 11. June 27 to July 3, 1915. June 27. The attack is to take place tomorrow. I rode up to Brigade Headquarters this morning. They were shelling a bit, but not much. Today is very quiet, but we are steadily sending shells over. Asiatic battery seems to have been withdrawn, but there is a very big gun somewhere that sends a six-inch over now and again to the neighborhood of Pink Farm, but it does not reach the beaches. In coming back from Headquarters this morning, Shrapnel began to burst over Pink Farm and behind, and I made my mare do her best gallop away, and, in order to keep off the road, cut to the right across country. We got amongst a maze of disused trenches, which she absolutely refused to jump. And, to top it all, she kept getting her legs entangled in telephone wires laid along the ground, causing me to continually get off to disentangle her. She is an awful fool over these things, and those damn shells seem to come nearer and nearer every minute. When I did get on the road, I made her gallop as she has never galloped before. 28. A beautiful summer morning. This morning is the morning of a battle. We are going to try to take a Turkish redoubt on our extreme left, and to push our line forward on the left, so as to curl somewhat round, Chrithia. We call the redoubt the boomerang fort. HMS Talbot comes in with destroyers and minesweepers, and a monitor, the Abercrombie I think, and they take up positions off Gully and Y beaches on the West Coast. A bombardment begins at 9 a.m. as I am issuing rations. The Talbot and two or three destroyers hurling over their large shells, in an infallating fire onto the Turkish trenches and the redoubt, while all our guns on shore, with the help of the French heavies, and the now invaluable little seventy-fives, join in the concert. At 10 a.m., issuing finished, I take my glasses and walk along the cliff, taking up a position on the side of an extra piece of high ground, and sit comfortably there with my back to it. Two sixty-pounders behind me are firing away at the same target at which all the guns on land and sea are concentrating their awful fire, a target of not more than fifteen hundred yards of the Turkish line, with a little redoubt at the back. Shells large, small, black, yellow, and white burst in hellish confusion and awful chaos, while Turkish batteries, raised to fury, reply, first to one battery than another. But their fire seems controlled by a flurried brain, for the shells burst harmlessly high in the air, or, except over our first line, of which they have the range, accurately on no targets at all. Destroyers pour in broadsides, then swoop round, making a circle, and take up a new position, letting forth viperous rounds of broadside once more. A captive sausage balloon on a tramp ship sails high in the air, well out to sea, spotting for the Talbot and the destroyers. It is by far the most terrific and mighty bombardment that I have seen, and I think appears to be so because of the large amount of artillery concentrated on two so small a target. 11 a.m. The bombardment in no way seems to slacken, but I clearly see the range increased, and hear the officer behind me, commanding the two sixty pounders, which are in action just near, to increase the range. I watch carefully, and, as the smoke and dust quickly clear away from the redoubt and Turkish front line, which had been subjected to this terrible ordeal for two solid hours, I hear a roar of musketry, mingled with the excited, rapid reports of machine guns. I actually see, in one part, a line of blue spurts of flame, a curious effect caused by the dark background of gorse and trees. And then the sun reflects on hundreds of small metal discs, and I see leap as one man from our trenches, rows and rows of khaki figures, each equipped with a small, shining disc fastened onto his back. On they run and swarm up the redoubt like packs of hounds. And strangely, though perhaps I am too far away, I see none fall. The scene has passed. I have seen a gallant charge made in the old style. In five minutes it is over and become glorious history. The bombardment continues, and the scene goes back to one of bursting flame, yellow, green, white, and black smoke drifting away in the strong breeze to the sea. The sixty pounders behind me steadily plunge and recover as their charges are hurled forth on their destructive journeys with an ear-splitting roar. Suddenly, over the din, I hear a familiar and fear-striking sound. It is the deep, boom, shriek of Asiatic Annie, and her sister follows quickly after, and they are endeavoring to get at the sixty pounders just behind and silence their efforts. The sixty pounders take no heed, but go steadily on. They are hard to hit and are well dug in. I am directly in the line of fire, and what missed them might get me. And so, after one shell bursts damnably close, I abruptly slither down the slopes of the cliff, into the arms of two smelly Greeks who have been sitting below me, shouting now and again gleefully, Turkey finished. Our camp gets a bad shelling. Two past-advised are killed, and one of our transport men is buried in his dugout, when dugout is found dead. For thirty p.m. have been at work on supplies. The firing has died down somewhat. Wounded are arriving, and the stretcher-bearers are nearly dropping with fatigue and heat as they carry their heavy burdens along to the dressing-stations on the beach. Prisoners are arriving. I count a hundred, all looking frightened out of their lives. I heard we had captured four hundred prisoners, three lines of trenches, the boomerang fort, one foregun battery, and twelve maximum guns. Six p.m. We are again bombarding heavily, and I hear my brigade is attacking, but cannot see anything but smoke and dust. Eight p.m. It is now quieted down somewhat, but Asia is sending shells over to the sixty-pounder battery once more. June twenty-ninth. Early I write up to brigade headquarters. I find they have been moved forward. I ride on past Pink Farm to the little nulla beyond, and there find a trench has been dug leading out from the end of the nulla, which I am told leads to brigade headquarters. The trench, recently dug, is quite eight feet deep, and roomy enough for packmills to pass along and men in single file to pass back in the opposite direction. All the time bullets were pinging and hissing overhead. The trench finally ended in a junction of several trenches, leading in various directions to the firing line. Dug in the sides of this junction was our new brigade headquarters, on the level of the bottom of the trench, and taking advantage of a rise in the ground in front, affording perfect cover except from a direct hit. On the left was twelve tree wood, the scene of a bloody fight in the early days, but now used for artillery forward observation posts. Farmer, our brigade major, was very busy, looking ill and tired. Orderlies and telegrams were constantly arriving. The signal office was working at full steam, dot dash, dot dash, incessantly being wrapped out on the buzzers. When I see the signalers at work, the scene in a London telegraph office always comes to my mind, and I contrast the circumstances under which the respective operators work. Farmer is continually being called to the telephone. Officers on similar errands to mine are waiting. It is like being in a city office, waiting for an interview with one of the directors. Not very bright news came from the Royal Scots. They were badly cut up yesterday, losing all officers except Colonel Wilson and a subaltern. Steel is dying. He was a great pal of mine, was very decent to me before the landing, landing at the same time as myself. Captain Trisider, who arrived a month ago, is dead. On our left, however, complete victory for British arms. On coming back, part of the communication trench is rather exposed, and a sniper was busy after me, using all his five cartridges, but the bullet sailed harmlessly overhead. But the risk we supply officers take is not one hundred percent of what infantry go through. A battery is sending high explosive shells over from Achi now, but they are bursting on the east side of this beach, and after firing a dozen shells, they only slightly wounded a goat. 11.45 a.m. I was sarcastic too soon. Asia has just fired over an eight-inch, and it has passed over our bivvy with a horrible shriek and exploded in the sea. They would not be able to do this if our fleet were here, and so we say strafe the submarines. 7.00 p.m. All has been quiet on the front today, but two big guns from Asia and one 18-pounder battery have been worrying the French, and are 4.7 on the hill by Dutat's battery, and the big French guns have been replying. The effect of the Asiatic big gun, when it hits anybody, is terrible. I picked up a jagged, flat piece of metal today, three-fourths inch thick, nine inches long, and three inches wide. When these shells burst on our beach, these pieces of metal fly in all directions, some reaching a hundred and fifty yards away. The remainder of the lowland division is landing today. Just two more divisions, and I believe we should very soon take Achibaba, providing we had better supplies of big gun ammunition. We put in two bays the day. We are most fortunate in getting sea bathing, as it keeps sickness down. We issue eggs now and again to the troops to endeavor to keep down dysentery. All ranks get a chance of plenty of bathing sooner or later. Asia is very busy firing on the French batteries. Later at dusk they fire on hospital ships. But finding out their mistake desists. Evidently they are Turkish gunners, not German. 9.30 p.m. A great gale has sprung up, and our canvas sheet roof looks like coming off. The dust is awful. Lightning is playing over the sky and makes a very fine sight. Curiously, there is no thunder. 10 p.m. The gale is terrific now, and I call out to our servants to come and hang on to our canvas roof, which is anxious to sail away. After strenuous effort with dust choking us and all of us swearing and then laughing, we secure the roof and turn in. 9.30 p.m. A shriek and a loud explosion awaken us, and Carver says it is a high explosive howitzer from Asia. It has passed over our bivvy and exploded on the beach. The ordinary long range shell seems to miss our bivvy on account of the angle of trajectory. But when a howitzer fires, the trajectory is such that it could easily get our bivvy. 