sun shining upon it such as I have never seen before. It is, of course, quite an orderly mob, really, but this is only recognized when one watches the work of one group at a time. Here is the real business of a military landing on a hostile shore, everybody knowing what to do and how to do it, and so the work goes on without a hitch. At 7 p.m. I start off with a long convoy of packed mules, with rations for brigade headquarters via the Settelbar-Krithia Road. At present it is impossible to use vehicles, for the first line is served by but two roads, which are nothing but farmers' tracks. An armed escort of the Essex Regiment accompanies us. The Padre of the 88th Brigade, who is just joining, comes along with me, intending to join the Worcesters in the trenches. Just entering Settelbar we are halted by a French officer, and almost immediately my head feels as if it is blown off by four spouts of flames stabbing the darkness just a few yards away, followed almost instantaneously by four deafening reports. A French 75 battery is in action, and that means business. Almost immediately after number four gun had fired, number one fired, then number two, number three, and number four again, and so on, shell after shell following each other in rapid succession into the night towards Achibaba. The gunners, crouching like cats by their guns, were lit up fitfully by each flash, disappearing again in the pause of a fraction of a second between each round. An officer in a dugout behind, with telephone glued to his ear, shouts incessantly directions as to range, elevation, and depression to an officer who is standing nonchalantly smoking a cigarette behind the battery, who in turn shouts orders to the guns. The guns reminded me of two couple of hounds held in leash at a coursing meeting, barking with eagerness to be let loose. Our little packed mules are greatly concerned at first, but become surprisingly docile as the firing goes on. A sharp order is given by the French officer standing behind the weapons. The gunners relax their tense attitudes and begin attending to parts of the guns. The officer who had first stopped us, most charmingly and politely, apologizes in English for delaying us, and our convoy proceeds on its track. I chat to the Padre, find he is fifty-five years of age, and before the war a peace-loving rector. What circumstances to find oneself in after fifty-five years of peaceful life? I record him in my mind as a very gallant old gentleman. We pass through the French camp, down through the trees, to the popular growth cemetery, which always now fills me with a curious awe. So ghostly do the graves look in the moonlight, lying peacefully amidst the popular trees. It is a most beautiful sight, with the glimmering water of the Dardanelles beyond. Ahead on our right, the reflection of the bright beam of the Chanak searchlight, swinging round from east to west across the narrows, can be seen in the sky, searching for any of our ships, should they make a dart up the straits. Past my friend the loudly croaking bullfrogs, past the stately white pillars, on up the white road that leads to Cretia, and towards our dumping-ground, brigade, headquarters, the little mules pad carefully and surely along, led by the Syrian mule-drivers, who chatter confidentially to each other in Russian, for they now are at home in their new life, and delight in the thought that they are doing their bit in the great cause. We arrive at our destination, and, lo and behold, no one is there. Philips and I confer. I decide to go on with Smith, quartermaster of the Hance, to find headquarters. We take an orderly each from the armed guard. I take an Essex man. We follow the white road, and arriving at the front-line trenches are pulled up short by the, alt, who are you? Supply officer. Advanced to be recognized. We advance. Smith asks where battalion headquarters are, and learns they are a hundred yards to our left. We find, a hundred yards along, a part of the trench dug back a bit to serve as battalion headquarters. The trenches are deeper now. One can stand up in safety, but only just. Smith asks for Captain Reed the adjutant. He steps out to us. We express surprise at the quietness of things. There is absolutely no firing on our front, but we can hear desultory firing on our right from the French line. Reed offers us cigarettes and lights one himself. I remark to him that it is unwise to light a cigarette standing in the open, to which he replies that the enemy are a long way away. He directs me to brigade headquarters further along the line. I wish him good night, and, with my orderly, proceed cautiously in the direction he had pointed, for it is now pitch dark. I am challenged again and again, and find myself after a bit among the royal Scots, and one of their officers kindly lends me an orderly, who takes me to brigade headquarters dug in a dry brook some two hundred yards behind the front line. Thompson is asleep, and it is with regret that I have to wake him. He tells me to dump rations in the same place as the last nights. I start to go back, steer my way by the front line once more, and, in the dark, miss the direction, and find myself about to walk across a track which runs through our front line towards the enemies, and an alert sentry bringing me to the halt with a sharp challenge I find my mistake. I then leave myself in my orderly's hands, who takes the lead and guides me back to the brigade dump, when I find that Phillips had met quartermaster Sergeant Leslie, and had nearly finished the unloading of the pack mules. I really believe that if I had not been challenged, and had passed through our lines towards the enemies, my orderly, one of the doesn't reason why breed, would have calmly followed me. Someone taps me on the shoulder, and a Tommy asks me, Where's your rifle, mate? I reply that I haven't won. He then says, Ain't you one of the aunts? And, wonderingly, I reply that I am the supply officer. And the man brings himself erect with a sharp click, begging my pardon. The reason of his mistake then dawned on me. I have on a private's tunic. Our goods delivered, we trek back, and on a rival at Sadel Bar, the sound of heavy rifle fire breaks out, but by the sound of it, from our own rifles. I wonder what is happening, and think ourselves fortunate that we had finished our job before this activity started. I am in rear of the column, walking with my orderly about fifty yards behind the last mule, when I have a bad nerve shock. I have had many during the past week, but this one takes the biscuit. Out of a hole in the side of a broken down house there leaps a French soldier. He shouts something to me in French, and points a rifle with gleaming bayonet fixed at my chest. In days long gone past, it has sometimes happened that one of my young sisters, or a brother with a warped sense of humor, would leap round from the corner of the landing in our early home, just as I might be passing along, and shout, Boo! I used to go hot and cold with fright, and appeared to cause intense amusement by my state of nerves. When this boy's sentry, who by his looks could not have been more than nineteen, jumps out from his hole in the wall, my heart seemed to stand still, until it feels that it is never going to start its job again. And then, with a bound, it carries on its job at about ten times its normal speed. My mouth feels like dry, blotting paper, and all I say is, oh, hell, at the same time throwing my hands well over my head. My orderly, who appears most unconcerned, comes to my rescue, and says with a cockney accent, anglais, and our gallant ally brings his rifle to the order and allows us to pass. Previous to this incident I had been chatting to my orderly about his life in the army in peace-days, but now walk on in silence until we have overtaken the convoy, finding the mules halted. Suddenly the French battery that we had passed earlier in the evening opens a terrible fire. I go along to its position and find that half our convoy had passed earlier, but that the battery, being suddenly called into action, the rear half of our column had been ordered to stop. In the excitement two of the mules get adrift, and with good instinct trot off to their own lines, ignoring the cries in Russian from their drivers and the angry bark of the little seventy-fives. A halt of ten minutes and, again with polite apologies, the pleasant French gunner-offices wishing us bonsoir allow us to proceed, home to bed and a good night's rest. May 2nd. A taub flies over and drops one bomb on our new aerodrome to the left of Hill 138. One of our machines which is up swings round, heading straight for it and quickly drives it back. A couple of aircraft guns from one of the ships put in some good practice, little white puffs of shrapnel bursting perilously near. A few wounded come in from a little show last night, and amongst them are wounded Turkish prisoners. We are issuing stores now from one depot for the whole division and to all others who come when Carver are running it. I simply hold a watching brief for my brigade, but give a hand when I can in helping the business to run smoothly. Foley is up the coast a short way at X Beach, running his own depot for the eighty-seventh brigade, and wires constantly come in from him, indenting on us for stores he has not in stock. It is just like a business store, and we are running short of supplies, but a supply ship has come in to replenish our stock and form a large reserve depot. Our depot is the hot bed of rumours and news, and we feel the pulse of the division through the news that the quartermasters and ration parties bring. Bad news has arrived this