Chapter XXIII “In ‘Dug-outs’ at Cape Helles”
Richards, that splendid old Leading Seaman who “ran” the Mess, brought them both a cup of tea in the morning. “Four bells just struck, sirs; breeze gone round to the north-east, pretty nippy outside it is, but fine. Hands ’fall in’ at half-past six.” He lighted an oil-lamp and left them.
Bubbles snuggled down under the blankets and would have gone to sleep again, had not the Orphan pulled them off him and made him turn out.
They dressed hurriedly, saw that “Kaiser Bill” was safe in his corner; and by seven o’clock, just before the dawn commenced, Bubbles had taken charge of a very much battered, old picket-boat lying alongside No. 3 Pier; and the Orphan, with a party of five stokers, was sent up behind the Mess to deepen a shallow gutter-way between it and the road, to prevent rain washing off the road on to the top of the dormitory and that new tarpaulin which the Sub had stolen.
He met the Sub coming back from his night’s work on the beach, wet through and very fagged. “I got some of those lighters off, but there’s another week’s work down there at that job,” he said.
When daylight came, the Orphan found that “W” beach had altered very much since he had been there, six months and a half ago. The cliffs beyond were crowned by a vast number of hospital tents and marquees; where, previously, the horse and mule “lines” had been, tents and marquees, and huge masses of stores, protected by tarpaulins, now occupied these spaces, and the irregular sandy track up the gully to the ridge had become a wide well-made road with well-metalled roads branching away to left and right. Everywhere there were “dug-outs”, not open ones as in those early days, but covered with wooden or galvanized-iron roofs, over which at least one protecting layer of sand-bags had been laid. Motor-lorries dashed along the roads continuously, and seemed to have taken the place of horses and mules almost entirely.
Along the face of the steep cliff, on the far side of the gully from where those one-inch Nordenfeldts and maxims had played such havoc among the Lancashire Fusiliers on the day of the landing, a steep road had been cut in the face of it, and the Orphan saw hundreds of “dug-outs” up there.
Fifty yards below him was the beach itself, with its four little piers—No. 1 Pier to his right, with a gap in it made by the first of the south-west gales; beyond it the “Inner Hulk”, a sunken steamer with her back broken; and beyond her, at right angles, another sunken steamer, the “Outer Hulk”. At his feet was No. 2 Pier, the first pier the Sappers had begun on the 25th April; and beyond this the longer No. 3 Pier, with its end curving towards the “Outer Hulk”, so that a small harbour9 had been formed in which now lay two little “coaster” steamers, several lighters, and a trawler.
Beyond and to the left, under the high cliff, was No. 4 Pier, more of a mole or jetty than a pier, protected a little from the east by a reef of rocks. It was on this pier that the Orphan, later on, had so much work to do. Farther along still, several lighters had stranded, and one or two were already broken up.
Out towards Tenedos and over against the Asiatic shore the usual trawlers and drifters and a couple of destroyers patrolled for submarines.
But what struck the Orphan most vividly was the emptiness of the Straits between him and the Asiatic shore. In May they had been almost crowded with battleships, transports, hospital ships, ships of all sorts and sizes; now a solitary hospital ship lay off Helles, and only two or three small craft and tugs were anchored inshore.
The Turks fired no shells that morning until the breakfast hour, when two fell among the Sappers’ stores and tents, without, however, doing any damage.
After breakfast the Orphan and his stokers had more digging to do, extending the beach party’s “dug-outs” at the foot of the low cliff, below the Mess “dug-out”, and commencing others. Shells came over every now and then all the morning, but none burst near the Orphan’s party. When they knocked off work and started dinner, the Turks over on the Asiatic shore fired many big 6-inch high explosives, which did very little material damage, though they racked his nerves exceedingly.
