 Section 20 of Gallipoli Diary. Yes, I think evacuation has been definitely decided on. So our little camp has been built for nothing. However, it keeps us employed, for life is deadly dull. This, then, is to be the end, after all these months of blood and sweat, of feverish anticipation and dismal results, after all the toil, the hardships, and sorrows, with a little graveyards getting fuller and fuller every day as I have passed them. All this is for nothing, and we are leaving? I am glad, yet full of regrets, excited too at the prospect of getting back to civilization once more. Alexandria and all its delights will seem like paradise. The cozy dinners at the club, the shops, and the meeting with old friends left behind. These are some of the emotions that I experience at the thought of evacuation. The wind is getting up once more, and the sea becomes stormy. The field ambulance receive orders to evacuate all patients at once to casualty clearing stations. At the clearing stations they are hard at work evacuating all cases onto the lighters for transmission to the hospital ships. Afternoon. The sea is very rough. A lighter full of sick and a few wounded has been moashed ashore. Two cases have been drowned. All further evacuation has stopped. The battleships are heavily bombarding Turkish positions. Over imbrose black clouds, heavy with rain, are sailing towards us. We are in for a dirty night. We are in the middle of loading our army transport carts when heavy spots of rain drop, and looking up we see the sky getting blacker and blacker with storm clouds. Luckily issuing is nearly finished. The transport of many of the battalions has moved off when a flash of forked lightning rushes from the sky to the sea, and almost instantly a deafening crash of thunder bursts overhead. This flash is followed by another and another, and then several in different parts of the sky stab the black clouds at the same moment. The rain gently begins to hiss. The hiss getting louder and louder, developing into a noise like the sound of loudly escaping steam, until, as if the clouds have all burst together, water deluges the earth in a soaking torrent. Black night soon falls upon us, changing at short intervals momentarily in today as the forked flashes of lightning stab the earth, sky, and sea. The beachmen bending double under the downfall of water and the struggle against the wind as they walk appear in vivid detail and disappear in the fraction of a second as the lightning plays overhead. Soon a pouring torrent of water a foot deep is raging down the gullies, turning the ravines large and small down the slopes of the hill into rushing cascades, washing away dugouts as if they were paper, and filling to the brim every crevice and hollow on the lower land. The new camps of trenches into which men have rushed for shelter are half filled with water, which in less than an hour overflows the drains on either side that we had dug to prevent such an event happening. All the weary weeks of engineered labor lost in a short time. I go back to our new dugout and meet a sorry sight. Our cookhouse wherein our dinner was being prepared washed off the face of the earth. The roof and the back part of the mess room had fallen in, covering furniture with mud and debris, and flooding the floor with water six inches deep. I have to go to the core transport depot about some water carts for the trenches, so taking my torch I cross the gully. The rain is pouring in torrents, and as I walk the rushing water from the hills washes round my feet high above my ankles. Parts of dugouts, boxes, men's kits, etc., come floating down on top of the rushing stream. The thunder crashes overhead and my torch is unnecessary for the incessant flashes of fork lightning illuminate my way. The wind beating against my face takes my breath away, and makes the climb up the high slope exhausting. I arrive at the mess dugout of the ninth core transport. Their dugout is intact, for it is on steeply sloping ground, but their floor is over six inches deep in water. They are all sitting at dinner with gum boots on and are a merry party. Afterwards I climb to division headquarters, arriving breathless. Back in our dugout the storm still raging appears to go round and round in circles, first dying off somewhat, then rushing back with renewed fury. It runs its wild course till about eight o'clock, when it seems to pass away over Sarri Bear, leaving heavy clouds pouring their burden of rain into the flooded gullies and trenches. Towards nine the downfall slackens and shortly after stars become visible, and the black clouds gradually roll away over the hills of Gallipoli. We have a meal of bully beef and bread, for our dinner has been washed away and no hot food is possible. The wind from the northwest still blows with great violence, and it becomes steadily colder and colder. Two of our dugouts are intact, and we turn into these and get off to sleep, wondering if the drainage system in the trenches has answered its demands. November 27th. We wake up to find a drizzly rain falling, blown by a strong north wind. Mud is everywhere, and the whole of the beaches a quagmire. What were once dugouts are now large puddles full of water. The system of trenches for winter quarters across the various gullies and nullas has ceased to exist. Many of these are full to the brim with water. All have water and mud covering their floors. Twelve men taking shelter in their trench, which was roofed by corrugated iron, and which is situated in the gully in which we lived up to a week ago, have been drowned by the roof collapsing. We have orders to send up medical comforts. We send them up by army transport carts. For the first time a convoy of army transport carts is seen on the Gibraltar Road in broad daylight. A gale develops in the afternoon. Elphinstone and I go up to hill ten. The road is in many parts under water, and the whole a bog of wet, tenacious clay that clings to one's boots and almost pulls their heels off as one raises each foot. What before was a pleasant country walk is now a hard, exhausting, slow treadmill made in a gale that one has to determinately bend one's back to to make any headway at all. Last night the pack mules had the greatest difficulty in getting the rations up, and one or two that fell into ravines were drowned. We call at the West Riding Royal Engineers, and in Major Bailey's dugout I find the floor a foot deep in water, and Major Bailey perched up on a table, his feet resting on a ledge of the dugout, endeavouring to get warm from an oil-drum fire. He appears as cheery as ever. In fact, every time I see him he is always merry and bright, evidently a habit and a habit worth cultivating. We arrange the position of the new ration dump, though it is difficult to find cover for it. A line of bushes is the only protection we can find. We go over to the Dublin camp in the reserve trenches by hill ten, and, of course, it is flooded and the men in a wretched condition. We see the officer in charge about fatigues for the unloading of rations. As we come away we meet Colonel Fuller, our first General Staff Officer, who asks as to the conditions of the roads on our left, and we cannot give him anything but a bad report. We continue our way past the barbed wire and second-line trenches to the 86th and 88th Brigade Headquarters. Turkish artillery is dead quiet, and hardly a rifle shot is to be heard. Both Brigade Headquarters have withstood the storm well, protected as they are by the small hills on the side of which they have been constructed, the ground sloping away in front. At the 86th Brigade we hear that our trenches on the lowland have been flooded to the brim, and in some parts are now completely under water. Centuries are lying flat in the mud and water outside, behind the trenches, watching the enemy, and in full view of him. There they lie, keeping guard, under such conditions as have hardly been known before, sniped at now and again, and occasionally becoming casualties. The 86th being in the lowest trenches suffered the worst, for suddenly as their trenches became knee-deep in water, a torrent burst into a sap head, and in a few minutes had swallowed up the first line, the dugouts and communication trenches. Men floundered about, swarmed here and there, and clambered out onto the open. A few less fortunate were drowned. Could it ever have been imagined that men would drown in a trench? This has now happened, and their bodies lie half floating, half resting on the bottom of the trench, waiting to be dragged out when nightfall comes. In this terribly cold northerly wind, gradually beginning to freeze, those waiting sentries with their clothes soaking wet through, watch for the enemy, who probably is worse off than we are, as often as possible they are relieved, the relief creeping up in the broad, open, chancing the snipers easy shot. As we talk, a man comes past, leaning on the arms of two royal army medical corpsmen, who are taking him back to the advanced dressing station a little way back. His face is blue and swollen, and his teeth chattering as if with fever. We go round to the headquarters of the 88th Brigade and ask for instructions as to what to send up in the way of food and medical comforts. In talking to General Cayley, we make the remark that we are glad that his dugout has not been washed away, but immediately feel reproved for having said this by his replying that, it is not his dugout, but the poor chaps in the trenches that he worries about, because he can do nothing for them. It takes us about a quarter of the time to get back, for the wind literally blows us along, and it is difficult for us to keep our feet in the sticky mud. Once I slip while negotiating the side of a deep puddle and fall backwards into it, much to the amusement of some passing gunners. At night it steadily becomes colder and colder, and the driving misty rain turns to snow, a northerly cold blizzard setting in. I am up late arranging about the carting of the rations and blankets to the sea of mud that was once our trenches. It is freezing cold, but we shiver the more when we think of those men lying out in the open behind our front line. November 28. We wake up to find it bitterly cold, and a northerly blizzard driving with