morning. Captain Reid, to whom I was talking last night, has been killed, and Major Lee is commanding officer with him. I inquire as to what time it happened, and learn that it was at eleven o'clock. I was talking to him at ten. It appears that shortly after I had left him, word was passed down the trench for commanding officers and agitants to go to the end of the trench to meet the staff. Major Lee, accompanied by Captain Reid, immediately went and met two officers dressed in khaki with staffed tabs. One of these officers fires a revolver in Major Lee's face, killing him instantly, while the other murders Captain Reid. In their turn they were quickly bayoneted by Lee's and Reid's orderlies. The line is attacked by some two hundred Turks, who are met in the open by Armin and quickly retire, getting hell from the French seventy-fives and doing so. The two officers dressed in our staffed uniform proved to be Germans, and their action was an attempt to break our line. I also hear that Godfrey Fawcett, Colonel of the Essex, has been killed. This upsets me far more than danger, and I have the nightmare question running in my head sometimes now, when talking to my friends or seniors whom I knew so well in England. I wonder if I shall see you alive again. A few snipers have been caught, and they present a weird and uncanny appearance. They wear uniforms of green cloth, to which in some cases are attached or sewn, sprigs of gorse bush and small branches of trees. Their rifles, hands, and faces are painted green, and they can be passed unnoticed at but a few yards distance. Most of them have been found in holes and dugouts, underneath clusters of bushes, with two or three boxes of ammunition, and enough bread and water to ration them a fortnight. This morning the fleet and the few guns which are on shore are bombarding the Turkish positions heavily, and the slopes of Achibaba are alive with bursting shrapnel and spouts of earth and smoke shooting skywards. But, through it all, Achibaba looks calm, dignified, and formidable, like a great giant sane, thus far and no further. Barely it looks the fortress gate of the peninsula, and we are but on the threshold, or rather on the footpath leading to the threshold. Turkish artillery replies but feebly with shrapnel, but the shooting appears good. I hear the crackle of rifle fire, and learn that we are again attacking. Good luck to the twenty-ninth. Afternoon. Guns of the fleet and shore batteries steadily boom away. Rifle fire has died down. Wounded are beginning to steadily come in, and as fast as possible are evacuated on to hospital ships. I go up to headquarters, and find sight for dump-forrations retired somewhat. I pass many wounded and stature-bearers coming back. I saw Colonel Williams, our new brigadier, calmly walking about in the most exposed positions. A regiment of gherkas are on the right of our line, and those in support have dumped themselves each a little dugout, just room enough for a man to lie in, hold up. These little dugouts are in regular lines, and each one being occupied with a little gerka makes a most quaint scene. I take snaps of one or two to their intense delight. They look very workmen-like in their shirts, wide hats, and shorts. It is now dusk, and we hear that we advanced, but soon after had to return to our former positions. We are now badly outnumbered. The enemy have lately received many reinforcements, and are receiving them daily. We want several more divisions to carry this business through. We have dinner, and I go to bed rather depressed. Heavy rifle fire bursts out at night, and in the middle of the night our adjutant has to get up and organize a convoy of packed mules to take up ammunition. May 3. It is a perfect morning, but it is getting very hot. I get right up about ten a.m. with the company sergeant major to as far as the furthest of the white pillars, and there we tether our horses to a tree and walk the rest of the way up the white road. All is absolutely quiet on the front, not a shell, not a rifle shot. All firing from the fleet has ceased, and the gunners on shore are busy cleaning their guns and digging gun pits and dugouts. It is quiet and peaceful. At the front line I cannot see any signs of the enemy. I chat with Major Barlow of the Essex. Who was at Warwick with me? He is now officer commanding Essex. It is strange being without the roar of the guns once more. The fleet has been treated to rather a hot reception, and finds it advisable to lie a little further down the entrance to the Straits, which it accordingly does. The mouth of the Straits looks glorious. The intense blue of the sea, with the warships and transports with their motley collection of lighters, picket boats, etc., all stand out strongly against the steely blue of the sky. Further off the lovely isle of emerald shimmers like a perfect gem set in a sapphire sea. One can just make out the lovely violet tints of her glorious veils tempered by the pearly gray mists that lightly swath her mountain crests as she stands out sharp against the sky. A beautiful sight and not easily forgotten. Looking landward the trees are all bursting into leaf. The country is wrapped about in a cloak of flowers and flowering grasses, with achibaba as a grim and rugged sentry, its sides sloping away to the sea on either hand. Truly a grim and forbidding sentinel. But one which most certainly has to be passed if we are to do any good at all. Today an enterprising Greek landed in a small sailing vessel with a cargo of oranges, chocolate, and cigarettes, and in a very short time was quite sold out. We shall be having a pierot troupe on the beach next. At night, as the moon rises to the full, the picture is perfect, the coast of Asia, that land of mystery and romance, with the plains of Troy in the background, immortalized forever by the sweet singers of ancient Greece. One can almost picture those godlike heroes of the past halting in those titanic fights, which their shades perhaps waged nightly in the old battlefields of Troy, halting to gaze in wonder and amazement on the strange spectacle unfolded before them, modern war, that is, and all its attendant horrors. Hector, Achilles, and Agamemnon, in their golden harness, their old emnities forgotten, must surely gaze in astonishment on the warlike deeds and methods of another age than theirs. The soft shimmering sea merges into liquid silver, where in the dim distance the little wavelets lap around the silent, sleeping aisles. There is Tinnados standing like a sugar-loaf in a silver bowl, silent as the night itself and filled with mystery. Further off, in bruce, that queen of the aisles sleeps like a goddess wrapped about in a garment of violet and silver, all unheeding apparently of war's alarms. Surely on such a night as this the mythology of the ancients becomes a living thing, and it does not tax the intellect much to imagine Diana, queen and huntress, surrounded by her attendant maidens, pursuing the quarry through the violet veils of the aisles. Again one can almost hear the splashing of Leander as he swims the hella-spont to keep his trist with a lovely hero. Most of those living on the beach have dugouts now, but I still live in a little house made of biscuit-boxes. The Royal Scots came into action the first time last night. The monsters were taken by surprise and had their trench rushed, and the Royal Scots were given the job to retake it, and cleared the trench of the enemy with two platoons at the point of the bayonet in twenty minutes. Greek civilian labor has now been landed, and we use them for unloading the lighters. A Turkish spy could with ease pass himself off as a Greek laborer of one of the gangs. Personally I think we are making a mistake in employing them. Carver tells me that the other day he noticed one sitting halfway down the cliff in full view of Yenise Cher waving to and fro a fly-whisk with a metal band fasten round the handle which clasped the ends of the horsehair. He feels confident that by the way he was waving the whisk with the rays of the sun reflecting from the metal band he was signaling by code to the Turkish observation post on Asia. I think it was quite possible for him to do so, for a bright piece of metal reflecting the strong rays of the sun in the clear atmosphere of this part of the world can be seen a long way off, and I should say quite easily as far as Yenise Cher is from W. Beach. To a casual passerby the Greek would appear to be waving flies away from his face with the whisk. Flies are daily becoming numerous here. One of the Greek foremen who spoke English assured me that it was only a matter of weeks now before Greece would come in on our side and that he looked forward to the day when he would take his place in the ranks. It is strange how very silent everything is today, not a gun nor a rifle shot, and we stroll about the beach chatting with the naval officers. Afternoon I hear that there was an armistice declared for the purpose of burying the dead on both sides. It lasted about two hours, during which both Turks and our men sat on their respective parapets watching each other with interest while parties were out in front, mixing freely with each other, clearing away their own dead. It was an extraordinary situation. One of the Turks picked up two of our live bombs which had fallen short and had failed to explode and was making back to his trench with them. When his officers spotting him, called him back and made him hand the bombs back to our men, and apparently gave him a good cursing and strong Turkish. A short time after, both sides are back in their trenches, and if a head should appear over the parapet of either