Chapter VII Off to the Dardanelles
The Achates arrived at Port Said on the 18th March and made fast, head and stern, to the Senior Naval Officer’s buoys, off Navy House.
It was on this date that the combined French and British fleet made the attack on The Narrows—the attack which ended so disastrously with the loss of the Ocean, Irresistible, and Bouvet, and the crippling of the Inflexible and Gaulois.
A very bad day it was, only relieved by some daring acts of bravery, of which none so roused the admiration of the whole fleet as the courage displayed by those destroyers which went alongside the mortally wounded Ocean and Irresistible, and removed their crews under a concentrated fire from many heavy guns.
It was magnificent.
But the Achates lay comfortably at Port Said all that tragic day, making preparations for repairing the damage caused by the Smyrna shells, and talking by wireless to her chummy ship the Bacchante, anchored off Suez, at the other end of the Canal.
Barely six weeks ago the Turks had made their feeble attack on the Suez Canal, and of course the first thing that the Honourable Mess decided to do was to visit Kantara and Tussum, where the fighting had taken place. The Lamp-post had an elder brother on the staff at Ismailia, the Pimple had a long-lost cousin in an Indian regiment at Kantara, and by dint of much worrying of these two unfortunate young soldiers, everyone had the opportunity of visiting these places and picking up a few bullets.
Anyhow, they had a very joyous three weeks, only slightly damped by the almost entire disappearance of the damage done by the Smyrna shells; but a few holes remained in one funnel, and they looked forward intensely to showing these to their chums in the Bacchante. Eventually that ship came back through the Canal, the Achates followed her outside, and both of them steamed away to join the Eastern Mediterranean Squadron at its base at Mudros, the harbour in the island of Lemnos, sixty miles or so from the end of the Gallipoli Peninsula and the commencement of the Dardanelles. At last they were to take a hand in “The Great Adventure”.
At two o’clock in the afternoon of the 12th April they both slipped through the “gate” in the submarine net, and anchored in that great land-locked harbour.
It was extraordinarily impressive to see the enormous assemblage of ships there—both French and British ships of every kind—battleships, cruisers, destroyers, submarines, huge transports, store ships, colliers, auxiliaries of all sorts, two white-painted hospital ships, trawlers, and tugs.
At the top of the harbour lay the little white town of Mudros, with its white twin-towered Greek church, and its row of spidery windmills on the ridge behind it; though the Honourable Mess had not much time to gaze open-mouthed at all these things, and to grin with pleasure when the Bacchante anchored in the wrong place and was obliged to shift billet; because a collier came alongside almost immediately, and down they had to go, get into “coaling rig”, and, for the rest of that bright sunny afternoon, “coal ship”.
Everybody knew that the next attack on the Dardanelles would be a combined naval and military operation, and as transport after transport came steaming into Mudros harbour, the enthusiasm and excitement increased.
Also the Honourable Mess dined their pals of the Bacchante, and proudly showed them the few traces still remaining of the damage done to the ship at Smyrna. This was a beautiful occasion, because it washed out all memory of the incident of the “sea-gulls”—not one of them mentioned it—and also because the Bacchante snotties introduced a delightful new form of “drag” hunt round the “half-deck”, the “drag” being a piece of decomposed cheese (which they brought with them) and some Tabasco sauce and Chile vinegar dropped discreetly at intervals. As a special privilege, the “War Baby” was invited to the “meet”, and the “Youngest Thing in Marine Subalterns” joyfully left the exalted atmosphere of the ward-room, unbuttoned the trouser-straps under the soles of his boots—the straps which kept his trousers and their broad scarlet stripes so beautifully straight—and prepared for the fray.
Blindfolded, and on hands and knees, these young gentlemen enjoyed a famous “run”; and though the Padre did object to the “drag” being placed on the pillow in his cabin bunk, even that did not seriously diminish their enjoyment. As a matter of fact, it slightly added to it.
Exactly what part the Navy would take in the approaching “landing” on the Gallipoli Peninsula no one exactly knew; but when the news came that men were being told off for “beach parties”, and then when the Pink Rat, Bubbles, and the Lamp-post were ordered to be prepared to land with them and provide themselves with some sort of khaki uniform, excitement rose to fever pitch.
Within half an hour the Pink Rat appeared in the mess in proper soldiers’ kit—beautifully fitting—which, he explained, “he’d brought out with him in case of accident”.