10.30 p.m. We are awakened by our roof blowing off, and up we have to get again and fix it. The gale fortunately is dying down, although the wind is pretty strong. When we awoke this morning we were told that they had put several shells over in the night, and one in the main supply depot has, unfortunately, killed a man. The result of the battle two days ago was good. The 29th division pushing forward about three-quarters of a mile, and Chrithiot should soon be ours. The Turks counter-attacked last night en masse, but very half-heartedly, and lost heavily. This morning four hundred Turks were seen coming up in front of the French on our right, but the French Seventy-Fives got amongst them, and they ran and ran for quite a mile, with the French shells bursting all amongst them to a second. I should say very few of those Turks were left. The sixty-pounder on the cliff got in a few as well. Three-sixty-pounders are out of action, waiting for new springs from England, and they have been waiting a devil of a time. The Turks are wonderful fighters on the defensive, with the geographical advantage all in their favour, but absolutely lack dash in the attack. 12 noon. A French battleship is coming in with the usual escort of destroyers and minesweepers, looking like a duck with her ducklings. Evidently she is going to punish Asia. The smell of dead bodies and horses is attracting the unwelcome attention of vultures from Asia. They are evil-looking birds, with ugly heads and enormous wings, and circle round and round overhead. Sometimes Tommys potted them with their rifles, but get into trouble for doing so. The smell of dead bodies is at times almost unbearable in the trenches, and chloride of lime is thrown over them. I know of no more sickly smell than chloride of lime with the smell of a dead body blended in. In the fire trenches the Turks will not allow our men to bury the dead, unless a special armistice is arranged. In consequence, in the dead of night our men volunteer to creep out, tie a rope round a body which may be too near them to make the atmosphere bearable, and then rush back, haul the body in, and bury it in the trench. Or they will soak the body in petrol, go back to their trenches, and then fire into the body, the white hot bullets soon setting the petrol on fire, and the bodies in this dry climate quickly get cremated. Several barges were sunk by last night's gale, and one pinnace set on fire by last night's shelling. 3 p.m. The French battleship is now firing on Asiatic batteries very heavily, and it seems impossible that anyone could live under her fire. 5 p.m. Asia starts firing light shrapnel over, which we don't mind at all. As long as they do not fire that heavy stuff which is on you before you conduct, they can pop away all night. 5.30 p.m. Asia firing heavy stuff on French lines. Now they have pitched one bang into the hospital. I, thinking every minute one will pitch into our depot, hurry up everybody, and they work with a will, taking cover when the shriek comes. Now they fall on the beach and splinters fly around us. It's damnable. The corporal at 5.45 p.m. reports forage finished, which is a relief, as we can get to our dugouts. On the way across to my dugout I hear the shriek coming, and there is no place to take cover, and the suspense is a bit nerve-trying. With a terrific bang it falls in the hospital, but the hospital is now clear of men. 6 p.m. Safe in our dugout now, and one passes over us into the sea. Now they are falling on the beach. Nearly everybody is under cover. 7 p.m. Shelling stopped, and we are allowed to have some rest. As Williams has to go to Brigade headquarters, I offer to show him the way, the headquarters having moved forwards. We start off at 8.30 p.m. and ride at a good smart trot, as we are a bit nervy of Asia sending one of those horrible big shells over. But all is quiet, and we arrive at our Brigade dumping ground about three quarters of a mile in front of Pink Farm. Pink Farm is practically raised to the ground now by shell fire. We leave our horses with an orderly who ties them up under cover and takes cover himself. Stray bullets are flying over now and again, and we get down into the nulla and go along it up the communication trench. After about half a mile we pass a Royal Army Medical Corps orderly who says, keep your heads low, sir, as you pass that point, pointing a little further along, as there is a sniper watching there. Of course he is wrong, suffering from wind up, and what he thinks our sniper's bullets are, overs, passing through a gap in the side of the trench. We hurry along, heads well down, as bullets are pretty free overhead. After another half-mile we come to headquarters. The staff are just finishing dinner in their dugout beautifully made by the engineers. The Brigade Major is at the telephone, and later the General gets up and talks over it. Divisional headquarters are speaking at the other end, discussing some general service point, just as if two businessmen were discussing the price of some contract. After the General resumes his place at the head of the table, the Brigade Major on his left-hand side, next the signal officer, on his right hand the staff captain, the Brigade Machine Gun Officer, and a major of the Royal Naval Division who had recently arrived. Williams and I are seated at the other end. The dugout is lit by an acetylene lamp, and Miller, the staff waiter and chef combined, is standing, acting butler. Outside the ping-ping of bullets goes on incessantly. Sitting there round the table, smoking and chatting, I could not but compare the scene to that of the after-dinner coffee and cigars at a dinner-party when the ladies have gone to the drawing-moom. The conversation is also witty and bright with no mention of war. Miller is a character of his own. He is as dignified as a real butler would be, and yet a tommy of the old school, through and through. But instead of black cutaway coat and side whiskers, he wears khaki trousers, rather hanging over his ankles, and a gray shirt open in the front, for the heat is excessive, and sleeves rolled up. He always embarrasses me, for every time I happen to look his way, he catches my eye and beams benevolently on me. I suppose it is because I look after the tommy's tummies. Lightning now begins to play about the sky, which gets rather cloudy, and then L-Battery, just to our right, barks out suddenly. That arrests my thoughts and brings me back to reality. Why battery starts, and then the darling little soint-soint-cance, and bullets begin to fairly hiss over a hell of a shindy. Our mission over, we rise to go. We salute the general, who says good night, and off down the trench, keeping our heads very low instinctively, though really it is unnecessary. Lightning is now flashing all over the sky, and what with the flashes and roar of the batteries nearby, and the pitch darkness that comes immediately after a lightning flash, the walk back along that trench, one whole mile of it, was most weird and dantiesque. Now and again bullets hit the bank on our left, but most of them are going over. We pass troops coming up, and later see a man sitting down at the side of the trench, and finding that he had been hit in the wrist, lucky devil, we take him along with us. Arriving at the nulla we find another man who has been hit at the dump in the leg, and we send them to the dressing station behind Pink Farm. We see the transport is all right at the brigade dump, mount our horses, which have been tied up in an awful tangle, making us use some horrid language, and then forward away, off we go back, with overs pretty free around, and turkey shells screaming over well on our right. The lightning frightens our horses somewhat, and blinds us after each flash. It is incessant, and lights up the peninsula in detail, but no thunder follows. We hope that Asia will let us go home in safety. She does, but half an hour after we arrive home, and when everybody except night-workers and guards and pickets have turned in, heavy shells come over, and at the rate of two an hour they continue all night. And so our night's rest is not as good as it might be. July 1st. On duty at depot at six a.m. I find one shell has pitched in my supply dump during the night, leaving a jagged splinter a foot long and four inches in its widest part. Ugg, these naval shells! At eleven o'clock shelling starts again, and we have it hot and strong for an hour and a half. The transports get it as well from the hill, and one ship nearly gets hold. Moon, one of the signal officers, riding up the beach, has his horse killed under him, and he himself is wounded in chest and leg. Not seriously, but he looks pale and frightened. Very few casualties, as people keep undercover pretty well. During the shelling this morning one of the hospital marquees catches fire, but not through the shelling and is burnt to the ground. A Turkish prisoner had dropped a smoking cigarette on some muslin. The marquee contained Turkish wounded, but I think that they were all saved. Joy of joy! Allah be praised, and glory be to God! A real plum cake and chocolate just arrived from home! What joy to get your teeth into a slice! Evening. Since noon the day has been quiet, and Asia has left us alone. Over imbrose the golden sun is slowly setting, and above the clouds are a lovely orange red. A strong wind is blowing in from the sea, which is very rough, necessitating the suspension of the landing of supplies and ammunition. Casualties in Monday's battle were two thousand five hundred Australians and New Zealanders included. These at ANZAC engaged enemy while the twenty-ninth division attacked in order to keep some of them away from us. They, however, made no progress their side, and were not expected to. Their casualties were five hundred. A Turkish officer who was captured said that if we had pressed forward all along the line we should have taken the hill, as reinforcements of one division that the Turks were expecting did not