side, it is in danger of being promptly blown off. At dinner I expressed the thought that I wished Turkey would throw over the Germans and become our allies. Our Tommies and theirs were so near this morning, and by God they would fight well side by side. I say that Turkey is the most valuable asset to have on either side. If she were our ally, the Dardanelles would be open to the allies, and the Central Empires would be utterly defeated in a year. As an enemy, she will cause the war to drag on, Lord knows how long, for writing we are unsuccessful in forcing the Straits. I am howled down, and am told that Akşibaba will be ours in a month's time, and once ours, Turkey is finished. But, strolling up to the top of the cliff after dinner, I take a long look at Akşi. Hours in a month, I wonder, I turn depressed and pessimistic into my house of biscuit boxes, and bless the man who invented sleep. May 4th, 5th, and 6th. Nothing much to record. I have been very busy these last few days, forming a supply depot of my own for the 88th Brigade. I go up to Brigade each day, riding as far as the White Pillars, but go bang across country now, and not through Settel Bar. Our line is quite deep and well dug in now, firing going on steadily at night. Quite heavy rifle fire, but it is mostly Turkish. I learn that at night he gets the wind up, and blazes away at nothing. One or two parties have made sorties, but our machine guns have made short work of them. The division is like one big family party. We all know each other so well now, and one can go through the trying vicissitudes of war with greater vigor, if with men who have become intimate friends. The horrible part is losing friends, much worse, I think, than having to go oneself. Good friends leave such a large gap. Tommy seemed pretty cheerful at night on the beach. After dinner we sit outside our biscuit box houses and have coffee—not a word, I got some coffee by exchanging jam with a Frenchman the other day, strictly against rules, and, looking out to sea, enjoy some excellent cigars of the commanding officers. Anymore for the Arcadian is constantly shouted out by a naval officer on the beach, calling those who live at general headquarters who are billeted on the Arcadian to the Penis. I often wish I could say yes one night and go on board and have a good bath and a whisky and soda. Tommy's play on mouth organs and sing Tommy's tunes. At Lemnos Tommy was marching round the decks of the transport singing, Who's your lady friend? A few days after he goes through one of the most sanguinary fights of the war. A week after he is on the beach with a mouth organ making a horrible execution of a little grey home in the west. A unique creation the British Tommy. If he ever does think of death or getting wounded he always thinks it will be his pal and not he who will get hit, and goes on with his mouth organ, washing his shirt, or riding to his latest girl at the last town he was billeted in. Those with girls are the cheeriest. May 7. Today we are bombarding Turkish positions heavily and the village of Crete a preparatory to advancing our lines to the slopes of Achibaba in the hope of my brigade taking the hill. In the morning I issue at my dump and after lunch ride with Carver and Sergeant Evans to find our respective brigades. We ride up the west coast across grass and gorse and arriving at a gully encounter shellfire which is now getting more frequent. We leave our horses with an orderly at this gully and proceed on foot, skirting the edge of the coast. Shells are bursting furiously over Crete which is again on fire. We reach a very deep and beautiful gully which appears to run inland some long way and we climb down its slopes to the shore. There we find an advanced dressing station to which wounded are continually being brought by stretcher-bearers or helped along by Royal Army Medical Corps men. Several of the wounded are Royal Army Medical Corps also. I inquire at a tent which is a signal station of the signal officer in charge as to the location of 88th Brigade headquarters and learn that they are inland. We chat a while to this officer who appears strangely familiar to me and at last I place him. I find that I dined with him four years ago at Edge Baston and his name is Moet of Birmingham Territorial in business on his own which through the war has gone to the winds. He tells me he has been here for four days and is often troubled by snipers. They had caught one four days previously in a dugout which facing the gully allowed his head and shoulders to appear giving sufficient room for him to take aim through a screen made by a bush growing in front. The entrance to his dugout was from the cliff side facing the sea along a passage ten yards in length. He gave himself up though he had food and water for some days more. As we talk two wounded limp down the gully through the water for the bottom of the gully is in parts a foot deep in water and I question them as to how they were wounded. They reply either spent bullets or snipers and that they were hit about a mile further up the gully. We go back climbing up the cliff and walk along the cliff's edge to where we had left our horses. A detachment of New Zealanders I should say about a thousand are moving slowly in several single files across the gorse to take their place on the left of our line to relieve some gherkas and I have a good opportunity of studying them at close quarters. I am struck by the wonderful physique of the men, all of them in splendid condition. I am rather surprised to see them, for I thought that they were up-country with the Australians. I leave Carver at this point and Sergeant Evans and I cut across country and trotting up the track which is now called the West Quithia Road, Reach Pink Farm. We go beyond there, find headquarters in a trench, and learn that rations are to be dumped at Pink Farm. We are warned that we should not be riding about there as we might draw shell-fire. Quithia is getting it terribly hot from our shells and is well on fire now. We learn that the French have had a check and that we, in consequence, have been unable to advance. We come back and have a delightful canter all the way back to W. Beach. I have a meal and, then with Williams at dusk, escort rations, this time in limber wagons as well as on pack mules, up the West Quithia Road to Pink Farm, where I find Leslie waiting, and we come back on a limber, I squatting on the rear half and Williams in front. Quite an enjoyable ride. Star shells are now in use, and they go up at odd intervals, poisoning in the air for a second and, then sailing gracefully to earth, illuminating the immediate vicinity. It was fairly quiet all night, just an odd shell or two fired by our fleet at intervals. May 8th. Before breakfast this morning I am ordered to take two hundred rations up to some Lancashire fusilliers, territorials, who have found themselves in our part of the line. Arriving at Pink Farm, shrapnel begins to come over, and I get the mules under cover of the farm as best I can, and go on to headquarters. I continue to walk along the road and then cut across the open country to the trench where the brigade are. They are sitting in the trench having breakfast, and tell me that the Lancashire fusilliers have now gone to the beach. Festan of the border regiment is now our brigade major, and he asks me to take a message to the field company of engineers attached to the brigade just behind Pink Farm off the road. As we talk, shrapnel bursts over Pink Farm and to its left, probably trying to get at a battery which is in position there. I take my leave, and on getting back to Pink Farm I find that one of the Syrian mule drivers has been hit in the stomach by a shrapnel bullet. He is lying on the ground behind the walls of the farm groaning, and on seeing me cries piteously to me in Russian. I send over to an Indian field ambulance close by, and in a few minutes two native orderlies come running over noiselessly with a stretcher. They stoop down and, with a tenderness of women, lift the wounded boy onto the stretcher and carry him away. We trek back and on the way I deliver the message to the field company. For transport we now have little army transport two-wheeled carts, grown in the Indian army as ammunition transport, drawn by two little Indian mules. These are in camp near the lighthouse between W. Beach and V. Beach. Delightful place this, and most interesting. The orderliness of everything is astonishing. The quaint little tents oblong with sloping sides are arranged in neat rows. The inhabitants are surely the most cleanly people on earth. Here I see groups of them stripped except for a loincloth, busy washing their shining dusky bodies. After this little brass jars are produced from which oil is poured over them and rubbed in. Others, having finished this, are industriously combing their long black locks and bushy beards. Others, again, are making chapati, a species of pancake in broad shallow metal bowls. I taste one and find it excellent. Other groups of these dark warriors are sitting outside their little tents, smoking hookahs. All the men we meet salute punctiliously. Nearby are the white officers' tents, quite luxurious affairs. The whole place is delightful and looks almost like a riverside picnic. Only everything is very orderly. As to the carts before mentioned, these are most ingenious. They are little two-wheeled affairs with a pole, like the old-fashioned curicle. Each is drawn by two small mules, not larger than ponies. Wonderful little fellows they are. Bread in Northern India, Kashmir and Tibet, I believe. Lord, how they work! They can pull almost anything. And