5.30 p.m
Brigade Supply Officers are ordered to find out the location of their units. Horses can be had on application from D.H.Q. I ask to be allowed to proceed on foot, and am granted permission, but they rather wonder why I ask. The honest reason is because I am nervous, and I prefer to be nervous on foot than a nervous rider on horseback over a difficult country. I make a bee-line inshore, and after a quick walk of fifteen minutes or so become intensely interested in what I see. Shells are passing over my head from the Fleet, but the rifle fire appears to have died down. Wounded are straggling back in twos and threes, and bearers carrying the more serious cases, with great fatigue to themselves. To carry a man two and a half miles over rough ground on a stretcher is hard work.
Nearing the line, I pass police forming battle posts, and these, together with the badges of the wounded men, which are sewn on their tunics, returning to the beaches, helps me to steer my course. Now and again I am warned not to go near where snipers are said to be, and perpetually I trip over thin black wires, which serve for the nonce for signallers’ cables. Passing a cluster of farm buildings, I arrive at last at a scene of great activity and feel relieved that I am once more amongst men. A trench is being dug with forced energy, orderlies are passing to and fro, signallers at work laying cables, doctors dressing wounded, and bearers carrying them to the rear. I discover that we have had a set-back. I learn that we were heavily outnumbered, but that at 5 p.m. the Turks had retreated hastily to almost beyond Krithia, which lies in flames on the high land in front of me towards the left, and that actually the Lancashires had been through the village.
Walking along the line, I find the 86th Brigade, and from them learn where H.Q. 88th are. On my way there I pass Captain Parker and Major Lee, of the Hants. Major Lee asks me excitedly if they are getting on with the digging of the trench, and then asks me to get some water up to some of his battalion on his right by the French, which I promise to do this night. Walking further along, I cross a white road of some kind of paving, and then at last reach my H.Q. I see Thomson, who looks very ill and tired, but appears very cool and quiet. I shall never forget his smile when he saw me, saying “Hello, Gillam!” in a quiet voice. I see Panton busy at dressing wounded, for alongside H.Q. is an advanced dressing station. On my right I notice French troops hard at work continuing the digging of the line to the edge of the Dardanelles.
I find out what is wanted in the way of food and water and where it is to be dumped, and start off back to the beach. It is twilight and rapidly getting dark, and it is difficult to find my way back to the right beach, namely “W.” I remember with a shudder those silent clumps of bushes and trees, and wonder if snipers are still alert. I steer my way back by the masts of the ships, the heads of which I can just see, and I walk as the crow flies over every obstacle I find. I had learnt at Brigade H.Q. that the white road ran between Krithia and Sed-el-Bahr, and mentally I made a note of the way I should take rations on my return journey, namely to Sed-el-Bahr from “W” Beach via “V” Beach, and thence up the white road. I see three figures ahead limping, and as I had not seen a soul for fifteen minutes and it is getting dark now, I finger my revolver, wondering if they are some of our most trying enemies, the snipers. But that thought is only born from nerves, for they are limping and must be wounded. On overtaking them I find that one is an officer, Cox of the Essex, one of those who had played “The Priest of the Parish” on the Dongola the night before the landing. He is the only one limping, from a bullet wound in his calf; he is supported by his arms resting round the shoulders of two men—one his servant, unwounded, and the other a man wounded through the arm. Cox tells me he took cover in a nullah when hit, and remained there all day. Twice the French advanced over him, and twice they retreated, leaving him between the enemy’s lines. A third time British and French advanced, and he was rescued and helped back. I wish him further luck in this war, for luck had befallen him—he an infantryman and a bullet wound in his leg. I like him rather specially, and feel glad that he is to be out of it for a while. It is now quite dark and I have missed my bearings and see a few small lights ahead, and make for them and am very soon pulled up short by the challenge of a sentry.
