 23 January 1-15, 1916, and epilogue January 1. Today is New Year's Day. At this time last year this peninsula was as peaceful a part of the world as one could find in any neutral country, though its rulers were allies of our chief enemies. Today, a year after, we are nearing the fall of the curtain on the final act of one of the greatest tragedies of history. The curtain of the first act was run up on a scene beautiful and romantic in its setting eight months ago, which changed as the play developed to scenes of gallant endeavour and death in all its nakedness. The final act, the tragic last scene of defeat without disgrace, is full of sadness, and the great audience, although held spellbound watching and waiting, will be full of relief when the curtain drops for good. It is strange to think, as I walk about once more on W. Beach, that Souvla and Anzac no longer harbor British ships or house British troops, and that Turks now walk unmolested in our late trenches and shelter themselves at night in our late dugouts. In a few days now Turks will be sitting in the place in which I am writing these notes. They are welcome, for our attempts to open their gates have failed. We have lost the game, but we have not been beaten by the Turks. They are no match for our troops. We have been beaten by nature or the geographical fastness of this impregnable peninsula and the storms of winter. The New Year is heralded in on W. Beach by the shells of a big howitzer on the left shoulder of Achibaba, bursting with a deafening crash on the high ground of the beach, throwing large jagged splinters within a radius of two hundred yards. When such a shell bursts, all within that radius drop flat to earth or dive into a dugout. I am sure that people living further inland or in the trenches, if they have not lived on the beach, do not realize the great strain on the nerves that work under steady, effective shellfire is on this beach, cooped up as we are in such a small space, which is all a target, not to say the chief target of the Turkish gunners. The 29th Army Service Corps men are sticking it well. I think they guess that we are evacuating and are therefore cheery. Issuing by day, as in the early days, is now out of the question. We issue a dusk and even then in danger of a shell in our depot. But the Army Service Corps, or the Army Safety Corps as it is turned by many in France, must never cease doing its job, for a man in the front line is hungry three times a day. As senior supply officer, my job now is to see that the four supply officers' indents are satisfied in full, namely the supply officers of the 86th, 87th, 88th brigades, and the divisional artillery. I must get the food ready at our depot for the night's issue for each group, out of which the four service officers must see that their troops and animals get their full ration. Their respective jobs are far more trying than is mine now, for the difficulties of getting the supplies from the beach to the troops have increased a hundredfold. The main supply depot is still in the same spot as in the days of May, and there they must see that my indents are satisfied. Now they are drawing on their reserve, and as in the case of the evacuation of Suvla, they are issuing from the inside of the large stacks of supplies. For to the Turk, these stacks must not appear to grow smaller. The outside walls must be kept standing, and when the time comes the depot officers will set them ablaze with hay and petrol, and long before the Turk can reach the beaches they should be raging furnaces. The main supply depot office is still in the same place as of old, built out of supply boxes, several times it has been blown down by a Turkish shell, and why it has not been shifted I cannot think. More shells are bursting daily round this depot during these days than burst in a week of June on the whole of W. Beach. If the Turks then had half the artillery they have now, I do not think that we would be here today. Smart the depot supply officer who was wounded in August and who is now back sitting in the same old place holds up his ruler to me this morning, the same ruler which was the stakes of the bet I had with him in the early days, that Archibaba would be taken by June 30th, and says with a smile, this ruler is still mine, and Archibaba still belongs to Turkey. Outside, Archibaba looks more forbidding than ever, like the head of a huge vulture waiting to spring. Howitzer shells are dropping along the road, and as I want to go up to the 86th and 88th Brigade Headquarters with Horn, we go along the cliff's edge by the Greek camp, still in the same place. The two Brigade Headquarters are in a delightful spot, dug in on the side of the cliff just this side of X Beach. I have a chat with General Williams and Sinclair Thompson. I enjoy going there. It is absolutely off the target, though as things are now one would think that there could be no spot on this tiny tip of land where one could live at all for long. Back for lunch. At three o'clock we are shelled badly in our quarter by Howitzer's from the hill and by Asia's quick dick, which is on you before you can duck, almost. General