they are so sure-footed and the little carts so evenly balanced that they can go about anywhere. It is a very interesting sight to see a convoy of these carts on the move, with their dusky, turban drivers sitting crouched up like monkeys on them, chanting some weird oriental ballad as they go, to the accompaniment of jingling harness. They are well looked after, too, these little mules. The drivers have had the care of them for years, perhaps, and their training is perfect. They look as fat as butter and their coats shine like satin. Very different from the hulking, ugly brutes that we have brought, American. They appear to be quite docile, and it is not necessary to have eyes in the back of your head when walking through their lines. I hear today that Major Barlow, to whom I was talking a few days ago in the trenches, has been badly wounded. One airplane has been very busy going out and coming back after short trips over the enemy's positions, followed by little puffs of bursting shrapnel when over their lines. The weather is perfect. Swift shore and queen vests are now up the coast, off the gully, and are giving the left slope of Achibaba and Chrithia something to write home about. Torpedo destroyers are also joining in, and later the shore batteries take up the tune, and a bombardment similar to yesterday's starts preparatory to another battle. French seventy-fives are barking away incessantly, and the bombardment is increasing in ferocity. New Zealanders are on the extreme left, then the eighty-seventh brigade, next the eighty-eighth and eighty-sixth, or what is left of it, with the new territorial Lancashire fusiliers. Next come Australians, up on the hill by the White House, and on the extreme right, down to the edge of the Straits, the French. The line forms the shape of a shallow basin, the extremes resting on ground on either side of the peninsula. Through glasses at six o'clock I can see little figures running here and there on the high ground, to the extreme right beyond the White House, now taking cover, now running forward, now disappearing on the other side. Ugly black shells rain amongst them and make a sickening sight. Turkish artillery appears to have increased considerably. Their shells rain all along our line, but none come on the beaches. All their artillery seems concentrated on our trenches. Again and again I see shells fall right in the middle of men, who seem to be running. It is difficult to discern whether they are Turks or our men. I watch till the sight sickens me, and then I come away and arrange the rations to go up to-night, seeing the boxes roped up onto the packmills or loaded onto the army transport carts. Two shells come near the beach, bursting with a black explosion in the air rifle fire goes on all night, but artillery dies down to fitful shelling. I hear that the net result of today's work is a gain of five hundred yards, but that we have had great casualties. May 10. Another most perfect day. All day yesterday wounded were being evacuated as fast as possible. I now have to feed a brigade of Australians as well as my own brigade. I go up in the morning to their positions and for the first time get amongst them at close quarters. They have honeycombed the land near the white pillars with dugouts, and have their headquarters at the White House on the hill. I see Captain Milne, their supply officer, and arrange matters with him. Our veterinarian, his slop, and Sergeant Evans, ride to-day with me, and we call at our brigade headquarters, now moved some few hundred yards behind their former position of a week ago, dug in a dry nook surrounded by trees, in a spot similar to a park of some large house in England. Their mess is simply a table of earth dug out by digging a square trench in which they sit, the centre of the square being the table. There I find Colonel Williams Thompson and our new brigade major. I find that Festin was wounded yesterday while standing up in the trench in which I was talking to him the day before. Tubes have found little springs and an ancient well, and so there is now a plentiful supply of water and beautiful water, too. In addition to Australians and the Punjabis encamped by the white pillars, there are now Lancashire fusiliers and Manchester's, the whole making one large camp of dugouts and trenches in orderly rows. It is fortunate that there is very little rain, otherwise the place would be a quagmire in five minutes. The Punjabis have built walls of mud and stone shell-proof shelters and are much handier at making themselves comfortable than our white troops. In the Battle of the Eighth the Australians showed marvellous dash and individual pluck, not a straggler among them. Many deeds of great heroism were performed, and if a man gets an honour in their ranks, it will be one worth having. It is difficult to pick up exactly our front-line trench, and the quartermaster of the Worcesters the other day finding a trench containing monsters inquired as to the whereabouts of his regiment and was told that they were on in front. He walked on and, finding nothing, came back. He was told that if he walked much further he wouldn't arfget Worcesters. He was walking bang into the enemy's lines. Two aeroplanes are up to-day, circling energetically around the slopes of Achibaba. Our batteries are busy, steadily plugging shells into the enemy's lines. An aeroplane is up and the Turks are trying to pot it. Aeroplane sails up and down Turkish lines unconcerned. The curious thing about being under shell-fire is that, when a shell comes near you, you duck down and take cover, and immediately after resume your conversation. This morning at the White Pillars I said to the Australian officer, What is your strength? He said, Look out! Down we bobbed. A sound like tearing linen, ending in a shriek and a bang. Up we jump and he calmly continues the conversation. Met Duff, my honourable artillery company pal again. So funny seeing him, both of us ride together. Last time we rode together was at Goring, side by side, in B sub A battery. Never thought we should be officers riding side by side on the Gallipoli Peninsula. Have a delightful bathe off W Beach today, the water crowded with bathers, French and English, by far the best bathing I have ever had in my life. May 11, rather cloudy today, and much cooler. Wrote up to Brigade headquarters with his slop, to the same place as yesterday. Saw Australian supply officer. As I was talking to him a few shells came over our way, not singly, but by twos and threes. I have got used to the sound of them passing through the air now, and know by the sound whether they are coming my way or not. Again, as yesterday the Australian officer gave me the warning, look out, and we dive for a dugout. The Australians get awfully amused when they see people doing these dives out of the way of shells, and it certainly does look humorous. My Brigade is moving back to the reserve trenches for a rest, and they need it. The reserve trenches are those by the white pillars, occupied at present by the Lancashires and the Manchester's, Territorials. I meet General Damod and his staff, including the officer that I knew on the Arcadian. They are all riding. He stops me, asking if I have seen General Parrish, the Australian general. I express regret that I have not, at which he appears annoyed. One of his staff asks me to point out twenty- ninth division headquarters, and I direct him to Hill 138 in rear of us. I point out the Australian camp to the general, who goes off then to inquire for General Parrish. I leave Hislop, who has another job on, and start to ride back across country, having a few jumps over the new rest trenches. I am overtaken by an officer who is the adjutant of one of the Lancashire Fusiliers' Territorial Battalions, the sixth, I think. Lord Rochedale is in command. He tells me that they have been in Egypt training for a long time, and cursing their luck at being seemingly sidetracked with not much opportunity of seeing any active service. Suddenly they were wired for, and in twenty-four hours left Egypt for here. On arrival they marched straight up to the trenches, and at five-thirty p.m. the next day went into action, and lost heavily. As I was being told all this, I heard a most weird noise, as if the whole of the sky were being rent in two, ending in a deafening explosion. And looking over my shoulder in surprise, I see, twenty-five yards to my left, over a little mound, a spout of smoke and earth and stones flung into the air. I say to my companion, I think we had better trot, which we do. It is strange, but my old horse did not seem to worry much when the shell burst. It must have been a six-inch, and it is the first big one that I have had near me so far, and may it be the last. It sound as unlike that of any shell I have heard up to now, and far noisier in its flight. I think that if they chuck these sort about on the beach, I shall be jumpy in a very short time. I only hope the beaches are out of range, or will be before very long. Evidently they have a new gun. At times I feel very optimistic, looking forward confidently to our trip over Achibaba. At other times Achibaba looks so forbidding that I feel we shall all spend the rest of our lives hanging on to this tiny bit of land. I can canter to brigade headquarters from the beach in fifteen minutes, and walk from there to the front line in another fifteen. And that gives an idea of how far we are on. I ride over to the Aerodrome. We are fortunate in finding such a perfect one. And over to V-Beach, which the French have got into a much more ship-shape order than ours. I count seven battleships and seven destroyers