“If you went to Heaven you’d turn up at the gate, and sign your name in old Peter’s book with a pair of wings on and a mouth-organ!” the Sub snorted when he saw him; and Uncle Podger suggested that “he probably had a tail, with a sting on it, and a brand-new shovel, stowed away somewhere on board, lest, “in case of accident”, he found himself in the other place.”
The whole Honourable Mess concerned themselves with the fitting out of Bubbles and the Lamp-post. Proper khaki was unobtainable—at that time—so they dyed their white uniform in Condy’s fluid, and as it shrunk in the process, and the resulting colour was a dirty yellow, streaked with brown, the effect was not good.
“Most unsatisfactory!” said Uncle Podger, when they first tried it on and he saw the Lamp-post’s ankles and wrists sticking out far beyond the ends of trousers and sleeves, and Bubbles hardly able to breathe in his. “Most unsatisfactory! It will be an insult to the Honourable Mess if either of you are found ‘corpsed’.”
“You mustn’t tell them you belong to the Achates when they come to bury you,” the others shouted. “You must promise that!”
“You’re perfect scarecrows,” roared the Sub when he saw them—“a pair of confounded convicts!”
Everybody laughed at them and devoutly envied them—and they laughed at each other.
Rawlinson, who prided himself on being a really great poet, burst out with:
“Two little convicts going out to fight,
One had his clothes too short, the other much too tight!”
There was a roar of laughter as the Honourable Mess lifted up their voices, chanting this, and dancing round the quaint pair, whilst Rawlinson, exhausted with the production of this exquisite couplet, retired to a corner to think out something which would rhyme with khaki.
The Lamp-post, grimacing, and trying to twist himself so that he could get a back view, didn’t know or care what he looked like, but said he felt “like a prize idiot”.
“How nice to feel natural for once, Lampy!” that insubordinate officer, the China Doll, squeaked.
This was simply asking for trouble. The two convicts chased him round the table, just missing him as he dashed out into the half-deck. Piercing shrieks for help followed, and the others rushed out to rescue him.
A glorious scrap followed.
“At any rate,” said the Sub, when they’d come back again to repair damages, and the Hun had apologized for tearing the Pink Rat’s coat-collar, “you’ll both frighten the old Turks. That’s one comfort.”
There were so many things to keep up the excitement during those days of preparation. The transports, with their cheering loads of British, Australians, New Zealanders, French, and Algerian troops; the quaint old battleships from home, the dear old “mine bursters”, with their clumsy, projecting spars and tackle, over the bow, for booming off mines; the balloon ship practising its funny, yellow gas-bag at the outer anchorage, and the enemy aeroplanes and their bombs. These last were, at first, a source of immense delight to the Honourable Mess, but eventually they became a little sorry for them—they flew so high and dropped their bombs so very unsuccessfully.
“How very disappointing!” said the Lamp-post one day. “Just fancy having brought along those bombs, to drop ’em harmlessly, and then have to fly back, all that way, without having done any damage.”
He was quite serious about it, and, as a matter of fact, one could not but feel sorry for the poor chap, up there in his Taube, who, having expended all his four bombs uselessly, found he had to fly back some sixty miles to wind’ard, before he could go and “turn in” and try to forget about it.
Then, one day, they heard that their old friend the torpedo-boat, down at Smyrna, had come out to sea and fired three torpedoes at a crowded transport without hitting her; and by nightfall came the news that she had been chased, driven ashore, and destroyed by gun-fire. That was very good “business”.
Next came the order that steel plates were to be built round the steering-wheels of the steam pinnace and the picket-boat, to protect the midshipmen and coxswains from rifle-fire. Almost at the same time the Orphan and the Hun (who was in charge of the steam pinnace) had been ordered to provide themselves with khaki, and told that their boats would be required to tow the soldiers to the beaches, on the day of the grand attack.
It was a great moment for both of them; and what a mess they made of their hands and clothes with Condy’s fluid, and what prize burglars they looked when at last they showed themselves arrayed for war!
Every ship had to supply one or more steamboats, and each ship devised its own rifle protection. The Achates’ boats had a steel plate about five feet high bolted to the deck, in front of their steering-wheels, with a narrow, horizontal slit just below the upper edge, so that when those behind it stooped down under cover they could steer through this. The ends of the plates curved back a couple of feet, so as to give side protection.