arrive. They have since arrived. However, this may have been a yarn. Last night was very quiet. July 2. I go up to brigade headquarters before breakfast, leaving my mare in the nulla in front of Pink Farm, where the brigade staff's horses are stabled. The general's groom, now knowing my mare well, gives her breakfast. Good, cool water from Malwell, which has just been found there, oats from the Argentine, and hay from Ireland. As I walk up the trench I feel very limp and weak. Something is wrong with me. Halfway up the trench I see part of the parapet which has been knocked down by a shell recently, and from there obtain a good view of our trenches and sphinx like Achibaba. She is almost human, and in my imagination appears to be smiling at the vain efforts of our little, though never contemptible, army to conquer and subdue her. I shake such thoughts off. I am run down, and in consequence imagine things worse than they are. Arriving at brigade headquarters I find the general and staff up in the trenches and talk to Brock of the Jippie Army, the staff captain. He tells me all about the Sudan, how he has two months leave and is spending it on Gallipoli. What a place to spend a holiday! He reads my thoughts and says people in Egypt do not realize what things are really like out here. He then tells me that lately orderlies and others have been disappearing in a curious way. A driver last night was sent up the gully with two mules to fetch a water-cart. Neither driver nor mules returned. On the way back from Pink Farm I call on the Royal Naval Division armored cars and see a friend, then to the beach, while issuing shells burst on top of the high ground and back of the beach. Feel rotten, and so turn in for a rest. See very rough, and we are unable to land stores, etc., rather cloudy day, cold and windy. Seven p.m. Sixty pounders on our right start firing again. On to the hill an Asia answers back with that seven and a half inch. Shells come screaming over to our cliff, and we have to take cover again. Doctor has given me medicine, and I feel a bit better, but horribly nervy and jumpy. Brigade coming back tomorrow. My complaint is only bilious attack, and when one is like that shells make one jump. Nearly everybody is getting jumpy, however, as we are so exposed and get no peace day or night. Several men and offices are being sent away for a rest. There is rumour that when the hill is taken the 29th Division is going to be withdrawn for a complete rest. Things will be much easier here when the hill is taken. At present it is awful. Oh, for tons and tons of ammunition. Buck up, you workmen at home. The army with the most guns and unlimited shells wins in modern war. You should see the damage the dear little French seventy-fives make, and they pop off day and night. God knows what we should have done without them. July 3. Turks shall transport this morning, but no damage done. Feeling very rundown and seedy. And Doctor orders me away to Alexandria for a rest. But I do not think I shall go, as I should be fit in a day or so, if only they would stop shelling on the beach. We could then get exercise. Men fall ill day by day through having to continually lie in their dugouts, and then go out in hourly fear of Asiatic anti-shells. It is much worse over in the French camp at Mordeaux Bay. The doctor says I have to catch the two-thirty boat for Lemnos. I tell him that I have decided not to go. He replies that in the army you are under two forms of discipline. One went on the active list, and one went on the sick list, and that I am on the sick list, and that until a medical officer certifies that I am fit for active service, my officer commanding will be a medical officer whose orders I am bound to obey, that he has certified me as sick, for the army cannot have men on the peninsula who feel faint when they walk ten yards. This eases my conscience. I was beginning to feel like a man who was getting cold feet, and I tell him so. He tells me that a sick man always gets cold feet from shelling, and that it is due to his being a sick man more than to the shells. So I proceed to catch the two-thirty boat. What are my honest feelings? I do want to stay and stick it out, and yet I want to go. There I am quite honest about it. The two thoughts are equally blended. I go down to the beach along the Red Cross Pier, onto a lighter bobbing about in a rough sea, and then I wait. Sick officers and men dribble down steadily, each with a label attached to his tunic. My label has written on it, syncopal attacks. I look enviously at the labels on which are inscribed different kinds of wounds. By comparison with their inscriptions, mine reads like another title for cold feet, and I long to get up and walk back up to the beach. We are towed away out to a little steamer called the Whitby Abbey, in charge of a good fellow, a puka naval lieutenant. I sit on deck and watch the land gradually get further and further away. Krythia looks but a short walk from W. Beach, yet it is well within the Turkish lines. Never before did I realize what a little, insignificant bite of land do we hold on the Gallipoli peninsula, and Archie Baba looks impregnable. Tommies on board are telling each other how they came by their respective wounds. A few Punjabis wounded sit apart philosophically and say nothing. Officers in Wardroom, mostly wounded, have tea and chat shop. I, not wounded, and Army Service Corps, sit in a corner by myself. We arrive at Lemnos about eight p.m. and enter the harbor that I was in last April. What a lot has happened since those days, and what ages it seems to go. We go alongside a hospital ship, the Sicilia, and our stretcher cases are taken off to the ship. Have a look through the porthole and see a very big saloon, full of beds and doctors, orderlies and very smart and efficient nurses, busily in attendance. Then we go nearer into the shore and get on a penis and go to a pier. Here, three of us, namely Weatherall, Williams of the Royal Scots, and myself, get into an ambulance motor and are driven inland and arrive at the Australian hospital. There we go into the orderly tent and a sergeant takes down our names, etc., and religion. Religion? Let us talk of religion when all huns are exterminated. Then a pleasant-looking Australian captain comes in, diagnoses my case, and says, Milk Diet, which is entered in a book. We are then taken to another group of three Marquis joined together full of wounded Tommies in bed. Then a Major Newlands, one of the leading surgeons of Australia, comes in and sees me, and after a cup of tea we go to sleep. At least we are supposed to. Several of the Australians are chatting, and it is interesting listening to them. Suddenly, one of the wounded stirs in his sleep and says, One, two, three, four, one, two, three, four, several times, and finishing by one, two, three, four, and then a pause, and then five, with a sigh of relief. He sits up in bed and making the row that one makes with one's mouth when urging on a horse. He says, Go on! And one of the orderlies goes over and gently puts his head back onto the pillow. He was fast to sleep and was going over in his dreams, the taking up of ammunition to the trenches. End of Section 11 Section 12 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 12 July 4-27 1915 July 4 I and three other officers are in a ward with Tommy's, for the hospital is overflowing. Orderlies bring round basins of water to wash, and then breakfast of bread and milk. Then the major comes round and sounds me pretty thoroughly, and orders me to stay in bed until further orders. lunch, rice and milk, very hot, nothing to smoke, flies damnable, and I find myself actually longing to get back to work on the peninsula. But I do certainly enjoy at present the relief of being away from shells and bullets and the horrors of war. July 5th, awakened early by one of the wounded crying loudly for a doctor, the poor chap had been hit in the leg by an explosive bullet, and had a pretty bad wound. He was in great agony, and amongst other things cried out, What a war, and this is what they do to me! And then he made a continual cluck with his mouth, that one makes by putting one's tongue to the roof of one's mouth, and drawing it away when annoyed. During the morning he was pretty bad, and crying and groaning, but became quite quiet, cheerful, and confident when the doctor arrived. However, gangrene had set in, as he had been four days lying on the battlefield before he was found, and he died suddenly at twelve o'clock. But Tommy breaks the silence by saying, Poor Alf has snuffed it. We were all very quiet for a bit after they came in and neatly rolled the body in a sheet, and, placing it on a stretcher, carried it away. But after a bit a cheerful atmosphere comes over us, and we four officers ragged round, the Tommy's enjoying the fun. Why be morbid about death? We've all got to go through it. I am allowed to get up at two o'clock, and went and had tea on board the Aragón. This was the ship that my original brigade staff came out on, with the Worcesters and Hants. The old associations that I had with the Aragón, through so many officers that I had become friendly with, and who have now gone west, depressed me somewhat, and I was glad to leave. At every turn I am reminded of those days in April, and, while walking along the upper deck, I could almost see the ghosts of those cheery men who marched round and round of a morning to the music of popular airs, played on a piano by a gifted Tommy. I hear the W. beach was bombarded this morning. About five hundred shells came over, the heaviest bombardment the beach has ever had. The harbor and island have changed completely since I was here last. Great camps, French and English, have sprung up on shore. And the harbor is full of French and English warships and transports, and their attendant small craft. July 6. It is funny hearing the bugles again, and looking round the camps one might be on one's fourteen-day annual training. I am very rheumatic-y, but getting fit fast, but I'm going to be sent to Alexandria for a few days' change. I hope to get back to the peninsula before the 29th Division go, for I hear they are going