up the entrance as far as Morto Bay, and the packet of wood-binds is still off the Asiatic coast, and touches up Yenishare and Kamkali with ten-inch shells. From the high ground overlooking V-Beach, the fleet at the entrance makes an imposing spectacle, waiting for the army to open the gates of the straits before they dash through to the Marmora. The Goliath and Prince George fire odd shots now and again at Chanak. Late in the afternoon we get a few light shells over on W-Beach, and a few men are slightly hit. In a little gully between W-Beach and X-Beach, preparations are being made to start a field bakery, and we are promised real bread in a few days. One of our mayors has given birth to a foal. My mayor, much to the mother's annoyance, is much interested. Our train is in camp now on the high ground on the left of W-Beach, looking inland, and have made very good lines. All the men have built little shelters out of wagon-covers, sail-claws, and tarpulins, in rows opposite their horse-lines, the whole looking like a well-ordered gypsy encampment. I made myself very unpopular there to-day by saying, You won't arc-cop it in a day or so when John Turk finds you out. So General Hunter Weston making a tour of the beaches today, he appeared in very good spirits. Our trenches in the front line are now getting quite deep, and sand-bagged parapets are being rapidly built. The Gurkhas do not like trench warfare at all, and cause much anxiety to their white officers by continually popping their heads over to have a look round. The Turkish line has crept much nearer to ours since the last battle, and they are also rapidly digging in. A party of Gurkhas were ordered out to capture a machine gun in an emplacement on an advanced knoll in front of the Turkish right and our left. The gun was captured, and one little Gurkha brought back a Turk's head, and it was difficult to make him part with it. Heavy firing broke out at eleven o'clock tonight and lasted an hour or two. May 12. It is raining hard this morning, and very cold as well. I visit the Senegalese camp at V. Beach. They are physically very well-built men, well up to the average of six feet in height. They are as black as coal with shiny faces, like niggers on Brighton Beach, and very amusing in their manners. At the last battle they charged magnificently with horrible yelling, frightening the poor Turk out of his wits. They are equipped with wide, square-bladed knives about fourteen inches long. Wireless news is now typed and published nearly every day. Today we hear that the Lusitania has been sunk and that Greece and Italy are likely to come in. An extract from a Turkish paper says that we have been pushed into the sea and, almost in the same paragraph, that the foolish British will persist in attacking. We have quite a comfortable little house now at our supply depot on the beach, made out of boxes with a sailcloth overhead. Hardly any firing today, no batteries remarkably quiet, but fleet firing intermittently. Afternoon Go to Brigade headquarters in the afternoon and find the rest camp at the White Pillars an absolute quagmire of mud, many of the dugouts being half full of water. Two sixty pounder guns are now in position on the cliff to the west of V. Beach, and this afternoon I go up to have a look at them firing. Their target is at a range of nine thousand six hundred yards, well up on the left shoulder of Achibaba, and an aeroplane is up observing for them. The flame of the explosion shoots out some feet from the muzzle and from the breach also, and makes a terrific roar, which echoes all around the ships lying off, the sound plane ducks and drakes from one ship to another. One can see with the naked eye the shell hitting its target on Achibaba. Our fleet gets busy again, and later the batteries on shore join in, and a bombardment starts. At six forty-five p.m. the Gherkas come into action on the left and quite a big battle develops. We can just see them in through glasses. Crowds from the beach flock up to the high ground to have a look, getting into direct line with the sixty pounders, much to the gunner officers' annoyance, and police finally are posted to keep them out of the way. A shell exploding with a black burst over our heads, but very high, causes the watching crowd to scatter in a somewhat amusing fashion. Gregory and I move forward to a trench in front and look at the battle through glasses. All I can see now is a host of bursting shells on the left and intermittent shelling on the right and center. Suddenly another of these black devils of shells bursts over our heads and covers me with small hot cinders which sting. We go back to dinner whilst the battle is still going on. May thirteenth At two o'clock this morning I was awakened by a most curious noise. It sounded like thousands of men off V-beach crying and shouting loudly. Shortly after I see searchlights about eight of them flashing from the battleships at the entrance to the straits. The noise goes on for about half an hour and then suddenly ceases. I stand for a few minutes puzzling what it is, and watching the searchlights still wielding their beams of light around, and then turn in again. At six a.m. I am told that the Goliath has been torpedoed and sunk. A Turkish destroyer came down the straits and got her clean amidships, and she sank in half an hour. I hear that half the crew is lost. The destroyer, if seen at all, disappeared in the darkness. Poor old Goliath! And it was only the other day that I was watching her in action. We now move our depot upon the high land on the left of V-beach and further in shore, and divide it into four, one for divisional troops and one for each brigade. While on this job at seven a.m. I hear the sound of bagpipes coming nearer and nearer. It is the first time that I have heard bagpipes since I was on the south land with the King's own Scottish borderers. Sure enough it is the King's own Scottish borderers, all that are left of them, some three hundred strong out of the strength of eleven hundred that they landed with from the south land. They come swinging down to the beach with one officer at their head, and to see them marching well behind the inspiring scurril of bagpipes almost brings tears to my eyes. Three hundred left out of a crack Scottish battalion, average service of each man five years. I ride up to brigade again this morning and find all very quiet on the front. I hear that we were successful in yesterday's and in last night's battle, and that the Gherkas have taken a large important bluff on our extreme left on the other side of the gully. I bathe in the afternoon, and while enjoying the pleasure of doing side strokes with the sea, having a slight swell on, I hear that terrible rending noise of a six-inch shell, similar to those that dropped near me the other morning, which bursts with a bang on the back of the beach. My bathing is promptly brought to an end, and I go back to my bivvy. I feel safer there somehow, but why I should I cannot explain. But all who have been under shell fire will bear me out in the statement that even if one is in a tent one feels more confident under shell fire than if in the bear open, with the exception of course of when one is caught under it going to some definite place, or finishing some urgent definite work. Then one's mind is concentrated on getting to that place, or finishing that job. But sitting down on the beach, hearing the heavens being torn asunder by an unseen hand as it were, the noise of the tearing, developing into a mighty hiss and shriek, ending in a great explosion which shakes the earth under your feet, and echoes far away into the distance, followed by the whine of flying pieces of hot metal, sometimes very near your head, is a most disconcerting and unnerving position in which to find oneself. For the benefit of those who have been so fortunate as to never have heard a shell burst in anger, a slight description of it may prove interesting. The first thing one hears is a noise like the rending of linen, or perhaps the rush of steam describes it better. This gets louder and louder, and then as the projectile nears the end of its journey, one hears a whine, half whistle, half scream, and then the explosion. If it is very near, there is an acrid smell in the air. Once feelings are difficult to describe, you duck your head instinctively, you feel absolutely helpless, wondering where the thing will burst, and as you hear the explosion, a quick wave of feeling sweeps over you as you murmur, thank heaven not this time. Unfortunately, they have got the range of our beach accurately now, and are beginning to do real damage. The little shells that we had earlier did not frighten us much, but these beastly things make us all jumpy. Men have been hit to-day, and about a dozen horses and half a dozen mules killed. All are taking cover as best they can. If one hits this bevouac where I am now riding, this diary comes to an untimely end. I wish our airplanes could find this gun. It appears so close up to us, and if it takes into its head to fling these beastly things about all day long, this beach will be untenable. A damned fool near me has just said, if they go on much longer they will hurt somebody. I chuck a book at his head. In France they do get a chance of rest behind the scenes now and again, but here it is one constant look-out and down we bob. After a bout of shelling one imagined shells coming, for instance when an airplane sails over people duck their heads, as it sounds just like a shell, and then also there are so many ships in harbour that one is constantly hearing the noise of escaping steam, sounding just like a shell. One