Some ships built regular steel boxes with “all round” protection, others carried the side plates so far aft that they protected men standing in the stern-sheets; and the snotties in the boats with the least protection made great fun of those who had more. Probably, among the hundred thousand men in that harbour, during the days prior to the landing, the twenty or thirty snotties in charge of these steamboats were the most supremely happy of all.
The Hun and the Orphan went away, several times, and practised towing the transports’ boats. Each steamboat had to tow four of these, one behind the other. On one day the 1st Lancashire Fusiliers came on board the Achates, and practised climbing down into the boats, down specially constructed wooden ladders, and were then towed ashore in twenty-four packed boats, each four being towed by a steamboat, and all six steamboats steaming in line abreast.
On another day all the snotties and men “told off” to land as beach parties, or as crews of boats, were fallen in on the quarter-deck, and Dr. Crayshaw Gordon, mounting the after capstan, gave them a few words of advice and instruction in case any of them were hit.
“Don’t frighten them, Doc,” the Commander had hinted previously—and he didn’t. He had such a funny way of “putting” things that he had the men laughing in no time.
He explained how the little first-aid dressing should be used, tearing open the cover, showing them the pads to go next the wounds, the pieces of waterproof to cover the pads, and the bandage to wrap round all. He held up the safety-pin which is in every packet—held it so that all could see—and finished up with: “You men will probably come under heavy fire; some of you will get bullets through you; but if any of you come back wounded without your safety-pins, there will be the devil’s own row.” He had such a quaint, nervous, amusing way of talking, and was so kind-hearted and so popular with the men, that they grinned and guffawed with amusement.
Of those men who stood there that afternoon, fifteen were killed on the day of landing, and some twenty-five or thirty wounded.
“Thank God, they have no imagination,” Dr. Gordon told the Commander, “and can’t realize what is in front of them!”
“They simply don’t bother to think about it, Doc.”
On the 23rd April the first move began. Transports crammed with cheering troops, cruisers, and battleships slipped out through the “gate” in the net. The Achates spent the night at sea, and anchored off Tenedos Island next morning. Here were gathered the men-of-war, transports, fleet sweepers, and trawlers told off for the landings at the end of the Peninsula. It was a dull, grey-looking day, and a fresh breeze rising in the morning made the sea choppy, and must have caused intense anxiety to those in command, because the great landing was to take place next morning, and unless the sea was absolutely smooth, boat-work would be much more difficult.
That afternoon the Sub was ordered to go in the Orphan’s picket-boat as “second in command” of the six steamboats which were to tow the battalion ashore. He was dumb with delight, and the Orphan almost as pleased.
In the afternoon the breeze did die down, and the Turks sent an aeroplane to see what was going on. It dropped a few bombs from a great height into the water between the ships, and flew back again.
Later on, the River Clyde came along and anchored close to the Achates. Poor old River Clyde! She was to make her last voyage that night, with 2000 troops on board, to run herself aground under the mediæval castle of Sedd-el-Bahr early next morning, and make her name famous in the annals of the British Navy and Army for many ages.
Large square openings had been cut in her side, and under these ran plank gangways, meeting at the bows, where a hinged platform was all ready to be lowered into the hopper and the lighters which were to fill the gap between her stem and the shore.
Her soldiers were intended to pour out of these openings, along the planks, down into the hopper and lighters, and so ashore.
At dusk the 1st Battalion Lancashire Fusiliers came on board—old soldiers all of them. Very silently and quietly they “fell in” on the quarter-deck and in the batteries, unslung their packs, laid their rifles alongside them, and were dismissed.
This was the moment for which the bluejackets were waiting. They had a great feast prepared on the mess deck, and hustled them down to it.
Five of the subalterns were grabbed by the Honourable Mess and brought down to the gun-room; the remaining officers were entertained in the ward-room.
“Thank God!” roared the Sub, “I’m coming in with you chaps to-morrow, or I couldn’t face you. Buy up the place—beat the China Doll—break the blooming furniture—chuck your gear on the deck outside. Bless you, we’ll give you a better dinner than you had in that old transport of yours. And there’s my cabin for two of you—the bunk for one, and a shake-down for another. Barnes! Barnes! Bring round the sherry, and tell ’em to hurry up with the dinner.”
Every delicacy the gun-room store possessed appeared on the table. The soldiers swore it was the best dinner they’d had since they left England; and the Honourable Mess spun them yarns about Smyrna—by order of the Sub, who had forbidden them to mention the morrow.