to be relieved shortly, and I want to be with them at the end. The 38th Brigade of the 13th Division has arrived here, and the rest of the Division is following. I think that is the Division which is going to relieve us. It is curious because I was in that Division as 2nd Lieutenant. At five o'clock the motor ambulance comes for us, and we go down to the British Pier. They have made two piers, one for the French and one for the British, and they are the center and hum of life all day and all night. Troops arriving, troops leaving for the peninsula, wounded arriving back from the peninsula, and wounded being sent off after a brief stay in the Mudo's hospitals, back to the bases either Cairo, Alexandria, Malta, or England. And then, of course, stores and ammunition are continually being unloaded and reloaded, and all nations seem to be engaged in the work, black, brown, and white. It looks utter confusion, and yet I suppose it is not. The French seem to be much better at system than the British. I think the Australian hospitals are better than the British. They have first class surgeons, and the orderlies are splendid. The Australians are a wonderful race, and the physique of the men is splendid. Everything they do is done thoroughly. They lack discipline as we know it, yet have a discipline that is not so common with us. Namely, a water and waster is not allowed to comfortably exist. They are an exceptionally formidable weapon, for when they fight, they go on like wild men, never showing fear or attempting to go back. They perform the most extraordinary and hair-raising deeds that history can record, all the time, to a flow of very sanguinary and strong language. What a superb army, admirable spirit, pride in their race and country and mother country, cheery and merry all the time, having a very keen sense of humor. As we came off in a penis with lighters lashed on either side, conveying wounded, the thirty-eighth brigade of the thirteenth division, part of the first of Kitchener's new army, were embarking on penises and boats towed behind to go on board destroyers to be taken to the peninsula. They were dressed in light-drill khaki, with short-nickers, putties and helmets, and their packs, blankets and ground-sheets strapped to their backs, looking exceptionally smart and business-like. They are very fine men, above the average of the British regular Tommy, and, brigaded together, appear to be troops of the high standard of our first line. One, of course, could only judge by personal appearance and the ordinary parade-drill, which is as perfect as could be. But the near future will prove whether they have the fighting power of troops like the twenty-ninth division. If so, then Britain has become the leading military power in the world, as well as the leading naval power. We came along the hospital ship, the SS Neralia, a fine boat of the British India line. Arriving on board we were welcomed by a nurse, and whether all, a Royal Scots officer and myself were given a cabin, and after a wash we go down to dinner. Imagine our feelings when we were shown to a fine table, daintily laid for dinner, waited on by singlies dressed in white, long-skirted coats, white trousers, and curious, wide-brimmed hats decorated with blue. Go to bed very early, but cannot sleep much. July 7. Got up just before six a.m. and found that the ship had weighed anchor. It is a beautiful morning, and the sea and green hills of Lemnos look very fresh. We pass slowly through the fleet, which looks very formidable, yet which at present is unable to help us on our way, so out of the harbour to sea. The past seems now like a horrid dream, as one lives idly on board in every luxury that one could have. At times I feel a shirker, yet when a medical officer sends one off the peninsula his orders take precedence of an order of one's superior officer on the active list, and once you have left you are passed on from doctor to doctor and clearing station to hospital, and once future remains in the medical authority's hands. Personally I am feeling much better, the fainting feeling having left, and the rheumatism nearly so, but war is so horrible that I wish it was all over. I've seen more of the horrible side than some of those in the fire trenches who sit comparatively safely there until the attack, this only applies to the unique situation in Gallipoli, and then with one objective in mind, namely to get another trench in front they leap out and charge. Most of them say the feeling is exhilarating and glorious, and those of the slightly wounded say they felt when wounded while running on cheering as if someone suddenly hit them with a hot stick. However the risk I have run is not nearly so great as infantry run, but in future give me gunnery every time, they having the most thrilling and interesting work to do of any branch of the service. However let us hope our future will not hold war and its horrors in store for us. July 8th. This is an ideal ship for a hospital ship, which is gyrously fitted with cabins and saloons. The ship is painted white with a red band running all round and a large red cross in the center on either side. At night a large red cross of electric globes is illuminated and the great ship lit up makes a pretty sight. We had a burial yesterday, stopping and a great hush falling over the vessel as the body was shot over the side and fell with a big thump and splash into the sea, resting on the surface a few seconds and then slowly sinking. I thought of the words of Prince Henry in Henry IV, Part I, Food for Worms, Brave Percy, but the word Fishes should be substituted for Worms. A great number of wounded men sleep on deck and by Joe they do look glad that they are out of it for a bit, although they want to get back after a change, some of them. All the nurses are deers, dead keen on their job. I am not wounded, so I don't like talking to them. The badly wounded officers are in beds in a large saloon and one can look over a balustrade and see them. They are patient and they stick the monotony admirably. One fine chap, a captain, has a lump of flesh torn from his back by a bomb and has to lie in one position. As I pass along the gallery overlooking the ward at all hours of the day I can see him, either calmly looking at the roof, reading or dozing and always in the same position, in which he will have to lie for weeks. Bombs make terrible wounds. My friend Cox of the Essex is on board. He was the officer that I saw limping back after the battle on the Wednesday after we had landed, and we have some chats together about those thrilling days. He and his officers were on the Don Gola from which boat we landed, and I have mentioned how they played The Priest of the Parish. I never want to play that game again. A good percentage of those chaps have gone now. There are only two officers in the Essex who have not been hit. Cox has been back to the peninsula once, but is now going to Alexandria, sick. I am nearly fit, but board stiff, and want to get back to my job. The sea is calm and it is a lovely day, and awfully peaceful and quiet on the ship. The stewards are very attentive. They are natives, as are most of the crew. I always think that the nigger makes a better servant than the white man. Colonel Bruce of the Gercas is on board wounded, and has his servant with him. A ravine up the gully that he captured is now called Bruce's ravine. This servant at the hospital in Lemnos was allowed to sleep on the floor beside his master's bed, and if his master stirred in his sleep he sat up, marching him intently. We all had to go before the medical board this morning, a Royal Army Medical Corps general at the head. We had another burial today. July 9. We arrive at Alexandria at 6 a.m. and berth alongside about 12. It is strange seeing the old familiar scenes again. At one o'clock a hospital train comes alongside, with all the carriages painted white, with a red crescent on, not the Red Cross. Curious that our Royal Army Medical Corps should use both the Red Cross and the Red Crescent. The Australian sick and wounded are taken off and sent on board this train, which leaves at three o'clock for Cairo. At eight o'clock we go off in ambulance motor wagons and are taken to the German hospital. It is a very fine hospital, now of course British, and we are put to bed and given cocoa. One of the officers of our party is suffering from a nervous breakdown, and a brother officer of his, an awfully decent chap, who had been wounded in the arm, takes charge of him just as one would a frightened child. In the motor ambulance the nervous broken officer put out his hand quickly and made as if to rise, and the wounded officer, with his unmounded arm, linked the other arm in his with a reassuring look. I think little touches like that are very fine. In the hospital one officer is completely off his head, and has to have an orderly in attendance all day and all night. Last night he shouted out in great fear once or twice, imagining shells and turks. July 10th. It is now nine thirty and I have bathed and shaved and had breakfast, and am in bed awaiting the doctor. They are wiggling bad cases to the dressing rooms. A hospital is most depressing. Went out in the afternoon and did some shopping. July 11th. Very nice day, an Arab procession passes outside our hospital, headed by a band making a most infernal den. All blowing brass instruments as loudly as they can, and beating drums, and all marching anyhow. Difficult at first to make out what the tune is, as it is such a discord, but on listening intently we made it out to be Sousa's stars and stripes. Procession consisted of a whole convoy of wagons loaded with what looks like Manchester goods. What it is all about, no one but the Arabs appear to know. Found out afterwards they were going to a fair, and they were taking goods along to sell. Went out in afternoon and called it club. Saw Chief Padre of the Forces, Horton, and had a long chat with him. Later saw Shooter, Captain of the Honourable Artillery Company, a battery, curious running across him. Called on Mrs. Carver at Romley for tea, and found several convalescent officers there, and a few other people. Lovely house