great force down the hill. A staff officer comes into our dugout early and instructs me to get as many medical comforts as possible in the way of rum, brandy, milk, oxo, etc., up to the line. I go down to the main supply depot, and there find shelters made of boxes and sail covers built as temporary hospitals. They are full of men frostbitten in legs, arms, and faces, who lie in great distress, suffering agonies as their blood warms up and circulates to the frozen parts of their bodies. A hospital ship is standing quite close in shore off West Beach, but five hundred yards from the pier, the closest a hospital ship has moved to the beaches as yet. Hotsle, the officer commanding, a temporary Army Service Corps major, does all he can for me, and I call her all the comforts and fuel I can lay my hands on. There is a plentiful supply in spite of the heavy demands of yesterday. Again, as yesterday, these are conveyed up by daylight, and yet the Turks do not shell us. We are extraordinarily free from shellfire. Our line is held very thinly, only by forward parts, relieved in daylight at frequent intervals regardless of snipers. Last night the frost was severe, and the men lying out in the mud behind the soaking trenches suffered the greatest hardship that a soldier could endure, namely to lie out in the soaking clothes which freeze stiff in a biting wind while the temperature rapidly falls to below zero. The enemy is more inactive than he has ever been, showing that he has suffered as badly as we have, if not worse. In front of the eighty-sixth brigade the Turks hold slightly higher ground than we do, and I think that they must have opened one or two of their sap heads when the trenches were flooded, thus allowing the water to rush over to our side, engulfing all our first-line dugouts and communication trenches. The gale blowing down from the northeast today is the fiercest that I have known, for as well as being biting cold, it drives stinging sleep before it with terrific force. As I talk to an officer on the hill of Ninth Kor Gully outside my dugout, I have to stand with my legs wide apart, bending my body against the wind to prevent myself from being blown backwards on the frozen ground. Many Turkish prisoners have come in, in as bad a state of collapse as our men. Last night a party of forty came over unmolested as far as the gully behind our support trenches. Seeing some of our men crowding around a coke-brazier, endeavoring to get warm, they walked up to them with hands up, but were shoot away like a lot of sheep by our half-frozen Tommies, who advised them to get the hell out of it. Pondering they walked over towards the Salt Lake and were taken in by the casualty clearing station on Bee Beach. This morning, if you have died, officers in the line, if they were not on march, were huddled together all night, endeavoring to get warmth from each other's bodies. Ration carts were unable to get to many parts of the line owing to the mud and water in places being over the axles of the wheels. Quantities of rum and rations were lost in the mud. Telephone communication broke down, and many men, cut off from the rest and having to watch the enemy, froze and died at their posts. Today walking cases are streaming and staggering down the roads from the trenches to advanced dressing stations, from advanced dressing stations to the casualty clearing station, which is rapidly becoming overcrowded. Such an influx of cases has come in so unexpectedly that the staff is unable to deal with them quickly. Frozen and frostbitten men continually stagger in, collapse on the damp floors of the tents and marquees, exhausted to wait their turn for medical attention. The sea is rough and it is impossible to get the cases off to the hospital ship. One lighter has been swamped and a few cases drowned. Motor lorries are busy plying between the casualty clearing station and west beach all day, for the casualty clearing station is crowded out. More improvised shelters have been put up in the main supply depot, in the ordnance marquees, and in dugouts on the beaches. Three exhausted men staggering down the Gibraltar Road to the advanced dressing station are a unique party. Linking arms they painfully stumble along to the refuge of a dressing station, where on arrival they are received with surprise and interest, for two are British Tommies and the third a Turk, all allies against a common enemy. 7 p.m. Colonel Pearson, officer commanding Lancashire Fusiliers of Lancashire Landing fame, visits us in an exhausted state, his clothes damp and sodden. We provide him with an outfit of dry clothes, gathered from our respective kits. He talks about going back to his regiment tonight, which is sheltering in the commander-royal engineer's nulla by our forward ration dump. But I think soon he will collapse altogether and have to be evacuated. He was all last night holding a portion of our flooded, sodden and freezing line. At night horn and eye go on to cart some of the rations from the commander-royal engineer dump to hill ten by army transport carts. On arrival at the camp of the royal Dublin Fusiliers we find a poor, shivering fatigue party waiting for us. I had expected to find these men in a miserable condition, for their camp has suffered heavily in the storm, and even the best built dugouts have been washed entirely away. We have brought with us whisky bottles filled with rum and water. As the last cart is unloaded we hand the bottles to the sergeant, who calls the men up one at a time. They come forward eagerly as each name is called, Private Murphy, Private O'Brien, etc., and drink a taut from the bottle handed to them. It is amusing to watch them standing, waiting their turn with keen anticipation for a pull at the bottle under the superintendents of their watchful sergeant, who regulates fair play in the length of the drink by interrupting an extra long one by snatching the bottle from the man's mouth now and again. As we go away several of the men shout, the blessings of Jesus be on you, sir, in a Dublin Brogue, and we leave the poor devils to shiver in the camp the rest of the night. We are delayed in our return by a chase after two mules, which we capture after much difficulty amongst gorse bushes, trees, and boulders. Calling in at the Australian's dugout on Kangaroo Beach, we see them sitting round a welcome-log fire, and as we warm ourselves, a figure covered in a blanket, his head swathed in a cloth, creeps in stealthily like a cat. He is a half-frozen drabby, edging towards the fire to warm himself. An Australian makes him understand that he had better go back to his camp and orders him out. He creeps out, but after a pause I see him come back stealthily once more, unnoticed by the others, and sit at the back of the stove on his haunches, his hands spread out for warmth. He is at last noticed, but someone says, let the poor devil be, and we go on talking, taking no notice of him. November 29th. The gale is still heavy, but the blizzard has stopped. The sky is clear overhead, but it is freezing hard, and the steady stream of casualties from the storm still continues to be evacuated. The whole countryside has frozen hard. All day we are hard at work sending up comforts to the line and to the commander-royal engineers' nulla, and nursing the casualties who have arrived in our little camp. The wind is slackening a little, and in consequence the sea is going down. Advantage is therefore being taken of this to thin down the overcrowded casualty clearing station and the many improvised shelters which are overflowing with cases. The hospital ship is standing close in shore, only five hundred yards off West Beach. My visits to division headquarters on the top of the hill above our gully are made to-day with great exertion in the teeth of the bitterly cold gale, and I arrive at the top each time absolutely exhausted. Before I go into the deputy assistant quartermaster general's little dugout, which is his office and bedroom combined, I have to sit down on a boulder to recover my breath. Horn and I go up with the army transport carts to take more of the forward reserve rations from the commander-royal engineers' nulla over to the left of hill ten, for two forward dumps have to be made of equal numbers of rations, and the one we have now is therefore being halved. Hill ten is a position of which several of our batteries have taken advantage, and in consequence is a favorite target of the Turkish gunners. One veritably walks on a surface of shrapnel bullets around this hill, lying like pebbles on the shore. On arrival at the nulla we find that all the supply boxes, with their tarpaulin covers, have been built up to form a large improvised dressing station. They are full of cases of frostbite and exhaustion. From all around comes the sound of men groaning. And so the carting of rations to hill ten is off to-night. As I walk back I hear a groaning voice calling, Mother, Mother! And peering through the darkness of the night, I see the form of a man lying under a gorse-bush. Poor devil, his mother to whom he calls is, probably, knitting him socks at home. We carry him along to the eighty-ninth field ambulance dressing station, just to the right of the nulla, having to negotiate a muddy brook on the way. We walk back fast to get up a circulation, and find on arrival that a nice fire has been kept up. The roads are hardening with the frost. This will aid the solution of the transport difficulties which have been almost insuperable during these awful last few days, for the wind has been so strong as to almost prevent the use of the light-motor ambulance, and horse-transporters restricted, owing, I find, to animals having already been evacuated just before the storm. November thirtieth. We awake to find the gale has died away. It is a cool, beautiful day, with not a cloud in the sky. In fact, the sun is beaming warm. It is hard to believe that we have just passed through a terrible blizzard. The beach is crowded with cases of frostbite waiting for evacuation, which is rapidly going on now. Men lie about everywhere on the beaches, with their limbs swathed in bundles of bandages. Many cases are serious, and not a few will lose their limbs. The main supply depot is now a large hospital of shelters