Birdwood has been here and had to look round, as before mentioned the 29th are to be last. It is rather a lot to ask of the 86th and 88th after that storm and the strain of one evacuation, but it shows General Headquarters put a great value on us. Up to midnight I am at the main supply depot, drawing the remainder of reserve supplies for six days for the division, which are being put up in Leithwalk and Clapham Junction, respectively, for the 87th and 88th Brigades. As in the case of the evacuation at Suvla, the 86th Brigade leaves shortly. Officers and men on W. Beach are falling sick fast, with the continual strain of shelling, and in view of the evacuation are being sent off at once. There are one or two cases of men losing their reason. January 2nd. The sea was very rough last night, and in consequence the evacuation was very much delayed. We are now being subjected to very severe shelling. From three o'clock yesterday to nine o'clock this morning, three howitzers, two from behind Chrithia, and one on the right shoulder of Achie, have been throwing big, high explosive shells over to us on the beaches, steadily. This is the severest spell on record, and it is evident that they are expecting us to go soon and are making it as hard as possible. Afterwards we were shelled in jerks to midday. At seven o'clock tonight Horn and I go up to Chrithia and Nulla, or Clapham Junction. It is very dark, and the road is pockmarked with shell holes. I miss the familiar landmark of the White Pillars. I remember now that they told me while I was at Suvla that they had been demolished by our engineers. We have a forward reserve dump at Clapham Junction, which we start eating into tomorrow. 88th Brigade headquarters is just nearby, dug in, in trenches, and on calling there we are invited to dinner. We have a Christmas pudding which is brought in, a light with brandy. It seems strange following this old custom in a dugout, with bullets zipping over outside, and within eight hundred yards of the turks. Coming out of the dugout onto the road I notice bullets flying about much freer than usual, the turks being more energetic over their practice of firing their rifles at night than they ever were before. All the time as we walk back we hear the Turkish howitzers sending over their consignment of high explosives to W. Beach. After ten minutes walk we hear a shell coming, bang at us, firing at a battery close by, but it is a small dud and it goes foot into the ground. As we approach nearer and nearer to W. Beach we hear their howls whining away overhead. They sound so harmless and seem to take quite a time sailing through the air, but the sound of them crashing on the beach rather inclines us to slacken our pace. On arriving the main supply depot, however, we quicken our pace and, passing through it, arrive at the wood stacks when we hear one of their whiners sailing over. Quickly we duck behind the wood as it bursts short of the supply depot. We get up and walk briskly to our dugout, and just as we descend the steps on the cliffside we hear another. We dive into Hislop's dugout precipitously as it bursts with a crash forty yards behind us. Afterwards a penis alongside number one pier is afire, set ablaze by a direct hit from a shell. Bed and we go to sleep hearing the shells explode in various parts of the beach at short intervals. Fortunately these shells do not reach the water's edge and cannot impede the final stage of the evacuation. It is only Asia that upsets this. January 3rd. Some of the staff of the main supply depot have now left. Last night some animals, including the army transport cart mules were evacuated. They are lead, coaxed, and whipped on to the lighters from the piers. The lighters are then towed out to the waiting ships, which have come in under the cover of darkness, and the animals are slung on board. It is strenuous work for those detailed for the job, especially with a heavy swell. The personnel are sent off from the beach and they do not waste time hanging about the open spaces of the beach, but make for the cover of the river Clyde and the fort as soon as possible. The man with the trumpet is kept busy giving warning against Asia's shells. Weekly men are being hurried off. Surplus kit, office records also. Forward reserves of ammunition are being placed in the Eski lines, which run across the peninsula, and each man and machine gun has a reserve of small ammunition. Also a reserve is kept on the beaches. On the last day our division will have about three thousand men left. We start eating into our seven days forward reserves today. The Egyptian shepherds who provided meat for the drabbies of the mule corps with their sheep have left today. The casualties from shellfire are becoming more and more frequent on the beaches now. The eighty-sixth brigade leave tonight, and the balance of those men who were prevented from getting off by the rough sea of last night. In fact, many men had to leave by daylight this morning, risking the Turks' observation. The French try a very clever ruse by lighting a stack of hay, which, smoldering only, causes heavy columns of smoke to drift over