of our men has just had the sight of his boot torn away. Fortunately, however, only the skin of his foot was grazed and bruised. Fifty horses have now been killed, and three men killed and a few wounded. Had to go on duty at depot ahead of the beach, shelling stopped, finished duty 645, shell immediately came, and I fell flat behind some hay. After that a few more came over and then stopped. End of Section 6 Section 7 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 7 May 14-23 1915 May 14. Big guns started searching the beach with large, high explosive shells at four for two hours. Everyone had to take cover. Aeroplane reconnaissance cannot locate gun, which is a damn nuisance. They come with a terrific scream and burst with a deafening explosion, most upsetting to one's nerves. We all take cover behind the cliff. Not a soul can be seen on the beaches. All animals are removed to down under the cliff. Casualties 23 mules and three men wounded. One piece of shell fell at my feet and I picked it up, only to drop it quickly as it was so hot. After being under fire of such awful shells one laughs at mild shrapnel. Getting very hot, but perfect weather, saw Laird for a few minutes and had a chat with him. Not much time for writing to-day. Go up to Laird's bivvy and have a long talk with him over old times. He landed on that first Sunday on S. Beach, and though in the engineers, had the experience of taking part in three bayonet charges. He was in a neat little dugout when I went up and was busy looking for a scorpion. I helped him look for it, and it seemed so strange that after all these years we should meet on the Gallipoli Peninsula, and before sitting down to talk of old times, should be looking for a scorpion that had got into his dugout. Scorpions and snakes about three feet long are becoming more numerous here, but I believe they are harmless except in self-defense. May 15. All was quiet on the front last night, but today there has been one long artillery duel. I go up to Brigade headquarters this afternoon, and go round by the road through Sadel Bar this time, because I don't like them shells. Run as you may, you can't get away from them. On the way I passed Ashmeade Bartlett, riding with a naval officer. The latter came and had tea with us later, and said that he was on the Implacable, and Ashmeade Bartlett was bivvying there as well. He is a correspondent for several papers. Several battleships which were moored at the entrance move off at nightfall now, after that feat by the Turkish destroyer which sank the Goliath. There is to be a general attack tomorrow night, Sunday. Some of the Tommies do not like attacking at night. They say, let us get them in the open by day. The knocking out of a sniper by some of the south Wales borders was described to me today by one of their officers. Two officers were standing up in their trench by a machine gun, one holding a periscope, when a bullet went through the sleeve of his coat, wound in the officer to whom he was talking. The first officer spotted a sniper bobbed down immediately after. He then got down in the trench beside the man working the machine gun, and pointed out to him the bush behind which the sniper had crouched. The machine gun was laid on to it. Then the man on the machine gun and the officer took cover, the man holding his hand up to the machine gun ready to pop off. The officer then cautiously raised the periscope over the trench and looked carefully at the lower mirror. He saw in the mirror a head slowly up here above the bush, eight hundred yards away, then a rifle lifted. He said to the machine gun man, fire, pop, pop, and the sniper rolled over dead on his side beside the bush. 5.30. Two Taubes have just come overhead, flying at a great height. Anti-aircraft guns are firing, and there is some good shooting, but the Taubes have turned and are going back to the Turkish lines. One of our aeroplanes has gone up. A beautiful clear day and one can see in detail the Asiatic side and the Isle of Imbrose. No heavy shells today so far on this beach. Invitations to lunch and dinner, etc., go on every day here, and it is regular custom for men in the firing line to invite men from the base, only four miles back, to a meal and vice versa. This campaign is quite unique in many ways. 6.00. Perfect day again. Sobergate headquarters and here they are moving further to the left, up in the firing line, about half a mile beyond Pink Farm. Here that are wounded and French and Australian have been arriving in great numbers in Cairo and Alexandria, the British and are being sent to Malta. Here that twenty thousand Turkish wounded have arrived at Smyrna and twelve thousand at Constantinople, put in divisional orders to cheer us up. Fancy a civilized nation sending round statistics of the result of their slaughter to cheer and exhort. Yet it cheered me. Strange how quickly one becomes bloodthirsty and savage. Fighting proceeding on our right by French. No general attack being made today. Idea being to strengthen line, push forward steadily by sapping, and then, one in a strong position with three or four lines of supports to make a rush. This will probably happen in a few days now. Big gun has not been knocked out after all, for we had a dozen of the best over to-day, but I was up in front and so missed it. Gurkha's on left have pushed forward well up to left of Krythia. Still, a few snipers behind our lines on left of Krythia. We had divine service this morning behind 88th Brigade lines. A service under such circumstances is most impressive. Every soul there being within easy distance of a horrible death. It is a lovely morning, and as the soldiers sing the hymns with lusty voices and accompaniment is provided by the screaming of shells overhead. But the singing continues unabated. Here one hears the same dear old tunes of our childhood, but under what different circumstances. At home the breeze softly whispering in the trees outside the ancient church, with the shaded light glimmering through the stained glass, and men and women mingling their voices in praise to God. And then out here the breeze murmurs as at home the birds are singing and the sun is shining, but over the congregation the bare-headed rows of khaki figures, even while they sing the same old hymns as of old, the angel of death hovers with naked sword. Then the benediction in level tones from the Padre and the service is ended. Surely the most impressive I have witnessed. For here, in a double sense, one stands face to face with one's maker. May 18. Our brigade has now moved up about three quarters of a mile in front of Pink Farm, and I go up this morning to find them. I ride up to and leave my horse at Pink Farm, and walk the rest of the way down past a ruined house on over a small nulla, along the road past a battery, up to a white house called Church Farm, where I think it is about time to halt and inquire the way. A few Tommies encamped in this house tell me Brigade headquarters is two hundred yards further on in the trenches, and I walk on. I notice a Tommie walking in the same direction with a biscuit tin on his shoulder, which he has rubbed over with mud to prevent the sun glittering on it. I continue on in the direction indicated and hear a few pings past my head, but thinking they are the usual spent bullets take no notice. Suddenly something zips past my head, making a row like a huge bee flying at high speed, the noise being unlike the usual ping of a bullet passing harmlessly overhead. I conclude that I am being deliberately fired at by a sniper, and so bend double and, steering a zigzag course, jog trot across the remaining fifty yards to a nice deep trench. On arrival I inquire where Brigade headquarters is, and am directed to a communication trench, which I go along and find myself at length in a square dugout with no roof, in which are General Williams busy at work with a spade, Thompson, farmer, and Reeve. Concluding my business and being instructed that the little ruined house in front of Pink Farm is to be the dump for rations, I say goodbye. Thompson says, now kill him, run like a bunny. But those bullets being a bit free at present over the trenches, I follow my own route back and walk along the high-most trench which I am told leads to a nulla which goes back in the direction of Pink Farm. I pass Worcesters and Royal Scots in the trenches, and finally the trench dips down to a wide open space under cover, with a small brook running its course, out of which two nullas run. This I am told has been officially named Clapham Junction. Unfortunately a few shrapnel then burst immediately over Clapham Junction, and I therefore go to look for a waiting room, refreshment room, or booking office in which I can take cover until the rain has stopped. I find a refreshment room in the shape of an advanced dressing station, and two offices there very kindly give me breakfast. After breakfast I walk along the nulla, which I learn is now to be called Krithya nulla, back towards the rear, and when the sound of bullets pinging away overhead ceases, I step out onto a newly made road, which is still under construction by the engineers, and then come across the Manchester's again, in a newly dug trench forming reserve lines. Walking back to Pink Farm I mount my mare and canter back to the beach. Last night the Turks made a raid on the part of the line held by the Lancashire fusiliers, endeavoring to capture a machine gun, but very soon gave up the idea. They lost heavily and left six prisoners behind. Supply depot for my brigade alone now working smoothly. We draw rations for the whole division, men and horses, at six o'clock each