The Orphan never even pretended that he did not hate those shells; and when, that afternoon, he received orders to take twenty men, embark in a tug, and go down to Rabbit Island to draw coal, he felt extremely pleased to get away from them. Rabbit Island is a tiny little island at the mouth of the Straits, and when he arrived there he found two small monitors with long-range guns busily bombarding the Asiatic guns. The Turks were firing back, and when he went alongside the collier to get his filled coal-bags, one of their wretched shells fell so close to the tug as to splash the bows. The Orphan loaded his coal-bags and started back to “W” beach, realizing that the only thing to do, if he meant to enjoy himself, was simply not to think of shells at all. Of course, in twenty-four hours he had made friends with Richards, that Leading Seaman; and the old man could not help noticing that he flinched whenever a big shell moaned through the air, and burst with its horrid, rending roar. “Look here, sir,” he said; “it’s just like this: don’t you worry about them—it’s no use worrying. If you’re meant to be killed, killed you will be, wherever you go or whatever you do; so just pay no attention to them.”
It is difficult for a youngster to take comfort from such a fatalistic conviction; but by the end of the week the Orphan was able to tell Bubbles that he had not “ducked” once during the last twenty-four hours. “That shows I’m not such a duffer, doesn’t it, old chap?” he said proudly.
During those first few days a good deal of mysterious landing and embarking of troops went on, which nobody seemed able to explain—though, as far as anyone in the Naval Mess knew, many more were coming than going. Also, it became known that the new-comers were taking over—gradually—the French section of the line, and that French troops and guns embarked every night. The Turks naturally knew that our men were occupying the French trenches immediately opposite them, so that there was no need for secrecy, and many of the French guns were towed away from “V” beach in broad daylight. A tug would take away a heavily loaded lighter at the end of a very long tow-rope, and “Asiatic Annie” and her sisters often made “towing-target” practice at this lighter and its guns—though without ever hitting them.
The Orphan himself never went to “V” beach, but Bubbles often did so, and found quite a good harbour there, made by a big Messageries Maritimes steamer sunk this side of the River Clyde (apparently none the worse for her seven months of being shelled), and an obsolete old French battleship hulk—the Massena—sunk almost to close the gap between them. Whenever the French happened to have a slack night, most of the British nightly reinforcements (from the 9th Corps, which had been at Suvla) landed there.
Christmas Day arrived, and the Turks greeted it with a more than usually heavy shelling of both beaches, the Sappers’ and Ordnance Store Depots suffering considerably. This, and an extra good dinner that night—when Richards produced two turkeys, obtained from one of the Greek islands, and several officers contributed Christmas puddings and mince-pies, sent from home by the Christmas mail—marked the day. Otherwise all work went on as usual.
Every now and again the French battleship Suffren came along up the Straits, with her protecting destroyers and trawlers and her “spotting” aeroplane, and bombarded the Asiatic guns for a couple of hours or so. At other times a British battleship repeated the performance with even greater zest; but though those annoying guns remained quiet whilst they were being bombarded, they always opened a very vigorous fire on the beaches directly the battleships had left.
On the other side of the Peninsula, round the “left flank” coast, assisting destroyers very frequently harassed the Turkish trenches on the Achi Baba right flank, and a big monitor almost daily bombarded Achi Baba or Chanak Fort with her big 14-inch guns.
Everything went on as usual, and as though we intended to hold the end of the Peninsula for ever.
Everyone in the Naval Mess was far too busy embarking and disembarking troops and stores by night, preparing for the winter, strengthening their “dug-outs”, repairing piers, and patching damaged boats by day, to know exactly what was happening up in the front-line trenches. Intermittent artillery duels, at all hours of every day, went on in the usual manner, and without any apparent especial military object. At night, when working on the piers, they often heard furious bursts of rifle and machine-gun firing, sometimes the bursting of trench bombs; at times field-guns also used to “chip in” at night; but everyone had become so accustomed to all this that no one paid any attention to it or remarked about it.