built of boxes and sail covers. All over the beaches men are hunting around for lost property buried in the mud. Dugouts and trenches are being drained of the remaining water. The beaches are gradually becoming themselves again. The division has suffered heavily. On the inspection of the Royal Fusiliers today, one company, on being called to attention, proved to be a company consisting of Captain Guy, a Sergeant Major, and a Private. Captain Guy shouted, Sergeant Major, call the company to attention. The Sergeant Major then shouted, W. COMPANY SHIN. And the one man left, who was the company cook, sprang to attention. Guy, 45 years of age, and who at the best of times could not be called robust looking, stuck this storm through at his post in the trenches, which are situated on the lowest ground, trenches which in consequence suffered the worst of all, until he was relieved. He told me after that on coming back on relief, he came to a small nulla, and that he was so weak and finished that he actually cried like a child before he could summon up the willpower to get across that little brook, which at ordinary times he would have cleared at a leap. Later, the evacuation of Suvla, which was decided on before the storm and then cancelled, I believe has now been finally decided on. Parties are now hard at work at night, improving the second line, which stretches behind our first line on the same latitude as our Commander Royal Engineer's dump across the Gibraltar Road and over to Hill 10. A third line is being dug just a short way in on the mainland from W Beach, and over the hill of the promontory a fourth line also. Our dugout is now being rapidly repaired, and the dugouts behind on the higher ground, one storey higher, are now finished. All the dugouts are built together as a whole, really forming a picturesque house. On the ground floor, up a short path bordered by little gorse bushes and a rockery, one enters our mess room, finished with a table, armchairs, and a stove made from an oil drum. Two smaller rooms lead out from the left and two from the right. One is the clerk's office, in which he sleeps, and the other three are each occupied by Horn, Elphinstone, and myself. Next to our dugouts on the same level are the dugouts of the quartermasters of a few regiments, which are built on the same scale as ours, but separated by a flight of about a dozen steps, running up in a bend to a row of smaller dugouts, which house the non-commissioned officers of our supply section, a few quartermaster sergeants, regimental non-commissioned officers, and the two brigade postal staffs. Opposite in the gully, as the trenches that we had made are now damaged beyond repair by the recent storm, the remainder of the men live in shelters made from sail covers and tarpaulins with shrapnel-proof roofs built in places where boulders and mounds of earth protect them from high explosive shells. Behind us is an Egyptian encampment situated in full view of the Turks among rocks and boulders, but as they sleep most of the day, working only at night digging on the beaches, they cause very little movement to be seen by the enemy, and in consequence have been very little shelled. If a shell does come near them, however, they make no bones about running as far away as possible, chattering like a lot of chickens. All day cases of frozen men, now happily diminishing in number, are being shipped off. It was the most terrible storm I have ever witnessed. 1915. December 1st. A beautiful day but very cold. Turks shell the beaches pretty heavily in the morning and afternoon with high explosive and cause some casualties. Quite a new kind of shell, I think, and from new guns. One shell hits our depot, smashing our clerk's office, but fortunately nobody is hurt. Point Dester of the Munsters, a charming boy, comes to spend a few days with us. He was out on the parapet during the night of the storm and was carried back unconscious, but is now quite fit again. Times are rather anxious just at present. Troops arrive this morning to reinforce. Evacuation of stores and equipment proceeding full steam ahead. 22 December. Drafts arrive for the 29th Division. A beautiful day and not too cold. Turks busy with shrapnel. Go up to Brigade headquarters with Horn, while up there Turks shell beaches. Suddenly they open fire with two guns and shower of five-nine shrapnel along the new second-line trenches which we have just passed. We have not had this five-nine shrapnel since October 27th. About forty shells come over in rapid succession too at a time. I hope they do not pepper the beaches with them. The ground is still damp after the flood. We are warned to expect many of these floods and blizzards. We pass General Bing and staff while up at Brigade. General Cayley still as cheery as ever. Everybody busy repairing damaged dugouts. Work of evacuation proceeding very well. I wonder if John Turk can see. We have the advantage of the piers and beaches being under cover. December 3. We now hear a rumor that we are not evacuating at all, and that only the 29th are going. But I do not believe this. We learn this rumor from Sergeant Jones of Jones's Water Dump. Every day rumors are circulated from Sergeant Jones's dugout on A Beach. All day officers and men who pass call in here and say, Good morning, or good evening, Jones, what is the latest rumor? They are invited to sit down while Jones tells the latest and best that he has heard from all sources, trenches, navy, and beaches. I have seen at one time in Jones's dugout a brigadier, major, and two captains and a corporal all sitting around the oil-stove fire while Sergeant Jones at his table is eating his supper. As an officer comes in, Jones stands up saying, Good evening, sir, what can I do for you? If it is water required, then that worry has to be settled. If it is an ordinary call at this half-way house, then the officer is invited to sit down by the fire. Jones adding, if he should be at supper, will you excuse me going on with my supper, won't you, sir? One night he said to me, May I press you to a plate of porridge, sir? We do not look upon him as a soldier or a non-commissioned officer. It is difficult to describe how we regard him. He is popular with everybody, and all the officers, after a while, fall into the same manner of dealing and talking with him. Personally, I feel my relations with him are as they would be to the landlord of a familiar roadside inn. A beach, now being deserted, all and sundry with the exception of Jones being shelled out. Jones has to remain there, for this beach is the only possible place for a water-dump. Dugout and dump remind me of a lonely roadside inn, where I call on my journeys between the beaches and the line. He gets shelled now and again, and has had some remarkably lucky escapes. Men have been killed right and left of him. But most of the drawing of the water is done under the cover of the night. Happily for our division the water question has been nearly solved by our engineers finding wells behind our part of the line, although we still have to draw water by cart from Jones to augment the supply from the forward wells. Other divisions, however, are not so fortunate. They continue to nightly draw water from Jones for the troops in the line and reserve nullas by all kinds of receptacles and cart it up on army transport carts. Scotch mist and drizzly rain all day, hardly any shelling on our front or on part of Turks. More drafts for twenty-ninth division arrive. We are now making a rest-camp in one of the nullas, where men can change their clothes in case the weather gets bad again. December 4. A very calm day, cold, cloudy, and dull. All last night there was quite a lot of rifle fire and bombing. Starting at daybreak Turks get very busy with shrapnel, of which they appear to have plenty. At midday they are bombarding our position very energetically. We reply and the battleships join in. In the afternoon our neighborhood is shelled with these new high explosive shells, one shell dropping in our supply depot, but no one is hurt. Dusk and all is quiet. A relief. Poindesta leaves Peninsula. Lucky devil! We have shipped off to-day a lot of base kits, surplus baggage, ordnance stores, and even food supplies by means of the army transport carts, and on the tramway running in the sunken trench. Army transport carts returning empty from the trenches have been bringing large quantities of surplus kit and stores away during the last few nights. Under the cover of the protecting mounds of earth they have been offloaded onto lighters, which with no attempt to disguise their intentions have been towed out to supply ships. Making fast on the side away from the enemy their cargo being loaded by the ship's derricks into the various holds. Very little of this work has been done so far, but it is obvious to all that we are evacuating in the near future. I can't describe our feelings. Up to a short time ago stores were being busily unloaded day and night, and now the reverse is happening. It is as if a high commander had suddenly shouted the order, as you were. December 5. Heavy gunning all day by both sides, very heavy and continuous. From twelve to one the Turks give us a general bombardment, and we get our share in our little camp. Men's cookhouse wrecked, but no one heard. The cook happens to be at the depot a hundred yards down the gully, drawing rations. It is evident that the Turks are now getting regular supplies of ammunition, probably direct from Germany. We are looking to Russia. If only she can come through Romania and attack Bulgaria in the rear and cut off Turkey, Turkey is finished. We get rumors that she is through, and are rather looking towards her as a besieged city looks towards its deliverers. Snipers busy just now on account of the exposed position of our washed-out trenches. Fresh drafts arrive for the twenty-ninth. Is it to be an evacuation for all, or is the twenty-ninth only going? If so, why do drafts arrive for the twenty-ninth? December 6. A very beautiful day. Turks busy shelling us. We reply energetically. One continued war of guns all day. Our beaches shelled midday and late afternoon. But very few casualties, the mounds of earth affording excellent cover, and all shells are high explosive, no shrapnel. Trenches