morning by the general service wagons. This takes two hours, during which the rations are carted from the main supply depot, some three hundred yards inland from our depots at the back of W. Beach, and sorted out to each of the three brigade depots and the divisional artillery depot. Breakfast at eight, and at nine-thirty I go to my depot again and issue the rations to my units, meeting the quarter masters who have arrived with their transport. Receipts for the rations are then given to me by the quarter masters who cart them away to their own lines, where their first line transport is encamped only a distance of three to five hundred yards away on the other side of the beach. At night they are taken up to the various rations dumps, and from there taken the rest of the way to the trenches, either by hand or on packed mules. At the forward rations dumps the work of redistribution is carried on under a continual flight of soldiers spent and over bullets, and standing there one is in constant danger of stopping one. Up to now several casualties have been caused, but mostly slight wounds. After five minutes one becomes quite used to the singing of the bullets, which sound quite harmless. It is only when an extra burst of fire breaks out that it is necessary to get into a trench or behind some sheltering cover. I write up in the afternoon to brigade headquarters, who have now dug themselves into a dry water course just in front of Pink Farm. I see General Williams and Thompson. Afterwards I walk up to the trenches where the worsters are, up beyond Church Farm and across that open space. At Church Farm I am told that at this side of the building I am out of aiming distance from a rifle and can only be hit by an over, but that at the other side of the building I come under range, and that it is not wise to loiter in that neighborhood. I therefore get across the three hundred yards of open space as quickly as possible, and vaulting into the safety of the trench I inquire where battalion headquarters is, and following the direction given pass along nice deep trenches with sandbag parapets. Trench warfare in dead earnest has now begun, and for the first time I realize what it is like, an underground world, yet not an underground, for one can see grass, flowers, and trees growing, but only close to. Walking from Church Farm to the trenches I see nothing but lovely country leading up to frowning Achibaba, and nearby in front rows and rows of thrown up earth, no sign of animal life of any kind. Yet once in the trenches I found myself in a world alive with energy, men cleaning rifles, writing letters, washing clothes, making dugouts, laying cables. I passed dugouts, little rooms of earth dug out of the side of the trench. Some are cookhouses, some officers' bedrooms, some messes, and some orderly rooms with tables and chairs. All this world has been created underground and unseen by the enemy, only a few hundred yards away, in the space of a few weeks. And this is trench warfare, materialized by spade and shovel, by hundreds of strong arms, night and day. I come at last to headquarters Worcester Battalion, and am directed to the mess, a nice dugout roofed in by timber. Major Lang is sitting at a table reading letters from home. I ask for letters for Captain Bush, and told they have been sent down to the beach by an orderly. I'm offered a drink, talk about the heat, which is getting tiresome now, and hear that soon we are to be served out with pith-helmets. I say goodbye and start back. I am in a maze and have to be directed back to the trench that I jumped into. I vault out and zigzagging, jog-trot, for I am told to go quickly back to Church Farm, and hear two bullets singing their faint song far away over my head. I come to a nulla, where I find horses and mules in dug-ins, stables, in charge of Robert's Brigade Transport Officer, just in front of the Little Bruin House in front of our brigade headquarters. And arriving there, here that Thompson has gone back to Hill 138 with the Brigadier, I go back to Pink Farm, mount my mare, and cantering along the West Crithia Road, catch them up. On either side of the road are now dug rest trenches, organized as camps. The trenches not as deep as the front trenches, but sufficiently so to keep them in under cover. I trot along the road through one of these camps, and am soon pulled up by an MP with a sharp order, no trotting please. I ride with Thompson to V Beach, and the river Clyde comes in sight, seen from the high ground near the lighthouse, which was the Turkish position on April 25. I hear from him the events of that awful day, how, when the General and Costicker were hit, he was ordered to go back to the Clyde and to take Reeve. How he was on one end of the hopper lying down, and Reeve the other, and had to attract his attention and call to him to follow. Then they had to get back over dead bodies and the wounded under a hail of bullets, which zipped overhead or crashed against the hopper and sides of the Clyde with a loud bang. He described the scenes on board the Clyde and the cries of wounded, the arrival of messages on steam penises, signalers at work, semaphore into battleships and transports. And there lay the river Clyde, now a haven of rest, with a solid pier built out from shore and alongside it, using its hulk as a harbor. V-beach, now a model of an orderly advanced base under the organizing talent of the French, looked a different place to the V-beach that I saw last. We searched for Costicker's grave without success. Two huge graves are on the right of the beach, looking seawards. The graves of those soldiers and sailors whose bodies I saw laid out for burial on April twenty-seventh wired round with fine crosses erected on each. I ride back with him through the village, past the camp of the amusing Senegalese, and along the new road that leads to Clapham Junction. On either side rest camps have developed, composed of lines of trenches and dugouts, sheltered in trees and bushes. I see several batteries of seventy-fives, and one is in action. Down a slope through trees and over little nullas covered with growing gorse bush, over Meadowland, past the site of our old brigade headquarters, till when within sight of our new headquarters we come into uninterrupted view of Archibaba, and Thompson then says we had better trot. On arrival tea is ready, and a new cake has arrived. It had taken three weeks to come out, and yet tasted quite fresh. We have tea in the open at the bottom of the dry brook, and afterwards I take my departure. On return to W. Beach over comes a big shell, and immediately all work is stopped, and one and all, general and private, make for cover. Drivers rush to their lines and untie their mules and horses, and trot, canter, and gallop to the safety of the shore at the foot of the cliffs, right and left of the beach. We wait beneath the friendly, sheltering cliffs, and hear the swishing shrieks as the shells hurtle through the air, bursting on the beach and on the higher ground. Then, as one shriek does not end with the crash of an explosion, and its noise continues, we look at each other with a certain amount of apprehension, until with a fearful rendering, it sweeps down onto us, helplessly taking cover on the steep sides of the cliff, and crashes with a deafening roar, almost at our feet, as it seems, but really fifty yards away. Immediately there is a rush to more sheltered ground, halfway up the cliff, and three forms are seen lying helplessly in the road. One is my staff sergeant, with a scalp wound and badly shaken, and two are dead, mangled beyond description. Thank the Lord, my staff's wound is not serious. Well, he is for blighting now, and good luck to him. We find the animals, mules and horses, have been strafed rather badly. The lines that they are on are in very exposed positions, as far as shell fire is concerned, and it was not possible to get many away, and in consequence the casualties among the poor, helpless creatures were serious. His lop, our veterinarian, dispatched all that he could on their last journey with one pull on his revolver, pressed to their foreheads. As a pause came in the shelling, so he rushed out from his dugout, and finished off those that were wounded beyond cure, going about the horrid task, coolly and methodically, at intervals being forced to rush for cover to save his own skin, but ever ready when chance offered to go back to his merciful task. Though we have been on this peninsula but a few weeks, the veterinary services are efficient beyond praise, and the cases of all animal patients suffering from the smallest ailments to the most serious of wounds are dealt with by the veterinary officers with the same care as the medical corps bestows on human patients. Looking back on the episodes that occur when the beach is subjected to shell fire with the fear of getting hit oneself removed temporarily, the humor of them enters into our thoughts and conversations. What so and so looked like when he slid down the cliffs? Did you see Colonel Dash dive behind those boxes, or the Royal Engineer General competing in a fifty-yard sprint with his batman? If it were possible to record on a cinema film these scenes that are instantaneously caused by the arrival of big shells without recording the bursting of a shell or the occurrence of casualties, then a film could be produced which would rival in knock-about comedy any film of Charlie Chaplin's. The French have been fighting this afternoon, and the seventy-fives banging away for all they are worth. A very big battle has been going on the right. Perhaps this is why we have been given a taste of shelling. May 19. I