Seidel Bar and away out over the straits, which enables them to ship quite a lot of animals under its screen in broad daylight. Enemy aeroplanes are busy trying to get over to the beaches all day, but are successfully kept at bay by our anti-aircraft guns and aeroplane patrols. A strong wind is blowing from the northeast, and it looks like a change in the weather, causing anxiety to us all. As usual, all to-day and continuing tonight, the beaches and their approaches have been heavily shelled. Our monitors have been energetically replying. January 4. This morning we have intermittent shelling in twos and threes and in fits and starts. Just before lunch, while standing at the door of our dugout on the top of the cliff, I see a destroyer come right in shore, and swinging round quickly, she anchors. I see a group of naval and military officers on deck, who climb down the companion into a penis, which takes them to number one pier. I turn my glasses on to them, and see that the party consists of General Birdwood, the army commander, and Admiral, two naval and two army officers. They slowly walk along the pier, and I cannot help feeling anxious for them, for Asia has put one of her beauties close to number one pier a short while before. They turn to the left and walk along the road at the foot of the cliffs. Just as they are passing immediately beneath our bivvy, two Howitzer shells burst with a deafening report on the beach. General Birdwood never turns his head, but I notice that the two other officers following behind look anxiously over their shoulders. They go up to eighth core headquarters, and after lunch a conference is held. Afterwards, General Birdwood sends over to the Mulecart core on the high ground between W and V Beach, for an old native officer whom he has known for many years in India. He is a fine old man, and a splendid type of the loyal native soldier. Of course he was overcome with delight at meeting the general once more, who told him to assure all the native drivers and their non-commissioned officers with the MuleCore that our evacuation was a strategical move made for the best, and not in any way to be interpreted as a disaster. The native mind is so different from our own, and though they are as loyal as any of our troops, one feels anxious to prevent them from losing their confidence. As a result of the conference, the progress of the stages of the evacuation must be speeded up. Personnel and animals must at all costs be dealt with first, and as the sands are running low, it will now be necessary to begin evacuating animals by day and risk the shelling. This morning the sea has been dead calm and perfect for our purpose, but the navies say that they expect a southerly gale. We, of course, dread a southerly gale. It is a very trying and anxious time, and the shelling is now almost continuous. Certainly only a few guns are turned onto the beaches, but sufficient to upset and impede our work. Six shells may come over from the Howitzers on Achi at ten, three from Asia at eleven, four from Achi at eleven thirty, then from twelve to one, probably twenty from Achi and Asia, all onto the camps and depots in the confined space of W. Beach. All the while casualties occur. As a contrast, the evacuations of Suvla and Anzac were child's play to that of Hellas. The monitors are busy replying, and I think cause their guns to stop now and again. All the afternoon the beach gets shelled. Asia now and again puts some very nasty ones over near our Bivouac, and once we all had to take cover in two tunnels in the side of the cliff to our left, where they have been quarrying for stone. At eight p.m. a gale springs up, and the embarkation is greatly hampered. They found it impossible to embark the mules on the transport when the lighters arrived alongside. One lighter, loaded with mules, carts, and drivers, breaks away and quickly goes drifting out to sea towards Asia, becoming lost in the darkness of the night. All night we get shelled every quarter of an hour. January 5. It is very windy and the sea rough, yet the evacuation of animals proceeds by day as well as by night, regardless of whether we are seen or not. But a large number of animals will, I am afraid, have to be left, and in consequence will be killed on the last day. I do not know which day Z-day is, but I hear that it has been postponed in consequence of the rough sea. The shelling is as bad as ever on the beaches. Now, in addition to guns on Achi and on the Asiatic side opposite Morto Bay, a four-gun Turkish battery comes into position by Khamkali and manages to reach the water's edge of W-beach and V-beach with Shrapnel. But a monitor quickly getting onto it very soon silences it. No enemy gun can ever be in position on this point for long. Asia gives us a bad time in the afternoon, and puts some nasty ones near our Bivouac, and again we have to take refuge in the tunnel. Monitors are busy bombarding Achi and a cruiser with an airplane up, spotting for her, his hard at work trying to find the Asiatic gun. Enemy airplanes as usual make persevering endeavors to come over W-beach, but each time are driven off by our