and garden and hard tennis court. But give me an English garden every time. Romley is very pretty, and is a very big suburb of Alexandria, stretching along by the sea. Very fine white mansions standing in lovely grounds. Also several lovely public gardens, beautifully laid out. Much more picturesque than the English public gardens. They have no railings or walls around, and consequently no entrance by gates. They simply join on and run into the neighbouring suburbs. Past a very fine Arab cemetery, full of magnificent mausoleums of marble which must have cost thousands. July 12. Went out in afternoon into town. Plenty of troops about. Feel fit and so applied to go back to Peninsula, as the atmosphere in Alexandria is not unlike the feeling of being in khaki in London with all your pals at the front. July 14. Went before Registrar at twelve and sent into convalescence, to report to-morrow morning. July 15. Left hospital. Go down to the docks. Alexandria is a wonderful place now. Always one of the most cosmopolitan cities of the East, she has now added the responsibilities of a military base. Here from her teaming docks are fed the troops in Gallipoli and Mesopotamia, and here may be seen at all hours of the day and night great ships being loaded by chattering and chanting natives with food and munitions. Troop ships also swallowing upmen or moving slowly out into the harbour. Tugs, lighters, colliers and the like throng her water-gates, and the quays present a vivid picture of bright colours, as the gaily dressed natives go about their work. Fussy trains puff alongside the ships and disgorge men, mules and horses in never-ending streams. Mountains of hay, bully beef and biscuits are stacked along the quays, and the rattle of gear and the groaning of the great cranes fill the air with strange sounds. And above it all the fierce sun glares down on the hot stones and the pitiless, steely blue Egyptian sky, inscrutable and cloudless, spreads overhead like a vast dome. Leaving this hive of industry I turn my steps to the Regina Palace hotel, where I am introduced to an Italian family by cocks. Awfully jolly girls! Have some dancing! Meet Neville of the South Wales borderers, a friend of mine in Birmingham. Go for a motor drive into the desert with Gregory. July 20th went out in the evening with Prince Adil and his yacht, Henderson and our French friend. The prince provided food consisting of cold dishes, cocktails and a thermos flask, and whiskies and sodas. It was delightful cruising about the harbour in moonlight and skimming along the water, healing right over when we ran before the wind. July 21st ordered to join Siang Bee, a filthy little tramp, packed with troops. Fortunately for us they are full up, and so I am told to go on board the Anglo-Egyptian, a cleaner boat. Find a draft of gherkers on board and a draft of Sikhs. English officers, fine lot of men. About a dozen officers all told on board. Sikhs a weird lot, now and again a mysterious chant sung by them comes up from the lower decks. In the morning had quite a touching farewell at the hotel, with all the Italian girls, the French children, and my little friend the Russian Cossack aged five years, and their pretty French governess. I am getting to speak French quite well now. July 22nd. We were to start last night, but owing to submarine scare we have not yet sailed. 5pm. The hospital ship Sudan has just come in, and the hospital train, ambulance, lorries, and motor-cars are drawn up, waiting the wounded. I have been on board and have spoken to one of the wounded officers, who tells me that there have been two battles since I left, and that we have made further advance in the center of our line, therefore straightening it a little, but have lost very heavily. Also he told me that the 29th Division are leaving Gallipoli, and that one brigade is at Lemnos or to Nados. 6.30pm. We sail, the gherkers and Sikhs giving their respective war cries, something like that of the Mayoris which the New Zealanders sing. Two other boats leave at the same time, the Alawnia having six thousand troops on board. We all steer different courses on account of submarines. 9.30pm. The last post sounds, played excellently by a gerka, and I turn in, sleeping on deck on account of the heat. They are neat little men, these gerkas, dressed in like the Japanese, dressed in wide hats, shirts over hanging the short breech, putties and black bandoliers, bayonets in black cases, and their native weapon the kukri in a black case. Curiously enough they are not British subjects at all. They are natives of Nepal, governed by the Maharaja of Nepal, and he is quite independent, except for having to pay a salt tax to China. I believe, though, that this payment has now stopped or is about to stop. The Maharaja lends his male subjects who enlists to the British government, and they train them as soldiers, in return having them to fight our battles when necessary. Altogether there are about twenty battalions of twenty thousand men, and since the outbreak of war the Maharaja has practically forced every able-bodied man to enlist. They are good soldiers, but absolutely lost without their white officers, for they are just like children. July twenty-third, nine thirty a.m. See rough and ship rolling. I do feel ill. Ten thirty a.m. Four blasts on the hooter call all of us to boat-drill with life belts. July twenty-fourth, eight a.m. We are passing roads on our starboard and are, therefore, entering the danger zone for submarines. It is reported that there are two about. No destroyer to escort us, so I suppose we are safe. Feel much better now. Captain Kobel of the Queen's onboard, friend of Parnell, since outbreak of war he has been with Egyptian army, now going unattached to Gallipoli for his two months leave. Taking his holiday by going into battle. Seven thirty p.m. Had boat-drill to-day. Gurkhas thoroughly enjoying it. Gurkha guards posted all round the ship on lookout for submarines, with orders to fire when one comes in sight. They are watching intently, and I really believe would rather appreciate the fun if one came along, so that they could show off their marksman ship. We do not arrive at Lemnos till five tomorrow afternoon, so we still have plenty of time to be torpedoed. Passing plenty of islands, but not a sign of a ship anywhere. Until moonlight evening. Skipper playing chess with Captain Simpson of the Gurkhas. Other officers sitting about reading. Only fifteen officers all told. White officers of the Gurkhas and Sikhs. And a few unattached. July twenty-fifth. Three months ago to-day the landing. And Achibaba is not taken yet. Two p.m. entering Lemnos harbor. It is very hot now, and the water dead calm. The harbor is full of transports and warships, and on shore there are large camps in all directions. July twenty-sixth. We are now moored alongside the Siang Bee, which arrived almost simultaneously with us. She has nine hundred and fifty tubes on board, drafts, and others returning to duty. No news from Gallipoli, except that things there are much as usual. After August I hear the weather breaks up, so that if something is not done in August we shall have great difficulty in landing supplies and ammunition. The outlook is far from bright. Up to date the points are with the Turk. An officious military landing officer comes on board and tells each of us in as imperious away as possible our respective destinations. I get on to the Siang Bee and hang about waiting. I find Morris on board, who is at the Regina Palace Hotel with me. At six o'clock the military landing officer comes on board again, and, after arranging for our departure, casually mentions that he had heard that W. Beach was heavily shelled last night. He almost licked his lips as he spoke. He had never even heard a gun fired himself. A Royal Naval Division officer tells me that he has a great desire to chuck that military landing officer overboard. This officer is quite an interesting person. Went to France in the early part of the war in the Royal Flying Corps, had a spill which laid him up for six months, and now is in charge of a machine gun section in the Royal Naval Division. We get on board a small steamer, Whitby Abbey, and sail over to the Aragone, the lines of communication headquarters boat, a very nice boat the Aragone fitted out with every luxury. At eight o'clock we push off, loaded to the boat's limit, with troops, mailbags, water carts, sandbags, and ammunition. We pass through the host of transports and warships that now crowd the harbor of Moudros. As we pass each warship, the sailors come running to the sides and cheer and cheer, shouts of are we downhearted, etc., freely pass between us. And this inspiring demonstration is repeated enthusiastically as we pass each great ship of war. It is very nice of them. I think they feel it a bit being bottled up at Moudros. But it is all right. We shall win, even if the war lasts ten years, to stick at your training, you British Boy Scouts. We leave the hills of Lemnos as we did on that memorable evening of April 24, three months ago, just as it is getting dusk, the sun quickly setting in the sea, a full moon rises, and on a calm sea we steam north. They provide some food for us on board, bully beef and bread, and later we lie about and try to sleep. A very nice Royal Naval Reserve officer on board stands me a drink. Curiously enough, I came away from the peninsula on this boat on July 3, and the same man stood me a drink, though he had forgotten. I suppose he regularly stands a drink to all officers, coming and going. At twelve midnight he is called up on deck, and I go up to and find that land is showing dimly in front. Dark, depressing, mysterious land of adventure, heroism, and death. And a chill feeling runs through me. It is the reaction, after having a good time in Alexandria, playing soldiers with the little Italian boys and my little cropped-haired Russian Cossack and their pretty French governess. Oh, that little French governess! The officers and men crowd to the upper deck in bowels and strain their eyes to the black outline in front. The starlights are sailing up and down in the dark background from the Aegean to the