hear that General De Maude has gone home, which we all regret. He was very gallant and brave, and was continually with his troops in the trenches. Big gun not very active today, thank heaven. A couple came over, however, while Gregory and I were walking down to the beach. We both dived flat on the ground behind a small arms ammunition box. Really, no protection at all, but any cover is better than none. I got behind Gregory when we fell flat, as his tummy, being nice and large, made extra cover for me. I admit I considered only myself at the moment and not Gregory, and the temptation of taking shelter behind his massive form was one that on the instant I could not resist. I told him this, and he got very annoyed with me. W. Beach has now been officially named Lancashire Landing after the Lancashire fusiliers who took the beach on the twenty-fifth of last month. The Gherkas in their last scrap of a few days ago took an important bluff on the left of Chrithia overlooking the sea, and this bluff has now been called Gherka Bluff. Just heard that one of our submarines has been up the Sea of Marmora. Not coming back for twenty-one days it was given up for lost, but reported back safe and sound to-day, having sunk two Turkish destroyers and three Turkish transports. Commander awarded the victory across. Airplanes very active now. Tried to get a flight to-day, but failed. They go back to Tenedos each night and come sailing over the sea back here after breakfast. It is too dangerous for the machines to remain on at the aerodrome here, on account of shell fire. May twentieth. Brilliant weather once more. It gets frightfully hot now in the middle of the day. After lunch had a delightful bathe, and then went to brigade headquarters in center of position. All quiet there, but French may ground to-day on right. French now doing excellent work. At Gabbatepe, Australians heavily attacked last night by Turks in great force, supported by artillery, including 9.2 gun, attack under personal command of Vonsanders. Australians hold their own, the enemy losing heavily, leaving heaps of dead on the field. They come on in the German massed formation yelling Allah and are literally moaned down. I prophesy that Dardanelles will be open by June thirtieth, if not before. Hear that they now have a coalition government at home. We now have issued to us regularly in print one sheet containing wireless news and local news. The sheet is called the Peninsula Press. At times it endeavors to become amusing at the expense of the Turk, but it falls rather flat. May twenty-third. This afternoon I walk over with Jennings, Philips, Williams, and Wei to find Major Kostaker's grave, as there is some doubt as to where he has been buried. We had difficulty in passing through Seidel Bar, as the French are very strict about others than French passing through, but an Australian military policeman came to our rescue and passed us through. The French have the advantage in having Seidel Bar, for amongst the ruined houses are several untouched by shellfire, in which they are enabled to make very comfortable quarters. But the best quarters of all are in the large fort which looks over the straits. The other fort that I have referred to stands back from the beach, on the right hand side looking seawards. We have our photographs taken, sitting on the muzzle of one of the big Turkish guns at this latter fort. Also to the huge delight of the Senegalese, we take some photographs of their camp, and one of them insists on my being in the group. We meet with no success in finding Major Kostaker's grave, and I can only conclude that he is buried in one of the two large graves down on the beach marked Gallant Dead of the Doublins and Munsters and Others. On the way back we sit for a while in front of Hill 138, and have a long look at the beautiful country lying between us and Archibaba. Through glasses we notice some precipitous slopes in front of Archibaba, and wonder how long the day will be before our troops will be storming them. Not a sign of the enemy can be seen. Just now and then little white puffs of shrapnel, now from our guns over their lines, and now from theirs over ours. Now and again the French 75s bark out, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, about as rapid as a machine gun. The F.O.O. forward observation officer watches the enemy as a cat does a mouse. Any sign of life in an enemy trench, such as the sight of shovels appearing over the parapet and earth being thrown up, a body of Turks moving across the open between their lines, or a new communication trench that appears in course of construction is immediately telephoned to the battery commander at the guns, and before it is possible to count 60 seconds, half a dozen shells burst near or on the target. No target appears too small or too insignificant for them, and ammunition is plentiful. A great pile of shells in boxes is tidally stacked against the walls of Seidelbar Fort, and the stack steadily grows. We are not in the same fortunate position with our ammunition. On April 27th, when I was at V Beach, I saw a 75 battery being hauled up from the shore. I was standing amongst some French soldiers, and one standing next to me turned to me, and pointed to the gun, saying, soisons, cans, bon, eh? He looked upon them with pleasure and almost awe. Then I did not appreciate their immense worth, but now I do. We stole back in the evening, had a peaceful dinner, and at night but for fitful bursts of rifle fire all was quiet. Moet, my friend of Birmingham days, looks in to have a chat, but his conversation is rather depressing to us all. If his theories are right, then we are stuck here in front of Achi till the end of the war, or driven into the sea. A listener to one of his arguments puts forth the theory that, if we had affected a landing at the bull-air lines, the peninsula, being cut off from Turkey and Europe, would automatically have fallen into our hands. But that theory is immediately exploded by the knowledge of the fact that, at present, Chinac, on the Asiatic side, is the main source of supply via meadows on the peninsula, separated as they are from each other by under a mile of water of the Straits, easily crossed by regular ferries. From Chinac, we believe that the enemy receives nearly all his ammunition, stores, supplies, and reinforcements, which are ferried tomatoes and transported from there by pack mules to their army on the hill. We have seen convoys of pack mules now and again on the slopes of Achi Baba, but they seldom show themselves for fear of the heavy shells from the guns of the fleet. But they must swarm over each night. Moet says that if an army of ours landed at the lines of bull-air, it would be flanked on either side by Turkish armies, one on the peninsula and one on the mainland. Both these armies would be kept in the field by plentiful and safe sources of supply, and our army would quickly find itself in an ever-tightening vice, rendering it in short time impotent. He argues that once it had been decided to land on the peninsula, we landed at the right place, but that the success of taking the hill might have fallen to our armies if the Australians had landed where the 29th landed, namely at Hellas, on the tip of the peninsula, and if the 29th had landed up the coast behind Achi where the Australians had landed. The 29th, being a more tried and disciplined machine, would have conquered its way to Mados, forming a line of steel behind the small Turkish army. We are told its strength was about 30,000 men on April 25th, and this Turkish army, being cut off in rear, would have fallen a victim to the oncoming Galant and all conquering Australians and New Zealanders. The fall of Constantinople would not have been far off. The straits would have been open to the Allied fleets. Another theory is that a landing could then have been affected at Alexandria north of Syria, and a march from there could have been made by a strong and overwhelming army of French and British to the gates of Baghdad, and that after the fall of Baghdad we should have been able to link up with the Russian army. Then there would follow a sweep through Asia Minor to the coast of the Marmora and shores of the Dardanelles. The fleet would dash up the narrows to the Golden Horn and, as the Arabs say, Turkey Mafish. Moat appears to have studied the question logically, but it is the staff's job to think these things out, and ours to do our job in our humble way. However, he depresses us, and I shall have to go and have a chat to those naval optimists again. Said El Bar is a mass of ruins now, but, however ruined a village may be, one can always picture to a certain extent what it was like in its lifetime. Said El Bar must have been a very charming place before the bombardment, with its ancient 15th-century houses, orchards, and gardens. The fort evidently 15th or 16th century is a very picturesque and massive building, having spacious chambers with the roofs going up in a dome shape, more egg shape though than dome, made of solid masonry, four or five feet thick. The walls also are just as thick, but the guns of the Queen Elizabeth simply smashed through them like butter. It is wonderful how the country in our possession to date has changed. Roads are being made everywhere. Pipes lead from wells to troughs, piers run out from beaches. Sides of cliffs have little dugouts and little houses and terraces, with names given them, such as Sea View and Lancashire Terrace, such names being officially recognized. Also, camps and horse lines are everywhere. Big Gun has been shelling V-beach today. Y-beach is now known as Gurkha Beach. End of Section 7.