are still in a muddy state in low land. At night we shelled their positions. December 7. A very beautiful, cool day. But it is getting colder. Turks start shelling us early. Their shells are much improved and are evidently new. Horn and I start off to brigade headquarters after lunch, walking up our gully. We pass a boxing match in full swing. I do not think that the men know anything of the evacuation. I hear unofficially that it has been postponed indefinitely. Perhaps it is off altogether. We appear to be getting through the winter so well, that perhaps it might be as well to stick these storms and not give up this job of forcing the Dardanelles, which, if successful, would mean so much to the cause of the allies. As we near the top of the gully we hear the boom of a gun, coming from the direction in which we are walking. It is the first time that a shell for the beach has come from this direction. By its sound I know instinctively that the beastly thing is coming down very near us. I shout to Horn, drop flat, and both of us fall beside a prickly gorse bush as the thing bursts with a deafening explosion on the high ground on our right. We get to our feet and look back at the boxing match, and cannot help being amused at the way the Tommys have quickly cleared or lain down with the instinct of veterans of the beaches. The combatants in the ring who have paused resume their match. The crowd again collects, continually being added to by a stream of men coming over the skyline from the next gully. This should draw Turkey's fire, and sure enough it does, for as we reach the hill at the top of the gully we hear another coming. We duck behind a boulder as it passes over our heads, and bursts twenty yards our side of the boxing ring. This clears the crowd and ends the match for the day. The Turks cannot see the gully, but they know that men are collecting there by the procession of them streaming over the skyline of the promontory. As we walk on towards the eighty-eighth field ambulance about four more shells scream over the hill to the gully, which by this time is deserted, and as we sit in the ambulance waiting for a friend who is walking up with us to the brigade headquarters, the Turks increase their range and send a few nice, fat, juicy ones over to the beaches. Leaving the ambulance, we walk down the slope to the Gibraltar Road and meet Grant, our third general staff officer, who has just come back from the trenches. He is in shorts caked with mud up to his knees and thickly bespattered over the rest of his body, which gives evidence of the present state of the trenches, even though it is over ten days since the storm. He tells us that in fifteen minutes we are going to open fire with all guns on to the unfortunate pimple. We continue our way up the Gibraltar Road, when at four o'clock precisely the ship's guns were they roar that makes me jump, for I am again walking in a direct line from which they are firing, fire, and the great shells screaming overhead can be seen bursting with great violence on the insignificant geographical formation. Almost at once all shore batteries pour shells in rapid succession onto the small target of the pimple, which disappears from sight under a great cloud of drifting dust and smoke of all colors. Arriving at Brigade headquarters, we find McLaughlin on the roof of his dugout, looking at the show through glasses, and we join him. As is always the case when John Turk is being bombarded, the bullets become free and frequent, and overs begin to fly about us. We have tea with McLaughlin and sit around the nice brick open hearth in which a log fire is burning and chat. The general and Brigade major are up at Gun Hill observing the show. Heavy gunning is heard in the south all the afternoon. At night the Turk sends a shell over our way at odd intervals, but in our gully we are practically safe, for his targets are usually the beaches. December 9th. Yes, the evacuation of Suvla is now a reality. I hear today that we have now begun the intermediate stage of the evacuation. It has been a reality for some days, the storm only delayed it. We have just completed the preliminary stage. We hear that it will be but a few days now when not a British subject will be left alive here unless as a prisoner. The shelling today is in fits and starts. High explosive shells are searching the beach, bursting well and with a louder explosion than in past days. But West Beach is well protected, and the steady shipment of vehicles and ordnance goes on all day. At night empty ration carts go up to the line to bring back men's surplus kits, blankets, surplus ammunition, and the surplus part of the usual accumulation of baggage that a regiment takes with it to the trenches and to dumps just behind. Horn, Elphinstone, Hunt, and I are on the beach all night, taking shifts in superintending the unloading of the carts as they arrive back full. They come back in a steady stream. The carts that have taken up rations, stores, special ammunition such as bombs, etc., earlier in the evening, all return loaded with kits. We have a few men to help us, but hardly enough, and we therefore work ourselves to keep warm. It is a monotonous job. The drabbies appear fed up, and we have to watch them carefully to see that they do not slope off with their loaded carts to their lines. Kipling once said, East is East and West is West, and never the twine shall meet. Is this correct? I wonder. For our Tommies seem to work amicably with the drabbies. The white transport corporal, who is with us marshalling the transport, unreceiving an order from me, shouts out into the darkness of the beach to the Indian gemadar, Mohammed Husan, a voice answers back with a drawl, Hello? My corporal shouts back, Wait are for more, will you? And the voice answers, All right, East and West. All night, lighters are being loaded up and towed out to the ships. Last army transport carts unloaded at five a.m. We turn in at five thirty a.m. ready for sleep. December 10. A fine, cool day. Usual shelling with hot stuff shells. Evacuation of stores going on apace. I think the twenty ninth is to be the last off. Medical comforts in the way of food, champagne, port, brandy and whiskey, are now going cheap, and I send them round to all the battalion messes, the Tubergates and divisional headquarters. They are not troubling to evacuate this stuff, and I am trying to get a full share for the twenty ninth. Personally I should like to give them champagne dinners every night, after what they have been through. No food being landed now except a little bread and fresh meat. Instead of that, the reserve at the depot is being steadily reduced. December 11. Last night work went steadily on. The loading up of lighters and the towing of these two ships, where the derricks rattling away furvishly emptied them. A surprisingly large quantity of all kinds of material has been evacuated. Yet the beaches and the life thereon appear unchanged. All tentage and camps are to be left standing, and up to the last day, as much transport as possible will move about on the top of the promontory. Tonight the eighty-ninth field ambulance has left, together with some men on light duty, also a large number of men from the eleventh and thirteenth divisions. December 12. Nothing of much account today. Everybody hard at work, dismantling and getting away all in pedimenta. It can readily be realized what a vast amount of all kinds and conditions of stores and equipment this in pedimenta represents for an army of sixty thousand men who have been stationary on a small bit of land for over four months. The work goes on, punctuated at intervals by a few shells from the enemy's batteries. But it is quite normal shelling, and I feel sure the Turks know nothing. They can see nothing. The staff work is excellent. The beach each day appears unchanged. Many troops, beach details, etc., move off. December 13. A cold south wind is blowing, and makes us all very anxious. Is it going to develop into another storm, which will upset all our well-laid plans, and so place us at the mercy of the Turk? These are anxious days. We are now issuing rations from the forward reserve stock in the commander-royal engineers null at nightly, and our dump on the beach is now clear. Medical comforts are liberal, and also milk, which the troops appreciate. But bread and meat are issued only in very small quantities. The rations at hill ten are untouched, remaining there to be issued should we have to hold the second line of trenches which are now complete. Work is being carried on fervishly for completing the third line. All work on the low land has to be done at night. But on the high ground, where nullas and dips in the ground afford cover, work goes on by day and night. Meeting places have been arranged, where the troops will concentrate before proceeding to the beaches on the night that they have orders to evacuate. They are termed posts, and are lettered W, Y, Z, etc., the letters showing illuminated through a dark background. Of course, all such posts are placed in positions which are under cover. Each unit is to be guided to the post allotted to it, there to await orders, which will be telephoned up to the post from the piers. An officer of the evacuation staff will wait at the post telephone for the message from the beach, after marshalling and checking the troops on arrival there. I see brigade headquarters each night now, when I am up at the commander-royal engineers dump, issuing the daily rations. Their headquarters are now in the same headquarters as the commander-royal engineers had. Next door is the brigade headquarters of a brigade of artillery, the guns of which are in position nearby in front, just behind and round about. While there an officer told me that if necessary his guns will be putting up a curtain of fire over the Turks should they attempt to follow on after our troops have evacuated the first line. Their guns are being left in position for this purpose, and will be rendered useless after the infantry have passed back. Two medical officers and about twenty Royal Army Medical Corps men have been detailed to remain at the casualty clearing station after all troops have left on the last night. Their duty is to attend to any wounded who have