Straits. A distant shriek is heard, followed immediately by another, and two quick flashes burst over the beach in front, followed by two sharp reports, crump, and the young Royal Naval Air Service officers who have been training for months at last are within short measurement of the real game of modern warfare. Then the land in front resumes its still mysterious outline, until as we get close quiet figures can be seen moving about on shore, working at the unloading of lighters. We drop anchor and are informed that we shall disembark in the early morning, and so lie down again and sleep soundly till morning. July 27. We wake at five and go on deck, and the old familiar sight of W. Beach greets me, and I point out to several officers who ask me the various points of interest. At six twenty the Royal Naval Air Service people are informed that they have to go back to Moudros as they have come to the wrong place, and at seven o'clock, with Capt. Nye and Cobal and Wilson, we go ashore in a wobbly lighter, which seems about to turn over in a rather rough sea, and we come alongside one of the piers. W. Beach has altered somewhat. Large cemented water reservoirs had been made by the Jippie Works Department on the high land near our bivvy, and it seems more congested and crowded than ever. I take the officers up to our bivvy and surprise the others, who did not expect me, and I feel quite pleased to get back, the same feeling one has when one gets home to the family after a few weeks' holiday. We have breakfast, and I hear that the Thirteenth Division are on the shore, and that several of the officers of the Thirteenth Divisional train are just along the cliff, and so go along to see them. I found Frank E. D. there, a friend of many years standing, and this was the third time during the war that we had run across each other unexpectedly. I was three months with the Thirteenth Division at Bolford, so it was nice seeing them again. They are leaving soon for some unknown destination further up the coast. I find that W. Beach had been heavily shelled on the 5th of July, seven hundred coming over in four hours. They are mostly high explosive shells, and make a nasty mess of any victim which they find. To people working in the various administrative departments, where they are continually walking about in the open, the continual exposure to high explosive shell fire is wearing on the nerves. And cases of nervous breakdown here are becoming more and more frequent. In spite of the most heavy shelling, the administrative work has to go on, and at high speed too. I hear bad news about my old mayor. She was killed by a shell while I was away on July 5. She had been an awfully good pal to me, and we had some good times together, and I think that her name should be put in the role of honor. Warrom, the servant of story of the Thirteenth Division train, was blown up by a shell yesterday in his dugout along the cliff. He was a good chap, and for a short time had been my servant at Bulford. There has been but little shelling our way today. In fact everything seems extraordinarily quiet. At 6 p.m. we go down to the breakwater to bathe, and I find Frank E. D. there and other Bulford pals. And then, wonder of wonders whom should I run into but my friend of many years, the versatile Gordon Finley Smith. The last time that I saw him was in Piccadilly Circus on December 22nd while motoring. We looked at each other in amazement and then burst out laughing. He has been here ten days and is in a beastly place which is shelled every day, namely the Ordnance depot. 8 p.m. The night falls quicker now, but with the same lovely coloring and a full moon in shining. End of Section 12 Section 13 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 13, July 28 to August 7, 1915 See my friends of the 13th Division this morning. At 12 noon high explosive shells come over our camp and kill six fine horses. 4 p.m. On duty at main supply depot and, uh, beastly high explosive shells come over. One bursts in Ordnance depot and blows two men to bits. Very glad when I am off duty, but I would rather be here than in Alexandria. My brigade has been away at Lemnos resting, but comes back to-night. Nothing much has been done since the battle of June 29th, which I saw, except the French have straightened their line in accordance with our move. Everything is very quiet. Even the French 75s hardly fire a shot. But something big is afoot. Three of our companies have their horse lines dug in at the foot of the cliff in the lower road, half way between W. Beach and the bakery past the Greek camp, and the cliff, which is higher than in most places, affords almost perfect protection for the animals. Officers and men live there, but it is not a very sanitary spot to live in, but with the manure and the flies and the heat. Occasionally to make the atmosphere more savory, a dead horse or mule is washed ashore, after having floated about for several days. Most of the animals which die or are killed are towed out to sea and there sunk, either by the firing of bullets into the carcass, or by stones fastened to their legs. Many carcasses are, however, in spite of all precautions, washed ashore, causing great unpleasantness to all near who are living dug into the cliff side. One such decaying carcass this morning, lying on the water's edge half submerged, aroused the ire of a staff officer, who immediately strafed the officer living in the cliff side nearest to the place where it lay. He was politely told that the navy are responsible for everything up to High Watermark, and, of course, could strafe no more. But the poor old navy have their hands pretty full, keeping the seas open for we on shore, and it is rather hard lines on them to add to their heavy responsibilities, the keeping of the shores and beaches clear of washed up carcasses, of poor old mules and horses who have died for their country. Now and again a dead mule or horse is buried on land, but we still, after over three months' effort, are holding such a small bit of land that room is very scarce, and a burial ground for animals is out of the question. July 29. A hot day, rather gusty and dusty, and, of course, not a cloud in the sky. My brigade is back from Lemnos and is along the cliffs of the West Coast with headquarters at the mouth of the gully, or the now famous Nulla. West Coast cliffs now absolutely honeycombed with dugouts, arranged in terraces as far as possible. The whole tip of the peninsula is alive and teeming with troops and followers of all nationalities. British, French, Senegalese, Greeks, Arabs, Sudanese, Hindus, Gurkhas, Punjabis, and Sikhs. Thirteenth division now moving off the peninsula. Poor old Findlay up to his eyes in ordinance. Fortunately he was away when the shell burst in his compound yesterday. He says, got strapped the Kaiser from morning to night. Only half a dozen high explosive shells come over our way today. But inland, Turkish artillery has been fairly active, but nothing much doing on the front. Aeroplanes busily humming overhead. Beaches very busy, with all kinds and manner of work day and night. Meet Fulford, Pal of Birmingham Hockey Days a few years ago, and again of Salisbury Plain Days of 1914. Now a chaplain in the 40th Brigade, 13th Division. Having tea with him to-morrow. He tapped me on the shoulder on W. Beach, saying, Thanks very much for the gloves, Gillum. I borrowed a pair of gloves from him on November 14th, had lost them, had sent him another pair, and he had forgotten to write and thank me. I had not seen or heard from him until to-day. Observation balloon up captive to a steamer off the Gully Beach. But little or no artillery firing on our part. 13th Division of Kitchener's Army have had their baptism, but in defense not attack. Turks had a taste of what Kitchener's Army is like. I believe in after years the name of Kitchener will be wreathed in a blaze of glory that will dim the luster of all other famous names in our history. Not only will we beat the enemy with the splendid troops his genius has created, but if his spirit still endures in the nation after the war, we shall defy the world for all time, and in that way form an impregnable barrier to the mad ambitions of other states. 30th July. Write my new horse to-day along to the Gully, Nulla, and C. Brigadier General Caley. Awfully pretty at the Gully, with cliffs honeycombed with headquarters and terraces leading to them. Brigade now almost up to full strength again, and Tommy's enjoying bathing and domestic duties. Tommy is a most lovable animal sometimes. Met Panton, who is now Deputy Assistant Director of Medical Services to Division. He was wounded in the leg in May but is now quite fit. Talk to those early days. Also see Fulford again. Come along Top Road on Cliff with Major O'Hara and Major Collier as far as X Beach, when we ride down and finish the ride back to W Beach, walking along the lower road, for much traffic was passing and going. Heavy shelling on W Beach from high explosive gun on Achi, but most burst into the sea. Plenty of fire to-day. I think the 13th Division are going to attempt a landing up the coast soon, but news is very scarce. Whatever is on is being kept very secret. Here that about five enemy submarines have been caught out here in nets stretched between two drifters and blown up on contact. Only a rumor though. The Navy keep very mum about these things. I think one submarine has actually been brought into Malta. Airplane falls into the sea, pilot and observer safe and both picked up. It glided down beautifully. I learned that a French ship was torpedoed while I was away, but none of the crew was drowned, and ship was empty of supplies. Findley Smith came to dinner, awfully amusing hearing him grousing about the shelling, just as he used to grouse in the old days about such a thing as a train being held up between Clapham Junction and Waterloo. It is topping dining in our bivvy, listening to the gentle wash of the waves, and after dinner enjoying the view of the sun setting behind Imbrose, while we smoke and have coffee. Guns from Asia seem to have been silenced, cannot see any signs of life on the plain of Troy, which looks pretty