Shells fell on the beaches and above them just as usual; 6-inch high explosives came from the Asiatic side—two or three an hour—from daylight until two o’clock next morning, at which time the Turkish gunners “packed up”. During the men’s “stand easy”, in the middle of the day, perhaps twenty would come along; and again, at nine o’clock at night, they would start fairly brisk firing for three-quarters of an hour.
The Naval Camp, lying as it did just below the R.E. “Park”, and not far from the Ordnance Stores—both favourite targets of “Asiatic Annie “—received a good many of her misses, and most of the “shorts” fell on the beach itself. By this time the men working within this shell area had become so accustomed and hardened to these intermittent noises of shells shrieking towards them and bursting, that work was seldom interrupted. At night, sentries along the beach would watch for the glare made by the flash of the Asiatic howitzers, and would call out “Take cover!” Eighteen seconds afterwards the shell, if fired at “V” beach, would burst there; but if fired at “W” beach twenty seconds elapsed, after the warning shout, before the shell could be heard rushing through the night air with a rapidly increasing “swishing” noise. In twenty-five seconds it arrived, burst with a very vivid flash and that nerve-shaking, rending roar, and did whatever damage it had found to do.
Sometimes, in the silence which followed, would be heard the melancholy call, “Stretcher! Stretcher!” but most frequently a hole in the ground, or a few scattered boxes of stores or bundles of fodder, alone marked where it had fallen and burst.
From Achi Baba came the little 4.1-inch shells at all hours of the day.
People told the Orphan that some ten days after the Belgrade-Nish-Constantinople railway had been reopened through conquered Serbia, it became evident that the Turks were much more lavish with their ammunition.
They must have received ample additional supplies, and, what was still more noticeable, the new shells nearly always burst.
The Orphan gradually grew accustomed to these shells, but he was always “mighty” glad when the two big “hates” of the day were finished.
Everyone had marvellous escapes; in fact, marvellous escapes were so common that the recounting of them soon failed to interest others.
One morning the Orphan was sleeping soundly in the dormitory, and at about ten o’clock Bubbles, who had somehow or other fallen overboard from his picket-boat, ran up to shift his wet clothes, and could not resist the temptation of waking up the Orphan. He had just commenced to get some sense into him and make him take an interest in his accident, when in through the roof smashed a shell, passed between the Orphan sitting on his bed and Bubbles standing over him, buried itself in the ground, and burst. Bubbles was thrown to the other side of the dormitory, the Orphan found himself on top of an awakened and angry R.N.R. Lieutenant, and all three, covered with dust, dashed through the smoke out into the open air.
“Kaiser Bill!” the Orphan cried, darted back again, and brought out the tortoise.
“He was under my bed, he wasn’t quite buried; he doesn’t seem to have been hit.”
They tried anxiously to make him put out his head, but he wouldn’t. Bubbles, seizing him, looked inside the shell. “He’s all right,” he said, much relieved; “I saw his mouth move.”
“I bet that he got the fright of his life,”, Bubbles gurgled; and then noticed that the Orphan’s wrist, the right one, was bleeding, and that blood was coming through his own soaked trousers. They found a small cut on the Orphan’s right wrist, and that Bubbles had a little gash behind the left knee—quite trivial things, only requiring a bandage round each. Actually, that was all the damage done to those two midshipmen, although the shell had burst immediately behind and between them.
“Fancy what might have happened if ‘Kaiser Bill’ had not been there,” the superstitious Orphan, a little “shaken”, kept saying.
The R.N.R. Lieutenant, having fixed them up with bandages, took them inside the dormitory to dig their things out again and get the place tidied up. They shook the sand and clay from their bedding; dug out the clothes which had been lying on the floor; found some of the fragments of the shell, probably a 4.1-inch from Achi Baba; looked at the jagged hole in the wooden roof; and when Bubbles, having changed his wet clothes, went away, limping a little, to take charge of his picket-boat again, the other two turned in and slept until midday. Directly the Orphan woke he hunted round for the tortoise, and felt greatly relieved when he saw “Kaiser Bill’s” cunning old head peeping out.