airmen. Our anti-aircraft guns never hit anything. The enemy aircraft now try to fly over W-beach by approaching it from the sea, and many an exciting chase and duel is daily witnessed between our planes and theirs, ours always holding mastery of the air. The sea is getting calmer, and at night an odd shell comes over at intervals of half an hour or so. The lighter loaded with the mules and their drivers, which broke a drift yesterday owing to the rough sea, drifted fortunately onto rabbit islands, and her freight was picked up by a monitor. January 6. A lovely calm morning. The shelling has quieted down considerably. I think the monitors have been frightening the Turkish gunners somewhat. Also Asia is not worrying us, thank God, and yesterday's bombardment from the cruiser has probably done a lot of good. The sea is like glass, and the conditions are perfect for evacuation. The same policy is being followed in getting the last troops off on z-night, as was followed at Suvla, but quantities of material, ordinance, and Royal Engineer's stores will have to be left. The reserve ammunition in the keeps on the beaches on the last night will be blown up just before we leave. Enemy airplanes are over in the morning, showing great daring and keeping our airmen very busy. The beaches are crowded with mules, wagons, and fatigue parties, hard at work at loading the lighters. There is no attempt at concealing what we are doing, but the Turk does not know which night is our last, and if we can manage to keep him in ignorance, then we can get off the last night without a rear-guard action being fought, for John Turk does not like leaping over the top. Our monitors, destroyers, and two cruisers keep the Turkish artillery much quieter than they were a few days ago, though at intervals they give us a very bad time on the beaches. A large number of personnel go off, including the 29th Division train, with all their animals. Only myself, the adjutant, and one or two other officers, and a handful of men are left to stand by, in case the last day is delayed, and troops require food. At present all on shore are rationed up to next Tuesday night. All the Greeks have left. January 7. It is another beautiful morning, and the wind is in the northeast. We had some rain in the night, and in consequence the ground is rather muddy. All transport is now under the control of the Eighth Core Transport Depot. The shooting of those animals, which it will not be possible to get off tonight, will be begun and finished off tomorrow, and all vehicles left will be destroyed. This morning I walk up with Hislop to Division headquarters. As we pass the stationery hospital, we see a cluster of mules wandering about, grazing on the scanty grass that is still growing in odd patches on the plateau. We hear the whistle of a shell, which proves a very small one and a dud, and which falls in the middle of them with a foot. They jump about a bit, and then calmly go on smelling for grass. Soon after another follows, also a dud. Evidently the Turkish gunner who has fired is a sportsman, and has made a bet with another that he will get a bullseye first shot. Soon after we hear the whine overhead of the Howitzer shells, traveling seemingly to W. Beach, fired in grim earnest, and not as a sporting shot, like the two duds at the mules. Looking at the gunnery from the Turkish gunner's point of view, it must have been all through this campaign a sort of series of field days for them, with their guns in position on commanding heights, and with the targets nearly always open sights and on the lowlands. It is fortunate for us that only lately they have been receiving regular supplies of good ammunition. If they had had the artillery that the Germans had before Ypres, 24 hours on any single day throughout the eight months that we have been here would have turned the campaign in favor of Turkey, and meant utter defeat and unconditional surrender for us, as we are therefore at the end of it all, and shall soon once more hand back to Turkey the remaining insignificant few acres of ground that we had captured and held after so much gallantry, endurance, and bloodshed, we must be thankful and congratulate ourselves that we are disentangled from the quagmire with our army intact. I may have spoken too soon, but if we are as fortunate as we were at Suvla, we can disappear in a night, although the enemy knows we are going. We expect him to attack shortly to test our strength. If we hold him and inflict losses on him, that will keep him quiet for a day or so. During these days we have our great chance to evacuate without loss, and with our army intact. We get very busily shelled in the afternoon, several from Asia bursting within a few yards of our office, and one actually at the mouth of the tunnel which was crowded with men taking cover. While this is going on, the enemy make a concentrated bombardment on a part of our front line held by the Thirteenth Division and a part of the Eighty-Seventh Brigade. It lasts continuously from 3.30 p.m. to 5.30 p.m. and caused about a hundred and fifty casualties. At the end they made half-hearted attempts to leave their