to be left to fall into the hands of the Turk. They, of course, giving themselves up as prisoners. If it is at all possible, penises from one of the battleships will be ready to take them off, provided there are no wounded. Their tents are being lined with sandbags as protection against bullets. The Turk will not shell them. December 14. The time gets nearer, yet the aspect of the beaches does not change. Shelling is about the same, but getting rather bad at odd but fortunately rare intervals. The days are now lettered, but the letter of each day is secret to all but a very few. All we know is that when the last night does arrive it will be a Z night. I have a shrewd idea that today is either W or V day so that the time is near. It will be hard luck if I collide with a shell now after dodging them all these months. Out of the schemes for evacuating the first line when all those in rear are clear away, the line for the last few nights will be very thinly held by us. The second and third lines are thickly wired with barbed wire in front, which stands in fences eight feet high. At intervals there are passages through these fences to allow us to pass through on our way to and from the line. On the last night these passages will be closed, and the only way to get through will be by barbed wire gates across the few roads. Officers will be on duty at these gates, and they will have fixed thereon telephonic communication to the beaches. The final evacuation of the front line will be carried out as is the present daily evacuation of troops, keeping to a strict program. The officer in charge of the last party down a certain road will report his unit and name to the officer in charge of the gate. This will be checked by the list which the officer will have with him of the last parties down, and if correct, the officer who will then know that the last troops have passed through will telephone this information to the beach, close and bar the gate, and proceed with the party to the next line and himself report to the officer at that gate where the same procedure will follow, and so on to the beaches, the only way by which is by the roads. After the last parties have passed through the last line, then those on the beaches will know that all have passed safely through, and that there are three lines of trenches thickly protected by barbed wire between the beaches and the enemy. The last parties to leave will be hurried on board the waiting destroyers, trawlers, and ships. The skeleton framework of the supply depot, the remaining stores which have been unavoidably left, will be set ablaze by the igniting of petrol sodden hay. The remaining officers will make a bolt for the few remaining penises. That is the scheme. The British population of Suvla daily dwindles away, unbeknown to the ignorant Turk. Ammunition and ordinance and all manner and kind of stores and equipment are daily disappearing into the holds of the waiting ships. These ships are not more numerous than the ships which have lain in the bay in the safety of the boom since August 6, so that from their presence our plot is not given away. To the enemy our daily life appears the same, and he gives us our daily ration of shells, now of good quality and effective, and no doubt is laughing at us with the memory of the recent awful storm and the coming blizzards of a rigorous winter. If fall goes well, if the well-laid schemes of our general staff gang not aglae, and no bloody rearguard action is forced upon us, it will be our turn to laugh in a few days. Tonight the wind has changed to the northwest. We may hoodwink the Turks, but not the mighty elements, and we pray that they will be our allies in our task. If our enemies, then we must give ourselves up in unconditional surrender, hoping for no mercy. Carver has just arrived from Hellas on a mission quite apart from the scheme of evacuation. To our surprise he is unaware that we are evacuating, and tells us that all at Hellas are also ignorant of the upcoming event. No preparation of any kind is being made to evacuate Hellas. He leaves again tonight back for Hellas. The 86th Brigade and part of Division headquarters are now moving off. I go to Y, forming uppost, just at the foot of our gully, and view the scenes there. The beaches have been shelled this afternoon. If they but drop a few over this evening, they cannot fail to claim many victims. Shadowy figures march up in perfect order and form up. Roll calls are made. Sharp commands issued. Stand at ease. Whereupon the figures talk, lean on their rifles, or lie down resting on the ground. Elphinstone is going off with his brigade, as he is their supply officer. I make him up a box of the plentiful medical comforts, including a few bottles of champagne for his brigade headquarters, to feast on while on board. I say good-bye to many friends in the brigade, as the order to move down is telephoned up from West Beach to the officer at the receiver attached to Y Post. Troops are called to attention, and in too deep they march down towards the beach, entering the safety of the trench that has been dug there, pass in safety behind the mounds of earth and the small rocky promontory, and file along the pier in single file up a gangway onto a small paddle steamer which sails out to the bay to the waiting ship. I listen to the chatter of the Dublin fusiliers, to their philosophical comments on the situation, and feel glad for them that they are seeing the last of this damnable campaign. One of them has heard on good authority, and tells his friend that they are bound for Aldershot. I leave them and walk back. No shells come over. Inland I hear the steady crack, crack, crack of the rifles. I turn into bed. Our brigade, the old 88th, alone of the division is left in the line. December 15. The wind is cold and blowing steadily from the northeast, yet the sea is not too rough for the getting off of stores. Lord Howard de Walden and General Percival, the brigadier of the 86th Brigade, which embarked last night, are now on the beach as part of the regulating staff of the evacuation program. This staff, controlled by General Fanshawe, is almost as efficient as could be, with the result that the last stage of the evacuation is working like clockwork. Every man is accounted for. No man can leave before his time. No man should be left behind. Commander Unwin, who gained the victory across at the landing of April 25 for gallantry on V. Beach, is in charge of conveyance of stores, generals and men, from the beaches to the ships, and night and day he is on duty on the piers. He stands over six feet and is broad in proportion with the typical clean-shaven face of a sailor, and with a voice that roars orders through a megaphone, causing those who are ordered to jump about a good deal quicker on their jobs than they probably would do otherwise. I go down on the beach with a staff officer this morning after a few good morning shells have crashed on the beach roads and on the mounds of earth, and we call at the embarkation office in a sand-bagged house dug and built in the cover of a rock. There we find a few of the staff hard at work. The weather has been kind, and we are up to time with the program. We talk to two yeomanry officers who are on the evacuation staff. Everything is working perfectly, and I feel confident that we shall succeed in evacuating long before the turk discovers our absence. Ships, when loaded with supplies and passengers, proceed to Mudo's harbor, where they are unloaded quickly, coming back the following night. No ships pass to and fro between here and Lemnos during the day, so that every morning that the turk wakes up he notices no extra ships lying anchored, or the absence of the ships departed. The view of the shipping line in the bay inside the boom appears unchanged, as is the case of the beaches day by day. Regularly at dusk we go up to the Commander Royal Engineer's Nullar and issue rations from the reserve supplies there. Tonight we issue to the 88th Brigade only, and the work in consequence is quickly finished. The distance to the line is now short for the Army transport carts to take the rations up, for the best part of their journey is made empty, namely from the lines at the end of the promontory to our dump in the Commander Royal Engineer's Nullar. The journey back to their lines from the trenches is now made with empty carts, for all forward stores have been evacuated. There is no doubt that the turk hears the carts approaching to the various cookhouses, for the carts rattle and the various parts of the harness clank loudly. There sound is certain to be heard by him in his front line, for the nights here are so still. The turk fires over toward the direction where he knows the roads lie, hoping to claim a casualty in mule or man. The two late brigade headquarters are now uninhabited and closed, and whoever opens the doors of the several dugouts will be blasted immediately into eternity by bombs attached to the doors, seats and cupboards. I see my brigade close by our dump in the Commander Royal Engineer's Nullar, and the atmosphere is cheery and full of confidence. Crack, crack, crack the rifles in front sing away. I hear one bullet pass, but the few bullets that reach this Nullar are spent in force, and drop harmlessly to the ground. Major Bailey, as cheery as ever, calls in our dugout when we arrive back, and we give him a good dinner of tinned, roast fowl and champagne before he embarks with his field company. I go down again to Y Formation Post, and the scene there is the same as last night. Shadowy columns of men arriving in good order, lying down to await telephonic instructions to proceed to the beach. The beaches are full of hundreds and hundreds of men, moving in single file along the piers and up the gangways and on board ship. While at little coves nearby, lighters are busy feverishly loading with animals, baggage, and remaining equipment. December 16th. Still no change on the beaches. Still the same fitful white puffs of Turkish shrapnel over the wooded low land. Still the ration allowance of Turkish high explosive onto the beaches. And yet tons and tons of stores and equipment have left, and thousands of men from here are now safe in the camps at Mudros. A light northeast breeze is blowing