On the next night it blew hard from the north-east—away from the end of the Peninsula. Unfortunately for Bubbles, he had the job, that night, of towing a big Malta lighter, full of mules, out to a transport, and when away from the shelter of the land something went wrong with the tow-rope, and it fouled the screw of his picket-boat. Both lighter and picket-boat drifted helplessly out to sea, and eventually became separated. It was a bitterly cold night—so dark that you could not see fifty yards in front of you, and two miles from the end of the Peninsula a very unpleasant sea was running. The lighter full of mules drifted away, but by some lucky chance stranded on Rabbit Island, and Bubbles in his helpless, waterlogged picket-boat had the luck to be found and picked up by a patrolling trawler, which towed him into safety.
He did not get back to “W” beach until long after daylight, and was then sent up to get his breakfast and some sleep. For some reason or other, his bed had been moved into the small “sleeping ‘dug-out’” at the side of the Mess opposite to the dormitory, and almost at the same hour as the day before, a big shell from “Asiatic Annie” came in and completely wrecked it. No one else slept there that morning, and he had a most marvellous escape. The three empty beds, the wash-stands, and little stove were destroyed, and a macintosh which he had pulled over his blankets had several gashes torn in it, but he himself had not a scratch. Old Richards, running in through the Mess, and unable to see owing to the dust and smoke, switched on an electric torch and called out “Are you all right, sir?” never thinking that he could possibly be alive.
“I woke up,” said Bubbles afterwards, bubbling over with excitement, “and found the whole place blooming dark; everything seemed to be tumbling down on top of me, and my hair was full of sand and stuff. I couldn’t think what was the matter, and the smell of the place was simply beastly. It wasn’t till old Richards came in, flashed his torch, wanted to know whether I was alive or not, and told me a shell had come in, that I knew what had happened. It spoilt that new macintosh I paid one pound ten for yesterday up at the Ordnance, confound it!”
The rest of the morning Bubbles and Richards spent digging out his “gear”. They found his watch some two feet under the sand, still going, but the glass cracked. The “dug-out” was completely wrecked and quite uninhabitable.
He shifted back again into the dormitory, but had no more time for sleep. “I’ll stick nearer to old ‘Kaiser Bill’ another time,” he told the Orphan, poking fun at him and his superstitions.
The very next day, when on his way to the Mess for a hasty lunch, he stopped to speak to Richards, the Leading Seaman, who had just come out of the kitchen. At that moment a shell came past them, fell through the open kitchen door, and burst inside. Richards calmly put down the tureen of pea soup which he was carrying, and together they went in through the smoke to see if anyone had been injured. One man lay dead, and another had been badly cut about the shoulder by a splinter. He was carried away immediately to the Casualty Clearing-station beyond the gully, and the dead man covered up and removed. “Poor chap!” Richards muttered, “he only landed two hours ago for the first time. It’s a strange thing how some get picked off, sir, isn’t it?”
“Well, that’s the third close shave for me—in three days too. I’ll tell the Orphan that. He’ll think it tremendously lucky,” Bubbles said.
“I shouldn’t like to say that it isn’t, sir,” Richards replied thoughtfully.
These three “experiences” seemed to have absolutely no effect on this midshipman’s nerves, and the Orphan marvelled at him, and despised himself for hating and dreading shells so much.
By now they had made themselves quite cosy in their corner of the dormitory; a sand-bag was placed over the shell hole in the roof; their beds were raised from the ground on some planks; they looted a washstand and a looking-glass from one of the hulks, and had much fun digging “cupboards” for themselves in the clay walls.