peaceful meadowland. Can't see it in detail from here. They must have observing stations there and see all that we are doing, and hence the shelling of W. Beach. Farmer, Neve, and Balfour of the 88th Brigade Staff have been sent home, invalided. Hear that there is to be a new landing further up, but when I don't know, and that this time we shall land quite six divisions. I predicted in the early days that two hundred and fifty thousand men would be found necessary to make this job a success, and troops which have come and gone and are coming nearly reach this figure. It is surprising what a little bit of land we are on, just as if it was a small corner of the Isle of Wight. Fancy being able to take in at a glance our front lines and the Turkish lines, Krythia, the West Coast, the Dardanelles, and Asia's mountains, and the formidable position of Achibaba with its supporting ridges on either side. That is what we can do with a naked eye from the edge of the cliffs on either side of W. Beach. And over three months have now passed since we landed July 31st. While issuing this morning at Depot, high explosive shells came over from Achi. They burst in different places, searching the beach. One bursts near Ways Depot, and one man and two mules are hit, the man badly. Next one on Aerodrome. An interval of two or three minutes passes between the arrival of each shell. Shortly after the one had burst near Ways Depot, I, standing with issuers, drivers, general service wagons, army transport carts, non-commissioned officers, and ration parties all around me, hear the shriek of one coming straight at me, for it shrieks too long. Those who say that, if killed by a shell, one never hears the shriek of the shell that hits one, are quite mistaken. That is to say, when being shelled by one, two, or three guns at a time. In a bombardment, of course, the din is so deafening that you can't tell which shell is addressed to you and which is not. And, after a bit, you don't much care. A deafening explosion, and dense smoke, dust, and stones. And I find myself locked in the arms of a transport driver, with my face buried in the stomach of a fat sergeant, and mules kicking all around. Not a man hit, and the shell five yards away, the nearest I have ever had. It had burst in amount of soft earth and right deep in the ground, and that saved us. I look up, and all the others get sheepishly to their feet, and I get out another cigarette and smoke. I smoked six of them hard, and tried to be facetious and to pretend that I did not care, but not one man there could have been in a more miserable, cowardly funk than I was while waiting for the next, which, however, gave us a long miss. Later in the morning we got a few high explosive shells from Achi. One pitch clean on the roof of our signal offices, which is a timber direction sandbagged and proof against splinter only. There the clerks work tap, tap, and buzz, buzz, buzz, to and from all over the peninsula, messages being sent and received every minute, almost all the day and night, like a central telegraph office in London. Down came the shrieking thing, a deafening report, splinters of timber torn sandbags, dust, stones, and smoke fly into the air, and then silence. A pause and men rush, not away, but to the ruined office. Nine men and one signal officer had been killed outright. Several wounded are carried up the cliff to the hospital. Operators immediately get to work connecting up the severed wires to new instruments. Improvised tables are put in position. In half an hour a wire is sent off to General Headquarters that all is OK, and tap, tap, buzz, buzz is heard once more, tapping and buzzing busily away, not for a weekly wage, but for the king. It was a near thing for old Finley in his office, twenty yards away. I rode to a submarine this afternoon and went aboard, delightful sitting on deck and chatting to the captain. He has just heard good news from Persia, and we are all cheery. Go up to Brigade Headquarters' Gully Beach and have tea and chat to battalions in rest on cliff sides. While away hear shells from Achi's screeching overhead for W. Beach and feel therefore quite safe. The ordinance had it this afternoon. August 1st. Artillery duels go on again today, and several high-explosive shells come over while I am on duty at the main supply depot. This afternoon I am drawing forage for tomorrow's issue to the division. We draw men's rations for the same day's issue at six o'clock in the morning, and forage at four in the afternoon before. Greek labor loads the wagons with the oats, maize, and hay, which carry the forage three hundred yards away to our depot of four dumps. When shelling is on the gang of thirty to forty Greeks melts away, and often when at work checking each wagon, one finds when one looks round but ten Greeks left. Then it is necessary to hunt round, behind, and in amongst the large, high, and wide stacks of grain and hay, where the missing Greeks are to be found, quietly hiding here and there, in twos and threes. Some are very good at sticking to the work, more so the boys, as young as fifteen, and the elderly men, some of whom are quite benevolent looking. This afternoon one or two shells coming close to us. It was necessary for me to stop work for fifteen minutes to make sure that no more were coming, and to place the mules with their wagons behind the stacks of hay, which afford perfect protection. I have never yet seen a shell penetrate a wide stack of trusses of compressed hay, a pause, no shells, and out we pop from our hiding places, like rabbits, and load busily away once more. It is really funny, like a game of hide and seek. Panton dines with us tonight, and I have to leave immediately after dinner, for I am on duty at the depot drawing extra supplies. These are now being drawn nightly, to form a reserve depot in the gully, but a little way up from Gully Beach, to be ready for us in case we advance. As I walk across the high ground on the left of W Beach, looking towards Aci, I hear the booming of a Turkish gun, and instinctively I know that the shell is addressed either to me or in my direction, and accordingly, fling myself to the ground in a manner to rival the best stagefall. The usual sound of the sky being rent in two is followed by a deafening explosion, and dust and stones fall on top of me. The smoke blown my way makes me cough. I arrive at my depot, a man runs up and reports that the shell has hit a dugout in which three of our supply loaders live. I send the man back for Panton, and start to run across to the dugout. I hear the heavens torn asunder again. I fall flat behind boxes. The beastly thing bursts in the hay. I wonder if the farmers at home ever realized how we would bless their compressed tresses of hay as protection from shellfire. I run to the dugout. Two men are lying dead. One man, wounded, is being carried away by his comrades. Panton, who has arrived, takes their identity discs. One cannot be recognized but for his identity disc. I go over to depot and continue my job of seeing the wagons loaded. I go to mount my horse. As I am about to put my foot in the stirrup, I hear again the boom of a gun. I feel jumpy and duck. I hear a laugh. It is from a driver. It is dark and he can't see who I am or my blushes, for the boom I heard was from a friendly, heavy French gun over by Morto Bay. I ride round the top road with Cook, who is waiting for me behind the dugout a little way up the west coast. We speculate upon the reason why the advanced depot is being formed in the gully. If the landing further up is successful, then the Turks are bound to retire from before Achi, and the hill will at last be ours, at last. We must therefore be prepared for an immediate advance, hence the advanced depot. We arrive at the gully, riding on the beach down the winding road. It is a beautiful starlet night. The gully and its slopes are illuminated by a host of little lights from the dugouts of various headquarters signal stations, dressing stations, etc., all unseen by the enemy, but from the sea they look like the lights of a small fishing town, nestling in the shelter of coarse-covered irregular cliffs. I call it brigade headquarters and then at a dressing station where some cheery, royal army medical corps fellows give me a whisky and soda. Afterwards I accompany Cook, who is in charge of a convoy to fetch ammunition up to Pink Farm. We ride up the high road on to the high land, and after being stopped now and again by the Halt Who Are You of a Sentry arrive at the ammunition depot near Pink Farm in Trafalgar Square. There we load up with ammunition which we cart along artillery road, meeting the gully half way, dipped down, and our loads disposed of we ride back home, arriving there at 2 a.m. Cook persuades me to stop at his dugout and have a nightcap, which I do. He is built for himself a nice cozy room, dug in on the cliffside. Sitting there in the early hours of the morning, I am reminded of that whisky and soda most men enjoy at 2 o'clock in the morning when arriving home from a dance. He has made a dugout stable for his horse and invites me to leave mine there for the night, to save me the fag of taking him back to his lines, and to enable me to take the shortcut back to the dugout, which is but a little way along the cliff towards W. Beach. I therefore tie up my horse, water him, and give him a little hay, and go back along the cliff to bed. August 2nd. I am up at 6 a.m. on duty at the depot, drawing men's rations from the main supply for today's issue. I pass our lines and find my horse which I had left at Cook's stable last night, standing in his proper place again. He had disagreed with my leaving him in a strange stable, and had found his way back to his own lines and into his proper place by some means only known to horses. A horse is not such a fool as some people imagine. On account of shelling I have lately managed to get my issue in abrasions to units all finished by 9.30 a.m., and today, no sooner had I finished than over the brutes came. There is a lot of artillery work about today, and we have pushed a little in a very small part of our center just to straighten a bulge in our line. Three