Dinner over, Uncle Podger took charge or the five subalterns, and piloted them into the crowded ward-room, where a “sing-song” had already been started. The Sub, the Pink Rat, Bubbles, the Lamp-post, the Orphan, and the Hun changed quietly into their war gear. The Sub, the Orphan, and the Hun climbed down into the two steamboats, went across and made fast to the trawler which was to tow them and their eight transport boats (empty) across to the Peninsula during the night. The other three snotties, laden with leather gear, water-bottles, field-glasses, revolvers, ammunition-pouches, haversacks with food for twenty-four hours, and blankets rolled up in their straps, were taken across to the Newmarket—fleet sweeper—along with all the men of the beach parties.
The sing-song in the ward-room was in full swing as the last crowded boat pushed off, and up through the open ward-room skylights came the rousing, roaring chorus of “John Peel”, following them in the darkness until they were almost alongside the Newmarket. Many of those who sang it were singing it for the last time.
At ten o’clock the Achates weighed anchor.
The sing-song went on until nearly eleven, but breakfast had been ordered at a quarter to four, so older heads suggested sleep. The “Lancashire” officers were stowed away in cabins, beds were made up for them on the deck; the ward-room cushions and arm-chairs all helped, and the men of the battalion lay down on the upper deck, with their heads on their packs.
At 3.15 everyone turned out, and half an hour later breakfast was ready for the soldiers—eggs and a good helping of bacon, bread and jam and butter to fill up corners, and as much coffee, tea, or cocoa as they wanted to wash it down.
This was all the Achates could do for them, and, little though it was, everyone felt happy that each officer and man of that grand battalion started on The Great Adventure with a good breakfast under his belt.
The little Padre, whose gentle soul had been in anguish all that night, was not the only one who wished that their mothers and wives could know this.
At half-past four the Achates stopped engines; the Lancashire Fusiliers “fell in”, and out of the darkness covering an absolute calm, almost unruffled sea, came the six steamboats and the twenty-four transports’ boats, each with its crew of five bluejackets.
Into these the soldiers filed, down the long ladders, and in twenty minutes the last boats had been filled and towed away.
There are no words which will properly and soberly describe the admiration felt by the officers and men of the Achates for that battalion. When the last boat had shoved off, and the transports’ boats and their six steamboats had taken up their stations in line abreast and began to move slowly away, Captain Macfarlane turned to the Commander and said gravely: “I’ve seen, Commander, a good deal of war on shore, but I have never seen anything which has stirred me so greatly as the quietness and discipline of those fellows—as the majesty of their bearing.”
He went up on the bridge, and the Achates’ engines rumbled slowly ahead.
It was now a quarter to five on Sunday morning, the 25th April, the greyest of shadowy dawns—the formless clouds were grey—a darker streak of grey, where grey sea and sky met, was the Gallipoli Peninsula; and three grey patches, darker still, were the Swiftsure, Cornwallis, and Albion, close inshore, waiting for the moment to commence bombarding.
Behind the Achates, like a shoal of minnows, followed the steamboats and their twenty-four transports’ boats; behind them were fleet sweepers, and looming indistinctly in the distance, as wide as the eye could pierce, came transports and store-ships in great numbers, the River Clyde among them.
On board the Achates the fo’c’sle and after shelter deck were crowded with officers and men anxiously gazing ahead.
“You know that R.H.A. officer,” the China Doll kept on telling anyone who would listen to him—“that cheery chap who’s going in with them to make signals. He promised to send me off a Turk’s rifle. Wasn’t that decent of him?”
On the bridge Captain Macfarlane, tugging nervously at his pointed beard, and standing next to the Commander, muttered to himself: “Thank God! they had a good breakfast.”
“Every one of them, sir,” the Commander jerked out, in the most matter-of-fact way.
“There’s nothing like having your stomach full to keep up your pluck, Commander. It makes all the difference.”
“I expect it does, sir. The books say so, at any rate.”
“I know it does,” the Captain said, thinking of what he had been through himself, and turning to speak to the Navigator, busy taking bearings.
The thudding of heavy guns broke the stillness, and splashes of flames lighted up the greyness of the daybreak.
“Hullo! they’ve started!” said the Commander. “They’re three minutes late by my watch. I expect the blessed thing is losing again. I’m hanged if I know what’s wrong with it.”
The Great Adventure1 had commenced.
Notes
1 The Australian and New Zealand Army Corps had already effected a landing beyond Gaba Tepe, 15 miles to the north-east.