“Kaiser Bill”, too, seemed quite at home, and enjoyed his occasional exercises on the slope below the Mess, waking up, sprinting gaily for three or four yards, and then sulking because nothing green grew there. However, they managed to get him green stuff occasionally, and in the evenings, whenever they were off duty, they took him into the Mess after dinner, and he became quite frisky in the warmth of the fire. Those evenings were very jolly after a hard day’s work and a good dinner, sitting in “deck” chairs in front of the cheerful fire, yarning, and not worrying much about the shells which, every now and then, burst along the ridge and made the dry “clayey” walls shake bits down on the wooden floor—not worrying about them, in spite of the fact that if one fell on top of the Mess the Sub’s tarpaulin and the timber roof would not keep it out, nor would the long skylight hatchway, taken bodily out of one of the hulks and now fitted into the roof of the Mess.
It was one of their amusements to see “Kaiser Bill” “duck” when he heard a shell burst. He might be scampering over the floor—or the table—at the rate of two feet a minute, with his head and neck stretched out, or be nibbling enthusiastically at a piece of fresh cabbage leaf or onion stalk; but directly he heard the thud and roar of a shell bursting, however far away, in would go his head and legs, and nothing would entice him to put them out again for at least half an hour.
Bubbles and the Orphan always placed him down between their bunks when they turned in—for luck.
Food was good and plentiful—the army cheese simply grand; water was fairly plentiful from wells and springs; as for the Ordnance stores, they could supply everything from an electric torch to a stove, from a wheelbarrow to a motor bicycle, from a pair of trench gloves to a pair of india-rubber trench boots coming half-way up your thigh.
In fact, everything went on comfortably, and a week after the two midshipmen had landed they had entirely forgotten about “evacuation”, and only thought it a joke when a Turkish aeroplane dropped the message: “Good-bye, British soldiers; we know you are going, and are sorry to lose you”.
Flies had of course disappeared with the cold weather—disappeared long ago, and the only bothering live things were rats—great, fat, sleek fellows, who ran hurdle races round the dormitory at night to keep themselves in good condition, jumping over the sleeping midshipmen and the other officers there.
One night the Orphan met Bubbles, and saw by his face that something unusual had occurred.
“What is it? Any news?”
“They’re sending every one of those Greek labourers10 away to-night. They’ve given them two hours to pack up, and you and I have to embark them. What does that mean, I wonder?”
“Perhaps they’ve caught them spying; making signals or getting information across to the Turks,’ the Orphan suggested.
“I don’t know; it’s jolly rummy.”
“There’s a lot of ammunition to be landed to-night, some time after ten o’clock,” the Sub said, joining them. “You’ll have to go out in the lighter, Orphan, so you’ll have a busy time.”
Well, just before ten o’clock, when the Orphan had started to warp the empty lighter away from No. 4 Pier, a messenger came down from the N.T.O. to tell him that this ammunition was not to be landed, and he heard afterwards that it went back to Mudros immediately.
This roused their curiosity; and when, next night, three lieutenants and many more bluejackets arrived, and half a dozen of those motor-lighters (the “water-beetles”) and many more picket-boats came across from Kephalo, everyone guessed that the final evacuation had been determined upon.
And, on the last day of the year, Captain Macfarlane came to take charge of the elaborate organization required to embark all the troops, guns, horses, and stores without the knowledge of the Turks. He became Senior Naval Transport Officer, and lived in his big “dug-out” along a path cut in the cliff beyond the Naval Mess, and known as “Park Lane” because all the senior officers had their “dug-outs” there.
The Sub, Bubbles, and the Orphan were immensely pleased that he had come—he had such a kind, good-humoured way of giving orders, and nothing ever flustered him.
From now onward, there were no more troops or stores to disembark; but the work of sending away the enormous accumulation of stores, and of gradually withdrawing troops, guns, horses, and mules, went on at high pressure. This took place at night. After dark, transports and store ships would come across from Kephalo or Mudros, anchor off “W” beach or “V” beach (which now had been handed over by the French to the British), and all through the dark hours large “soldier” working parties and the Naval beach parties would toil, carrying down the most valuable of the Ordnance and Sappers’ and Commissariat stores, and loading them in lighters (wooden lighters, which had to be towed, or motor-lighters). When full, these would be sent off to the store ships, unloaded, and sent back again. Every night a troop-carrier would come slowly alongside the “Outer Hulk”, make fast, and battalions of infantry, with their baggage and their maxims, would be taken across to her in motor-lighters from No. 3 Pier. Every night, too, many horses and many mules went off to the big transports anchored farther out, and were hoisted on board.