with bright sunshine, and it is very clear. The conditions for our scheme are perfect. Our second line is now crowded with troops who remain well under cover during the day. Water for these is a difficulty, as there are no wells close handy, and it has to be carted up to them daily from the beach. Five eighty gallon tanks are fixed in position along this line, which are kept full of water as an emergency. Our front line is but thinly held, and all who pass between this second and front line must keep to the roads, for the country is now freely strewn with all devices of trip bombs, which await the Turks should he discover what we are up to immediately after we evacuate the front line and come on to give us battle. As yet I am certain that he knows nothing. So well are our evacuation staff working. And the last night, Z-Night is approaching very near now. I believe tonight is W-Night. I issue as usual and visit Brigade headquarters. Take a stroll on the beaches after dinner to view the scene of men and animals quietly disappearing off the land that we have shed so much blood in conquering. And then I go off to bed. End of section 21. Section 22 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 22. December 17-31, 1915. December 17. Early this morning we have showers of rain, which are followed by a southerly breeze, quickly blowing them away. Brilliant sunshine makes the day quite hot. During the night I receive orders to issue two-days rations tonight to the 88th Brigade and the rest of the division and afterwards to embark with all Army Service Corps details, along with the division headquarters. I am down on the beach in the afternoon getting our kits shipped off. At five o'clock the Turks open fire with two guns onto the beaches and beach roads, and the first few cause casualties. The shells are first class and burst with a deafening crash. One gun is on Sarri Bear, and the other is on the hills on the left of Ana Farta. They continue until shortly after dusk, about 6.20 p.m. Five minutes after the beaches are alive with men once more, and the work of evacuation proceeds energetically. This bout of shelling makes us anxious, as it would appear that our plot has been discovered. I go up to Commander Royal Engineer's dump and issue two-days rations to the 88th Brigade and the few remaining odd units. We leave the balance of the reserve supplies. They are too near the line to be burnt on the last night, and we leave them as a present of thanksgiving to our enemy the Turk, who has played the game throughout the campaign. I say good-bye to the Brigade and express the hope that I shall see them all safe and well in Egypt, where I believe we are going for a good rest and refitment. Nobody can deny that the 29th deserve it. I go back and have a last meal with Horn. Our camp will be deserted tomorrow, yet if an enemy airplane sails over, no change will be noted. Our dugouts are left standing intact. I, with the details, go down to Y, forming upposts, and there meet, as on previous nights, parties and companies of men arriving. I call the role of my men, and am instructed by the adjutant of the Commander Royal Engineer's to fall my men in behind the Division Headquarters Party when the order is telephoned up from West Beach. A weight of three-quarters of an hour. We hope no shells will arrive. Horn comes up to say good-bye to me. I wish him good luck, not envying him his weight of forty-eight hours. Tonight is X-Night. The order from the beach arrives. All are called to attention. We march off through the main supply depot, down into the trench, over the open space of West Beach along the pier. A short pause here of ten minutes, and then, in single file, we pass up the gangway, over the sunken ships which act as a breakwater to the little harbor, and so on board a paddle steamer. In half an hour she is full. It is a lovely moonlight night. We steam out into the bay, come alongside a small steamer and file on board her. I go up on deck and view the scene of Souffle Bay by moonlight. I can hear the crack of the rifles from inland, and also voices from the beaches, now and again a torch is flashed as a lighter crunches upon the beach. With a soft, swishing sound a lighter glides past us to some other ship. The whole bay and foreshore is bathed in moonlight, and as I look, all those eight months of hardships, gloom, and danger pass in review before me. A feeling as of a great burden being lifted off my mind comes over me, and a sense of extreme gladness that at last the long-drawn horror is past. And what horror! Never again, I think to myself, never again. I look towards Anzac, and notice that the whole sky is a flame, the stores are a light, probably a stack of supplies which has caught fire by mistake. And then as I look a curious mist arises, low at first off the sea. As if with an invisible hand a cloudy cloak is slowly draped over the whole peninsula. First Souffle, then Anzac, and the coastline becomes blotted out. And I see now nothing but a gray mist. Souffle Bay and its horrors, its hopes and disappointments, are lost to my sight forever. For by the time the mist has dispersed, the ship has moved away. December 18. After a good night spent on the floor of the wardroom, lying on my British warm with my cap as a pillow, I wake up about 7 a.m., wondering where on earth I have got to. I hear that now delightful sound, the pulse of a ship's engines, and know with a happy feeling that I am sailing on a ship to the friendly waters of the harbor of Lemnos. No breakfast is to be had, for all troops, officers, and men, except myself, have embarked with rations. Stupid of me to forget myself when it was my job to see that all troops went off with rations. I explore the ship and cage a topping breakfast of eggs and ham off one of the crew. I go into his cabin and eat it on the QT. At twelve o'clock Lemnos heaves in sight, and at one o'clock we enter the harbor. It is all but five months since I was here last, and the camps have doubled and trebled their size, and doubled and trebled their number. As we pass the French and British battleships, monitors, and destroyers, the respective crews come to the sides of their ships and gaze with interest at us. But there is no demonstration. When I last passed these ships five months ago, the crews cheered us and cheered again as we passed out to war. Now they look on, gaze at us, and say nothing. It seems almost a reproval. We take up our moorings amongst other small ships which have come with troops from the peninsula, and after a brief delay are transferred with baggage to the Southland. Ah, this means sailing for Egypt, probably. Egypt. It will be like sailing home. The Southland was the boat that was torpedoed early in September. I go and look at the damage that was done. A great hole was torn in one of her holds, and it was lucky that she was able to reach Lemnos fifty miles away from the spot where she was hit. We learn that the eighty-sixth have passed to Hellas, and soon we are to follow. Good Lord, this is the unkindest cut of all. So we are not done with it yet. Well, I don't suppose the Turks will let us get off scot-free this time. I draw food for the men on board, and at seven-thirty p.m. go down to dinner. The last time that I dined in this saloon was in those days in April, just before the original landing. The officers of the King's Own Scottish Borders were dining here then, and their bagpipes played them into dinner, many for the last time in their lives. We have a merry dinner party with champagne, after I enjoy the luxury of a hot bath, and then turn in. CHAPTER XIX It is topping being on board a nice ship again, and back once more to civilization. I row round with the skipper in the morning to one or two ships in harbour, and after lunch go over in a penis with some officers to the shore, calling on the Aragon on the way, or General Delisle and Colonel O'Hara join us. Firth, O'Hara, and I, on reaching the land, walk up to a village in shore, and by eggs. It is delightful being able to stretch one's legs without having to carry one's ears at the right engage, in expectancy of the whistle of the enemy shell. We have great fun purchasing eggs from old Greek ladies, six from one, twelve from another, and so on. When loaded up with them we get back to the pier, on to a waiting penis, and so out to the Aragon, where O'Hara entertains us to tea. We learn that we are not to be on the peninsula long, only a matter of three weeks, and then we and the Royal Naval Division will be relieved and taken to Egypt, and so the sooner we are back there to get it over the better, we get back to the Southland and have a cheery dinner, which we make the most of. Tonight is z-night, and as we sit talking after dinner, we wonder how the work is proceeding. Last night everything went satisfactorily, no shelling, and news this morning shows the Turks have spotted no change. December 20th. Suvla is Turkish once more. All troops left without a casualty. The evacuation proceeded all day yesterday. The scenes on the beaches appeared as normal as ever. At nightfall, all stores that had been intended to be evacuated had been safely shipped. All that were left were the skeleton stacks of supplies waiting to be set alight, useless ordnance, and the supply of emergency ammunition. The beaches were shelled as usual in the day. Night fell, and those left on the beaches, except the evacuation staff, were hastened on to the waiting ships. At dusk a few monitors and destroyers quietly slipped into the bay, standing by in readiness for a Turkish attack. The ration carts that were left were promptly shipped, not a mule being left. In fact, every hoof was safely embarked. Then began the last stage. In succeeding waves the remaining troops fell back in perfect order to the forming up posts. In a steady stream they were hastened off onto the waiting ships. Until at last the supreme moment arrived. The message was telephoned to the line that all troops behind those few men who were waiting a few yards from the unsuspecting Turk had left Suvla for good and all. Here and there a man fired his rifle as a farewell salute to our gallant enemy, but no man was permitted to fire without an order. With their boots wrapped in sandbags they crept back, down