trenches to attack ours, but the few small parties that had the bravery to get out into no man's land were stopped dead by our machine-gun fire, and the show petered out. Now therefore is our chance, either to night or to-morrow. This afternoon's attack was probably made to test our strength, and as they suffered as much as we did, if not more, they will pause a while before attacking again. After this attack finished, the shelling on the beaches almost entirely ceased, and when night fell I was able in peace to start a job which proved very tedious, namely of putting operations, ammunition, and water in petrol cans into a dugout on W. Beach, where it would be useful in case of a rearguard action. The filling of the petrol cans is the tedious part of the job, the cans having to be let down by rope into the reservoir, which lies twenty yards from our dugout on the top of the cliff. While I am in the middle of this job, an order from Eight Corps Headquarters comes that I am to leave with all the Army Service Corps details tonight. As I have already received an order from Division Headquarters to go off to-morrow night, I reply that I am sending the men with remaining officers and am going with Division Headquarters to-morrow. I get two gallons of water, some bully, biscuits and cheese put in my dugout. I send all my kit off with my servant, who places some hay on the floor for my bed for this, my last, night, and go back to finish the job I am on. Tomorrow will be monotonous waiting for the evening with nothing to do, but I have a good book to read and plenty of tobacco, and the day will soon pass. I am to go off at six p.m. At ten p.m. a written order comes down from Eight Corps that I am to go off tonight with the others, for tomorrow is z-night, and the beaches must be cleared as far as possible of noncombatant details. I go to Eight Corps Signals and Telephone Division Headquarters, who say I can go. I finish the job of putting the water in cans in the keep at twelve midnight and go back to my dugout. All have left except five men. Two of them landed with me on W. Beach on the first day. January 8. It is now the beginning of z-day, and we three stand on W. Beach, waiting orders to go on number one pier. As we stand in the heavy sand, my thoughts immediately go back to the night of April 25, where in the same place as I am now standing we were laboring carrying boxes of supplies up the beach. I feel as if I have gone round in a complete circle. This is what has happened with the Gallipoli Campaign. It has indeed gone round in a complete circle. The beaches alive with troops and animals are being feverishly embarked. About two hundred have been shot tonight, though, and some men actually cried as they performed that horrid task. Fortunately there is little shelling. One now and again bursts on the high ground of the beach. A military landing officer comes along the pier and instructs us to file along on board. We pass up the pier, up a gangway, over one of the sunken ships, and onto a small ship moored on the further side. The five non-commissioned officers go to their quarters, and I go to the ward room, where my name and particulars of my command, strength numbering five, are taken. And then I have a whiskey and soda and a cigar. Phew! The relief. W. Beach, the last few weeks. Let's forget about it. 2.30 am. The ship is now nearly full up with troops, and an officer comes in to say we are off. I go up on deck and find that they are just weighing anchor. It is tricky work getting a ship away from improvised piers. The captain is the same naval officer who used to command the Whitby Abbey, which took me to Lemnos and back in July last. Tomorrow night will be his last trip to Gallipoli. At last, after a lot of maneuvering, he shouts from the bridge, all clear aft, and a voice answers, I, I, sir, then full steam ahead, and we swing round and head out to sea. I watch the lights on shore gradually disappear, one I notice by eighth-core headquarters being at the top of a post flickers out and on as regularly as the ticking of a clock. What it means I don't know. I have noticed it before during the past few days. Asia fires to V. Beach, and Achi sends a couple which burst on the high ground at the back of W. Beach. The lights and the outskirts of the shore disappear. I still see the starlight sailing in the darkness of the night. These soon disappear. For me, the adventures of Gallipoli are no longer realities, but bad memories, and I turn into the wardroom to sleep. 