An hour and a half before dawn, every steamship, transport, and troop-carrier had to be away and out of sight; and if, as the time for departure arrived, any still had half-emptied lighters alongside, tugs would dash out and bring them back. Nothing whatever was allowed to delay these big ships, because upon their arrival and departure being absolutely hidden from the Turks the whole success of the operation depended.
At one time, before the first of those south-west gales had broken a gap in No. 1 Pier, it had been possible to walk along it, then up a gangway on board the “Inner Hulk”, and from her to the “Outer Hulk”, and so on board anything lying alongside her. This had made the embarking and disembarking of troops a very simple and rapid process; and as simplicity and rapidity would be so necessary on the last night of the evacuation, attempts were made to bridge the gap. The Orphan took part in this, working in the day-time under the orders of the Pier-master, a Naval lieutenant named Armstrong, a great solid man who always spoke extremely deliberately, weighing every syllable, and never appearing to get even mildly excited.
First of all a big pontoon was wedged in the gap, but did not quite fill it; the vacant intervals were then closed by means of barrels lashed stoutly together and held in place by wires and hawsers. If anything did go wrong, Mr. Armstrong would fill his pipe and say: “I say—my—blooming—oath—you—blokes— will—have—to—reeve—another—pretty—big—wire—there”; or, “I—say—Orpen—we—shall—have—to— lay—out—another—anchor—go—round—and—find— a—thundering—big—chap”.
When at last these were all fixed to his liking, a broad wooden gangway platform was laid over all, between the broken-away ends of the gap.
This business occupied two whole days, during which time the Orphan had generally more wet clothes than dry. “If—you—don’t—take—care—you’ll—get —your—feet—wet,” Mr. Armstrong told him one day, after he had been wading up to his waist in the shallow water, on and off for an hour.
Troops now could march straight on board the “Inner Hulk”, then across to the “Outer Hulk”, and so to whatever troop-carrier happened to be alongside her. This naturally relieved the congestion at No. 2 and No. 3 Piers, from which horses and stores were embarked.
But the job which the Orphan liked best was down at No. 4 Pier, working with the Sub and a very energetic warrant officer, getting off guns, motor-lorries, motor field-workshops, “caterpillar” traction engines, and motor ambulances.
Before dark they would get a couple of lighters alongside this pier, make them fast to the wall, then dash up to the Mess for a rapid dinner, and down again about an hour after dark, when the guns would commence to come rumbling down the ridge to the beach—field-guns, stumpy howitzers, and long 60-pounders.
Horse teams or “caterpillar” tractors dragged them through the sand to just above No. 4 Pier, unhitched, and left them there with their “crews”. Then the beach party on the pier would make “fast” hook-ropes, and hauling on them, whilst the artillerymen man-handled the spokes of gun and limber wheels, along would come the gun and its limber, jolting aboard the lighter.
One after the other the guns would be coaxed aboard until the lighter could hold no more. Then the artillerymen, picking up their rifles and kits, would scramble on board, squat down between the gun wheels, cling on to the spokes, stow themselves away anywhere so long as they did not get in the way of the lighter’s crew, who now hauled on a warp-rope, made “fast” to the end of No. 3 Pier, and warped the heavily laden lighter away from the wall of No. 4 Pier.