the communication trenches, out onto the roads, past the first gate which was immediately locked, the news of their passing being telephoned to the beaches, past the second likewise, then the third, and then straight to the beaches, finally on board and hurried off with great dispatch when the evacuation staff knew, from their statistics, that Suvla Bay was free of every Britisher but themselves. Hasteily Army Service Corps officers run round the frameworks of the supply stacks in the depot with lighted torches, and quickly the supplies are ablaze, then a rush is made to the waiting penises which merrily puff out to the battleships. Meanwhile the officers detailed to wait at the casualty clearing station are picked up by penises, for no rearguard action has been necessary. The Turk was lying ignorant of it all in his trenches, cracking his rifle, if he had only known. At last not a living Britisher was left on Suvla or Anzac. Every dugout, nook and cranny was searched, and it was with great interest that the evacuation staff viewed the scene from the battleships as daylight broke. The fires burnt fiercely and quickly. Turkey's shells came over as if to hasten the destruction of the fire. Complete success had been the reward of the excellent work of the staff. Still the Turk did not know that we had left. He saw the tents of our hospitals standing, but the deserted appearance of the beaches must have made him wonder. The morning wore on. Puzzled, a few ventrism turks peeped over the parapets of the trenches. Nothing happened. They climbed over the top, walked over no man's land into the deserted trenches, and the secret was discovered. We had evacuated, lock, stock, and barrel under their very noses. Down the roads they came in small parties. A few muffled noises were heard, by which the watchers of this strange drama from the battleships knew that the bombs that we had laid cunningly were claiming victims, fighting our battles for us without our being on the field. And so they came to Lullababa and some German officers, with a characteristic insult to their brave ally, hoisted the German flag as a token of a German victory, though the honors of the day were with the Turk. He, however, had won not by beating us, but by our being beaten by nature, the impregnable fastness of the mountains of Suvla Bay and the Gallipoli winter storms. How a Turk could allow a German flag to be hoisted is beyond comprehension. One day Germany will fall shamefully to the dust in the eyes of her Oriental ally, and Turkey must beware of that day on which she can expect no mercy. The last crowded ships arrive in Mudos Harbour. The shore becomes throng with Australian troops, whom we're fortunate than ourselves are bound for Egypt, while we, after lunch, embark on the partridge and sail off with our general once more for the peninsula. It is a chilling, depressing voyage to Hellus, a journey made by me now for the third time. I hope it will be my luck to make it yet a fourth time, for that will be after the war. We have a meal offerations that we have brought with us. The boat is crowded with troops, and they do not seem very cheery. Night falls. At eight o'clock we see in the distance the starlight sailing up and down inland on the peninsula, though it is hard to discern the outline of the shore. Soon the lights of a hospital ship are discernible ahead. Suddenly two flashes are seen, one after the other from the Asiatic side. Two booms of guns are heard about fifteen seconds after, followed by two piercing shrieks, and the shells burst with a bright flash of flame on W. Beach. And so we are in it once more. Shortly after we see the dim outline of the shore. We heave to and anchor off V. Beach. After a wait of half an hour, lighters come alongside, on which we get and are told to appear running out from V. Beach, which now, in addition to being protected from the strong currents of the Dardanelles by the river Clyde, is protected from the outer sea by a sunken French battleship, the Messina. In consequence the water inside the pier is like a mill pond, while outside a heavy swell washes against the sides of the two ships. I am on V. Beach once more. It does not seem to have altered much since I left on August 20 last, but appears perhaps more orderly than it was then. More light railways are about. Fully is there to meet us, and it is good to see him safe and well. Up to a fortnight ago he tells me it was very quiet on the peninsula. In fact they had been playing football matches in the Aerodrome, and on shore, in a large dugout, the band of the Royal Naval Division had been giving concerts. But lately two guns from Asia have been throwing over at odd intervals of the day eight-inch naval shells, and life on the beaches is becoming jumpy again. Also some new guns have been placed in position on the slopes of Acibaba, which have been worrying the rest camps further inland. He tells me that the Turkish ammunition had improved in quality. This was what we had found at Suvla, due to Bulgaria's entry into the war as our enemies, and the opening of the road from Germany to Constantinople. The war will not end before this road is cut by the Allies. We shall never succeed now in forcing the Straits, and so this road will never be cut in this manner. We must, however, hang on to this end of the peninsula, and I pity the troops who will be detailed for duty to do so through this winter. It will not be the 29th, for shortly we shall be leaving, and this time for good. Three weeks, I think. Three weeks only on W. Beach, the bullseye of a target. Say, Lager. As we march up onto the Helles Plateau, we notice fires burning in the distance up the coast of Suvla. The Suvla supply depot and other stacks still burning. On arrival on the high ground on the left of W. Beach, looking inland, I turn into the same dugout which used to be our home in the early days of this round-in-circles campaign. Matthews is there to welcome me, and a new officer named Harris. As I turn in, I think of our old dugout at Suvla, now occupied in all probability by sleeping Turks. How strange! During the night I am awakened at intervals by loud explosions, only Asia firing on W. Beach at intervals. One burst on the slopes of our cliff, and large lumps of earth fall on our tarpaulin roof. December 21. I am awakened by a few shells bursting on the beach. After breakfast I meet our new commanding officer, Colonel Huskesson. I dine with him in Richie's dugout in May last, when he was officer commanding main supply depot. I learn that the beaches get shelled now heavier than they were ever shelled before. In the morning I walk inland with Bell along the light railway system, which runs from the beaches and branches in several directions over the Hellas Plateau for a distance of about a mile. Mules pull small trucks up from the beach to the high ground behind the beach, where the mules are unhitched, and the trucks, with their own momentum, run down the plateau, which is on a gentle slope. Bell's idea is to have a supply depot at the end of the railway on the plateau, and to issue from there to horse transport, which will come up one wagon at a time. Should transport collect in any spot on this plateau, it immediately draws shell fire. I am struck by the way transport goes about in daylight and under observation from the enemy, certainly not in long convoys, but in single wagons or two or three together. Achibaba looks more formidable than ever, and bleaker. In fact the whole tip of the peninsula looks far more cheerless than when I was here last. A strong southerly wind is blowing this morning. This afternoon we have rain, and as night falls our rest trenches are slews of mud, for hardly any work appears to have been done on a system of drainage, and the men have no roofing whatever. In fact at Hellas corrugated iron is practically nil, although at Suvla we did have a small supply. Do they honestly believe that they can hang on this tiny tip of land during the winter? Just beyond the end of the railway the ground is thickly lined with camps consisting of rest trenches. These now lead right up to the system of deep trenches forming our front line. Behind where I am standing at the end of the railway, at a distance of three hundred yards, there stands a very large hospital of tents and huts. This could be destroyed utterly by turkey shell fire in half an hour, yet it stands untouched. No large bodies of troops or transport are allowed to collect or pass near, of course, but small parties of two or three may pass by. Division headquarters is about two hundred yards behind, dug in, in trenches. On their left is the west coast road overlooking the sea. The eighty-seventh are in the line and a part of the eighty-sixth, the remainder being in rest camp trenches. The eighty-eighth have, of course, not yet arrived. Our artillery are practically in the same positions that they were six months ago. December twenty-second. It is quite calm now and a fine day. Thus we are given an opportunity of digging the mud out of the trenches and to work on a system of drainage. But we want roofing badly. Unlike V-beach, now a perfect harbour safe against almost any sea, W-beach, at the first heavy swell, becomes impossible for landing any supplies. Engineers are busy as usual on the piers, not on construction, but on the work of repairing the damage done by each spell of rough sea. The storm that we experienced at Suvla did not spend its fury on Helus, though they felt the outskirts of its force here, so much so that the flimsy piers off W-beach were almost washed away, and for the time we depended on the courtesy of our French allies to land stores and supplies on V-beach. Number one pier here, however, is fairly safe, for we have two small ships sunk at the end set at an angle forming a breakwater. But they are too small to make the harbour as secure as the one at V-beach. We should have sunk ships six times as large. All along the shore off W-beach, lighters lied three deep, washed up by past spells of rough weather. The scheme of having our divisional supply dump inland has fallen through, as it is two near-division headquarters, and would be sure to draw shellfire, which is becoming more and more frequent and effective. We draw at dusk from