8 a.m. We enter Mudos Harbor, chock full of warships and transports, those on board leaning over the side and marching us with interest. Eight and a half months have passed since those days in April before the landing, and the scenes are almost the same today. It seems eight and a half years ago. I go ashore and meet a friend at one of the supply depots who makes me a guest of the mess. We have a cheery evening. January 9. We hear the good news that the evacuation went off splendidly. It was a perfect day. The beaches were shelled as usual at intervals by day, but our monitors, destroyers, and two cruisers kept their fire under. The Turks apparently appeared to have expended their energies on the seventh and kept quiet. The program followed at Suvala was followed at Helis. At 6 p.m. the final stage of getting the men off was started, and they were rapidly shipped immediately as they arrived at the forming of posts. The beaches were shelled fitfully, and casualties in consequence occurred, but they can only be put down as normal casualties, which have been daily occurring through the enemy artillery activity. The last parties in the line were got away by the same procedure as was followed at Suvala, passing down the roads, their passage being telephoned to the beaches by the officers on duty at the gates. So well managed was it, that it was found possible to get many troops off in advance of the scheduled time of departure. Division headquarters embarked by motor launch on to the HMS Prince George, an enemy submarine was about, and discharged a torpedo at the Prince George, but by wonderful luck it failed to explode, but shook the ship from bow to stern. At 2.30 a.m. all men had gone, only animals were left and vehicles, and I think some animals were left to fall into the Turks' hands alive. January 10. Go on board the Scotian with division headquarters, 29th Division, and part of the 29th Division. January 11. Leave Mudros Harbor at 8. They find and comfortable boat, troops in good spirits, boat-drill at 10.30 a.m., submarine look out all round ship, boat-drill at 4.00 p.m., three spy prisoners on board, two Greeks and one other, one Greek sitting in corner of deck telling his beads all the time, the others walk up and down looking very serious. Serious cases and things look very black for them. January 12. Beautiful day, zigzagging a lot to avoid submarines, doing fifteen knots, steer cast in mourning towards Palestine, afternoon head for Alexandria with a zigzagging course. January 13. Arrive Alexandria Harbor at 6 o'clock in the morning, Arabs come on board and sell papers, have a curiously delightful feeling of homecoming. Alexandria seems just like home now after all those months in Gallipoli, harbor full of troop ships, go into the town in the afternoon, delightful walking about the shops and civilization again, send cable home, back on ship again for dinner. 8.30 p.m., embark on troop train, cattle trucks mostly, I sleep with Grant and Firth divisional signal officer in luggage van, damned uncomfortable journey. January 14. We arrive at a junction at 9 a.m. and hear that an engine is off the line at the next station, broken down dirty Arab village just opposite and an oasis, nothing else but sandy desert. Wait all day and have to wire for rations. New Zealand Army Service Corps comes to our rescue with supplies. Issue same to troops on our train and also to another troop train behind us with troops on board from Ypres. Troops amuse themselves with football in the afternoon, much to the native's interest. Arab boys now and again join in, causing amusement. 8 o'clock in the evening we get up a smoking concert on the side of the line. I have been to some curious smoking concerts during the war, but this one, now on, will live in my memory. Desert, moonlight, troop trains lit up, a bit of a fire, and around, Tommy's fresh from Gallipoli enjoying the fun to the full. What a nation! We never had a chance at Gallipoli. Let's forget about it. 10 p.m. God save the king's song and then off to bed. January 15. Woke up at 12 midnight. Ration train arrives with rations for tomorrow in case we cannot get on. 2 a.m. Train ordered to move. Get up and load rations on to the train. Arrive Suez, 10 a.m., and go on to new camp. For last hour I did a bit of stoking on engine. Rather unique stoking an engine in an Egyptian desert. Arrive at large camp, the largest that I have ever been into. Tents everywhere laid out in perfect order. Coolies, Arabs, and Hindus unloading stores from trains, which arrive at frequent intervals on the single line running through the camp. Epilogue, January 20. Finds me in camp with a tent to myself and things working smoothly. Everything, as far as humanly possible, is ready for any eventuality. And the Turk, if he tries any tricks, will get his knuckles badly wrapped. The King's Own Scottish borders go by to the wild, inspiring strains of the pipes. Everything is bustle. Trained shunting, stores coming up, horsemen and guns moving into position. And there is an air of expectancy over everything. And so these random notes come to an end. I am back in camp with the horrors of the peninsula left behind me forever. Of those who sailed from England so lightheartedly in March, few are left, but those that remain are attached to each other by invisible fetters. Those strange months, dull and exciting, tragic and numerous, spent under the eye of the enemy on an alien shore, form a common bond between us. All of us now know the full meaning of life, and all of us have walked, not once, but many times, with death on the grim peninsula. We have been beaten, not so much by the enemy as by climatic and geographical conditions. But, beaten we are, and nothing remains but to accept defeat like sportsmen.