A picket-boat, waiting there, would get hold of her, and tow her out to the plucky and beautifully handled little tug T1. Then away she would be towed by that tug to search for the transport which had anchored off Cape Helles after dark. Presently the big ship would loom up, the lighter would be towed alongside, made “fast” under a derrick, and left there to unload. If any very heavy guns, or heavy, cumbrous things such as motor-lorries or “caterpillar” tractors, went off, the Sub or the Gunner always took charge of the lighter; but if the load consisted of field-guns, or such things as “general service” wagons, he sent the Orphan.
This was just the job the Orphan enjoyed—the taking charge of the soldier officers and their artillerymen, the warping off from No. 4 Pier, the tow-out in the darkness of those very dark nights, the job of getting his lighter safely secured to the big ship, and the delicate business of safely slinging each gun and limber or wagon to the ship’s derrick “purchase”. The purchase would be lowered with its great hook, the slings of one gun slipped over it, the Orphan would shout “Hoist away!” and whilst that gun dangled overhead in the dark, would busily secure the slings to the next, so that time should not be wasted when the purchase-hook came down again. It sometimes took a couple of hours to unload a lighter, but this depended entirely upon the officers and crew of the transport ship. One ship—the Queen Louise—would do the work in half the time which some others occupied.
The Orphan always felt so happy when the last wagon or the last gun of any particular load had been hoisted out of the lighter. It was so grand to know that “that little lot” would not fall into the hands of the Turks. Best of all, it was such fun to be hoodwinking “the old Turk” all this while.
Generally, from the time a loaded lighter shoved off from No. 4 Pier until she returned alongside, empty, at least two hours had elapsed, and as it often took an hour—sometimes a good deal more—to load up again, each lighter seldom made more than two trips a night.
Practically all this work went on in complete darkness. There was no moonlight, and the only lights allowed to be shown were small oil-lamps, one on each pier, and one on the far end of the “Outer Hulk”. Fortunately, what breeze blew during the first nine nights came from the north-east, and did not interfere with the work; on most of these nights the air was absolutely still and the sea absolutely calm.
Before leaving off work in the morning, they would see that any guns remaining on the beach or in the lighters were carefully covered up with tarpaulins, so that the Turks could not see them from their inquisitive aeroplanes, which constantly came circling over, trying to find out what the British really intended to do.
Then, perhaps at half-past seven in the morning, thoroughly worn out, probably nearly wet through, back they would drag themselves up to the Mess, find Richards always ready for them with cocoa or coffee, bacon, sometimes eggs, and have their breakfast. Afterwards they would “turn in”.
“My perishing Orphan!” the Sub would say, as he threw himself on his bed. “That’s not a bad night’s work—twelve guns, and any number of wagons and things. But I’m pretty well fagged out, and you look ‘done to a turn’.”
They would sleep till the middle of the day, get up, wash, have lunch, and probably go to sleep again till four or half-past. Then a good “high tea” Richards would provide for them; and, after that, all those who were on night duty—nearly all in fact—gathered in the Mess, smoked and yarned, and told how things were “going”—how many troops, how many guns, how many horses and mules, and how much stores had been safely sent away the night before.
Everyone knew and felt that every man, every gun, horse or mule, every motor-lorry, every ton of stores and ammunition sent off was so much to the good; and everyone—especially as the day for the final evacuation drew nearer—grew anxious lest the Turks should find out what was happening, and lest the gentle north-east breeze should give place to a south-westerly wind, which would drive seas against the different beaches, and delay—perhaps fatally delay—the final embarkation.
There was always the chance of this, and of the two or three thousand last troops to come marching back from the empty trenches being hotly pressed by the Turks, and of them and the whole of the beach parties finding it impossible to get off. To the Orphan, and to many more; it also seemed so absolutely unbelievable that the Turks could be deceived again; and they thought that they must really know about what was going on, and were only waiting until the trenches were so weakly held that they could make a successful assault, drive all that remained down to the sea, and capture them.
Notes
9 This harbour was called Port Talbot after the Captain of the poor old Majestic.
10 Some two hundred Greek labourers had been employed ever since the landing, and had, for the most part, worked well; constantly under fire.