cruisers have been in action, up off the coast above W. Beach, bombarding the Turkish right part of line, and right over the peninsula onto Asia. It is nice to hear the sound of the guns of battleships again, but I do not think that their guns do the damage against positions on land that I imagined they would before this campaign. The trajectory of their shells is too low, especially considering the geographical formations on this peninsula which provides good cover everywhere for the enemy. There is great anticipation in the air about this coming landing, but nobody knows when and where it is to take place. August 3. Aviatik airplane comes over this morning and drops a few bombs. Later in the day, high explosive howitzer shells come over from Asia. Heavy artillery duels now going on. Everything the same, but shelling a bit heavier on W. Beach. We hope each day that the great fight will come soon and end this show, but each day seems the same as yesterday, and we can only anticipate that tomorrow will be the same as today. Two officers buried in dugout at Supply Depot by Shell this morning, both rescued and carried off to hospital. Shells over all the time we are issuing, and it is terribly trying, as there is absolutely no cover for us, and we, of course, have to stick it. Our senior supply officer, Major Shorto, just managed to get behind Stack of Hay in time out of the way of an Asiatic Annie. Two cruisers came up in the afternoon and heavily shell left of Achibaba, with broadside after broadside, and it is encouraging to hear their welcome boom. After dinner I ride over to Gully Beach with Cook and Petro via Top Road. Not much fun riding by day now. Very quiet in front, but at ten p.m. firing begins, and we can distinctly hear the explosions of those terrible weapons, bombs. It dies down after a while. August 4th. Perfect, calm sea, hot day. The big gun at Achibaba left us alone while issuing this morning, but in its place a howitzer on Asiatic side kept us alive and steadily dropped shells around us. Phew! I am glad when that morning issuing is over, for every morning regularly now we are shelled. Later in morning she tried dropping them on edge of cliff and reached once or twice. Not much damage and a howitzer gives plenty of warning, but one cannot so easily gauge where their shells are going to drop as with the other guns. Two o'clock. Shelling by big guns from Achi has now started and they are dropping on the beach, and everybody is taking cover for dear life. Now howitzer from Asia is joining in. Nothing much happened today except heavy artillery duels, and with the anniversary of the war we find ourselves not much further forward than we were two months ago. August 5th. Another hot, depressing, monotonous and nervy day was officer of the day at the supply depot, and as usual shells came over. A fuse whizzed near our heads with a most weird singing noise. French battleship at entrance bombarded Asia, and two British cruisers on west coast bombarded Achi. Something big is going to happen soon. I may add that this sentence has been passed from mouth to mouth for the last week. And if that something does not happen soon, we shall all be in a devil of a fix on this tiny little tip of the peninsula. So dangerous has it now become to walk about in the open that a communication trench has been dug from X beach right to the firing line, and so troops landing on W beach can walk round the road at the foot of cliffs and straight up this trench to fire trenches. Most of the transport by day goes by this road, only venturing in the open on Highland by night. Our depot, however, still remains in the same place, exposed to and ranged on by enemy's guns, with the result that we get shelled regularly every day, and the sigh of relief that will go up to heaven when we have orders to move will echo from Asia to the Aegean, right up to Gully Beach with Cook and Farquhar and Sea Brigade, and after right up the Gully and across the pink farm, nothing doing on front. We enjoy the ride and exercise, devilish, difficult getting a decent ride nowadays, at pink farm bullets as usual chanting their pinging song. On the way back a monitor up the coast starts firing heavily, making a huge flash, lighting up for a big distance the sky and land, a roar like a crash of thunder immediately following. AUGUST 6. Undoody at 6 a.m. at Supply Depot. Several shells come over at the shipping, but none into our depot, shrieking overhead like lost spirits. Distant sounds of heavy bombardment going on up north, and one man said that he saw through glasses shrapnel bursting up the coast ten miles away. If so, a landing probably is being attempted at Suvla Bay. Ammunition ship with an evidently damned fool of a captain comes in at two o'clock in broad daylight and, of course, gets shelled. Pretty good shooting on part of Mr. Turk, and ship gets several narrow shaves. The vessel then backs out towards two hospital ships, and these, of course, get nearly hit, one shell going right over one of them. The ship finally gets away after being clumsily handled. But it is bad form to back near a hospital ship. The hospital ships lie off here night and day, well within range of the Turkish batteries, which never fire on them unless a supply or ammunition ship goes near. Two o'clock. A heavy bombardment on our part has started. We have again begun to hammer at the doors of the Dardanelles. The sound is not unlike thousands of men beating big drums with thousands of trains running through tunnels. The bombardment is heavier than anything previous and is concentrated on our left center in front of Krythia. A few French batteries are joining in, and all the British and two monitors, the Raglan and the Abercrombie, and a light cruiser with several destroyers open fire as well. The fourteen-inch guns of the monitors make an ear-splitting row when they fire, and the bursting shell throws up a column of smoke and dust quite three hundred feet into the air. One was plumping them in and about Krythia, and the other on the west ridge of Achibaba. A field battery of the Turks opens fire on one of the monitors, just off where we are sitting, and we are rather amused at their efforts. Yet imagine our surprise when one of their shells actually hits the monitor, the Raglan, without doing any more damage than denting her a little, at least as far as we can see. We hear the sound of the shell hitting her armor. An accident which might have proved serious occurs shortly after. The monitor fired one of her guns, and almost simultaneously the other gun, which is depressed, fires, and the shell strikes the water, then ricochets off onto Gully Beach, exploding, killing one man and wounding six. The bombardment died down somewhat at four and increased its range, and then there burst out the undertone of rifle fire, sounding like hundreds of carts rolling over cobbled stones with the spasmodic pop-pops of the machine guns. Later we catch glimpses of little khaki figures charging toward Turkish trenches in front of Krithia. All this time Krithia is getting fair hell from our guns. At six firing dies down to spasmodic gun and rifle fire. At the time of writing I hear that my brigade, the eighty-eight, have distinguished themselves, especially the Essex, and that two lines of trenches have been captured. At dusk the destroyers, monitors, and the cruisers have gone home, and the aeroplanes, to roost. During the fight I noticed lots of shrapnel shells bursting behind Anzac, so no doubt the Australians and New Zealanders are fighting as well, and in the distance, though it is difficult to see, I saw several white puffs of shrapnel bursting. It is now a cool evening, with a bit of a wind, and spasmodic firing is going on inland, softindly in evening, and then turned in. August seventh. Up at six a.m. and ride out towards brigade headquarters, but the Turks have started to heavily bombard our lines and we are replying, so I postpone my visit, for Pink Farm and the Krithia road are getting it badly. At nine a.m. monitors, destroyers, and cruisers come and join in the bombardment, which continues all the morning. At two p.m. I ride up with Philips to Pink Farm and, leaving our horses, we walk up the communication trench to brigade headquarters. Bullets very free overhead, and we keep our heads low. Royal marine light infantry going up to the trenches, some of them look quite young boys and all look hot and tired and serious. I find the brigade have gone back to Gully Beach. We were badly cut up in yesterday's battle. They and Black have gone, good pals of mine, both killed. This is the most horrible side of war. They were so merry and bright along the beach a few days ago. It seems that all the best go. Come back to Pink Farm, passing Jennings going up. Turkish attack starts and our artillery gets on to them, but they still come on determinedly and seem very cocksure of themselves. Ride over to Gully Beach and see remnants of the brigade along cliffs again. What a change to two days ago. Tommy's cooking their meals, talking over yesterday's battle, and pals that have been killed. I look for day and Black instinctively, but of course in vain. The beach looks blank and depressing. Algy Wood is still there, however. Wonderful man, been through everything and not been hit, and thank God for it. Poor old eighty-eighth. Come back to W. Beach and find them shelling us just to show us that they are still very much alive. Hear that another landing has taken place and was successful at Suvla Bay. Artillery duels and rifle-fires still continue. Distoriers make a dash up straights as far as just above Detot's battery and have a bit of a duel with land-batteries. I think fighting will go on steadily here now, with no more delay, for it is vital to the allies that the Dardanelles be forced, and when they are forced, good-bye to Turk and Germany look out. We have got to get all our own back and more. Eight p.m. Very heavy rifle-fire opens, and Turkish attack takes place. Just what we want. They might just as well run their heads against a brick wall, for no doubt they think that they will eventually break through our line and round us up, or drive us into the sea.