main supply depot, and at night issue from our divisional dump in an unsafe spot on the far side of the back of W-beach, having to be careful not to show too many lights. Asia keeps us on the Kyiv all day, and too much activity on the beach will always draw a spell of shelling. A cloudy evening at eleven p.m. the eighty-eighth brigade arrive. It is a fine cold day. We now walk about on the beach with our ears always listening for the sound of a gun from Asia or Achibaba, upon hearing which we get ready to fling ourselves to the ground or dive into a dugout. I go along to the headquarters of the eighty-sixth and eighty-eighth brigades, both built in the side of a cliff just this side of X-beach, and almost opposite our division headquarters. Their dugouts are delightful, cozy little houses. They are practically safe from shellfire, and form a great contrast to divisional headquarters dug a little way to the right in trenches which are in full view of the enemy and in danger of a shell-dropping plumb onto them at any moment. The day drags wearily away. There is nothing much to do but bookwork, making up accounts and visits to the main supply depot. It is an extraordinary thing, but almost every time I stroll over to the supply depot from our office on the cliff, over comes a shell, either from a howitzer on Achi or Quick-Dick from Asia. I prefer the howitzer. It gives you a chance to quickly look round for the nearest dugout and dive in. Whereas Quick-Dick, with its boom-whiz bang, is on you before you can count two, and it leaves you almost gasping, wondering that you are still standing alive instead of flying through the air in little bits. Each day victims are claimed. I thought my quartermaster sergeant had got it proper today, but I saw him do a marvelous head-dive behind a mound protecting dug-in stables, which saved him. It makes everybody living on the beach very bad tempered. At night they drop them over at intervals, but we are one too many for Asia by night. One can distinctly see the flash of the gun and can count twenty-three slowly before the shell arrives. The French are very clever over dodging these night shells from Asia. A man perched up on a stack of hay watches Asia intently. He sees a flash, blows loudly on a trumpet, and everybody gets to cover like rabbits. Result? Remarkably few casualties. Of course, the flash of the gun does not tell whether the shell is addressed to V-beach or W-beach, and one cannot fail to at times be amused in spite of the grimness of it all, for the look-out man on V-beach might see the flash and give a mighty blast on his trumpet, whereupon all rushed for cover, and twenty-three seconds later the shell swishes over, not to V-beach at all, but to W-beach. The Turkish gunners appear to have their tails very much up, no doubt through the evacuation of Suvla and Anzac. And enemy airmen are very daring, swooping right over our lines and at times dropping an odd bomb or two. Men and transport move about as freely as ever though, which is such a contrast to Suvla, though of course our line being further inland than it was at Suvla, the enemy have difficulty in reaching the transport with shrapnel. If not, probably our transport would not be so reckless. The roads at the foot of the cliff can no longer be used, having been made impassable by being washed right away in parts. December 24. It is delightful weather, and we continue our life, preparing the figures and accounts to draw the rations at night and arranging for their issue, usual shelling all day. In the afternoon as I walk across the plateau to division headquarters, an enemy aeroplane comes swooping over. I am near a party of men marching and hear the pop-pop of a machine gun. Almost immediately after I hear the swish of bullets and see them kick up the dust round about. At first I can't make it out. Then it dawns on me that the daring aviator is actually firing on the troops near me. I notice that instead of a cross painted on his machine, he has a square, which is the sign of the Bulgarian flying-core. I go back to T with Farquhar in his lines, dug in trenches on the cliffside over core headquarters, situated further round the cliff from our dugouts. As we are at T, four enemy machines sweep over to W Beach, and shortly after I hear the sound of dropping bombs as they circle round and round. Our anti-aircraft guns, not plentiful, endeavor to bring them down, but they circle round unconcerned and having discharged about thirty bombs, swing round and make back for their lines, keeping out to sea off the coast. I get back to the beach and find that their bombs have caused many casualties. To my great sorrow I learned that Cox of the Essex has been hit clean with one, and also a friend of the same regiment, both being killed instantly. They had come down from the rest camp to purchase some luxuries for the canteen for Christmas Day. After sticking it all this time to be killed like this, just two weeks before the time when the division is to be relieved for good, is really far worse luck than met algae wood of the same regiment. And now there are no more of the original Essex officers left. It has been rough today, especially at Imbrose, which has a very exposed harbor, and in consequence it has been possible to issue only a very small percentage of fresh meat. It is bad luck, for tomorrow is Christmas Day, and I should like to have given the division a full issue of fresh meat. However, a consignment of Christmas puddings has arrived from Lady Hamilton's fund and will be issued. We were promised many other luxuries, such as oranges and other fruits, but these have not arrived, owing to the difficulty of transport by sea. And so, for the majority of the men of the division and all troops in shore, bully beef will take the place of the customary roast beef and turkey. It is very beautiful weather. We do the best we can for the troops in the way of supplies, but it has to be bully beef and Christmas puddings for their dinners. The Turks are unusually quiet. I believe they know that it is our Christmas Day. We have a Christmas dinner in our dugout and a very cheery time. One of the cheeriest Christmas dinners I have ever had. Parcels from home pooled, helped to make a good spread, and one can make excellent results from bully beef. December 26, 27, 28, and 29. Visits to brigade and to division headquarters and journeys to and from our dugout office and main supply depot are the order of the day. Usual shelling, far more trying than any we have ever experienced before. Enemy airplanes now and again try to come over, but are driven back by our planes. Cold but fine. We have to send in an estimate of transport required to cart baggage back from battalions to beaches. This no doubt means we are off shortly. I hope so, as I am getting fed up with this diary. But it seems strange to be making plans to get off again when we have only just arrived back. December 30. Today we hear the news secretly that we are evacuating Hellas altogether. They are having a conference at core headquarters this morning on the plans. I am sent for by the engineer officer in charge of works on the beach, and he questions me closely on the plans that were followed at the last evacuation. But I can tell him little or nothing beyond what I personally observed. I am afraid that we shall not be able to get away supplies and stores so easily as we were able to at Suvla, and quantities will have to be left, for the beaches are under close observation from Yenisher and Khamkali, and now that we have already hoodwinked them once, the second evacuation will have to be done very carefully. Therefore our only chance of getting away stores is by night, and animals, guns, and personnel must come first. The first thing, therefore, is to get up forward supplies in sufficient quantities to last out the remaining days, and I receive orders to get these up for the eighty-seventh and eighty-eighth brigades, for again we are to be last off. I expected this second evacuation, nearly everybody expected it. We have been told that Ninth Corps would relieve Eighth Corps, but to those of us who experienced the Suvla storm, the idea of hanging on here after Suvla and Anzac had been evacuated was impossible to consider. But this evacuation we think will be a very different matter, with the Turks expecting us to endeavor to make it. Transport will be the difficulty during these last few days, but fortunately the tramway comes in handy tonight in getting up rations to the eighty-sixth and eighty-eighth brigades, and we manage successfully. We draw the rations from the main supply depot in bulk, apportion them out to units, and load them on the trucks on the line in the center of the depot itself. Mules then pull them to the slope, down which they run of their own accord to the plateau, with men acting as breaksmen. Those trucks which have to be pulled further inland are pulled by mules up a line which runs still nearer to the trenches. The rations are offloaded on arrival at their destination, and manhandled over their remaining journey. By this means much more horse transport is cut out, which can, in a few days, be evacuated. But before then this transport must be used solely in getting back surplus kit. We put up the first batch of the reserve supplies, an arduous night, and we get to bed in the small hours of the morning. All day we had intervals of howitzers from Achi and Asia's shells. Not much longer now, thank God. December 31. The last day of a damnable year. Honors in favor of the enemy. Luck all against us. But our turn will come before another year is out. In the morning the Turks heavily shell our front line reserve areas, and division headquarters, of course, being only just in rear, gets it badly. All day the beaches suffer. Life on the beaches is like a game of musical chairs. Instead of sitting down on a chair when the music stops, you promptly fling yourself behind cover when a shell arrives. I am a perfect tumbler now, and after the war will give exhibitions of the many different antics that one performs when dodging shells. A New Year's dinner as cheery as the Christmas dinner, but broken by visits to the main supply depot to send off the rations by tram. And then to bed. End of section twenty-two.