I discover it is signals of D.H.Q. and am directed to H.Q., where I am interviewed by a G.S. Officer, who asks me the position of troops. I tell him French on the right, and then 88th, 86th, then 87th. I learn that I am on Hill 138, the future name of D.H.Q. I am directed back to “W” Beach and then endeavour to find O’Hara. After fifteen minutes I find him and report what I had done, and am told that he had learnt that a dump of rations, ammunition, and water is to be made at Pink Farm. Learning that Pink Farm is the collection of buildings that I had struck earlier in the afternoon, I point out that this farm will be too far to the left for my Brigade, and that I found a convenient site for the 88th dump on the right of the Sed-el-Bahr–Krithia road, but I am told that I must have made a mistake. This disturbs me somewhat, as I feel that I am right. He tells me to come along with him up to Pink Farm, as pack-mules with rations, ammunition, and water had started for this dump. We overtake some of them. Further on we meet Carver coming back on horseback, and he reports where 87th Brigade H.Q. is. I now see that the reason why they have decided on Pink Farm for a dump is because Way had come back first and reported where his Brigade was, and that through Carver and I not having turned up they decided on Pink Farm as a Divisional dump for all the Brigades. As a matter of fact, Pink Farm will suit 87th as well as 86th, for it lies between the two, and rations, etc., from the one dump can be man-handled to the two Brigades. But for the 88th, the dump is right out of it.
We meet Phillips, our 88th Transport Officer and O.C. No. 4 Company, a good soldier; Ford, Q.M. of the Essex; and Grogan, Transport Officer of the K.O.S.B.’s, a delightful chap; and passing them we arrive at Pink Farm, where I tell my tale to Colonel Beadon and Major Streidinger. It is now raining hard, and I have no coat. It is hard work getting through the clayey mud. They apparently do not consider my statement that this dump is of no use whatever to the 88th, for a bush that I can just see a hundred yards away is pointed out, the moon then being up above the clouds, and I am ordered to go two hundred yards beyond there, where I will find Thomson and 88th Brigade H.Q., and to arrange with him for fatigue parties to come back and carry up water. They say they have just been talking to Thomson.
This puzzles me, and I start off for that bush. I hate bushes just now. I pass it and come to a brook full of the loudest-croaking frogs I have ever heard. Without much exaggeration they made as much row as a dozen people would, all talking together loudly. Then I pace what I think is two hundred yards in front of that bush and come to nothing at all. Remembering that in the dark one hardly ever walks in a straight line, I alter my course, and walking a few yards, see the rays of an electric torch shining, towards which I walk quickly. It is immediately switched out as I approach, and now, feeling cautious, I shout, “Are you British?” but receiving no answer, I shout once more, and am glad to receive an answer of “Aye, aye.” I go up to them and find that it is our front line, and inquire where Brigade H.Q. is. A little light to my right, but behind rather, is pointed out, to which I go. There I find Thomson in a trench and give him the message as instructed. The light of a torch shining on his face shows me a look of annoyance, expressive of his thoughts that I am a fool. He politely tells me that he wants rations taken to the spot that he had pointed out in the afternoon. I find that I am at 86th Brigade H.Q., and that Thomson is but visiting there for a conference. Having a difficulty in finding my way to Pink Farm, I make for the front line once more, whence the direction is pointed out to Pink Farm, for I can only see a hundred yards ahead and all bushes look alike. I hear the noise of croaking frogs and make for it.
It comes from the brook that I had passed, and from there I go towards what I think is Pink Farm, but find that it is a collection of the pack-mules under Phillips, and I unload my feelings in horribly bad language. Then Phillips gives me a packet of cigarettes, which I am entirely without. I am wet through now to the skin, and dog-tired; my pocket is full of iron-ration biscuits, and between puffs of my cigarettes I munch them. Not a sound of a shot, not a flash of a gun. Old John Turk has had a nasty knock and is over a thousand yards away. Nothing but the sound of the hiss of the gently falling rain. I follow the farmer’s track up to Pink Farm and tell my troubles to Colonel Beadon. Colonel Williams, who had distinguished himself at Sed-el-Bahr, is there without a coat, and soaked to the skin as I am. I am instructed to take the remaining mules back to “W” Beach, link any which I pass, that are on the way up, on to my convoy, and also pick up any which are starting off from “W” Beach, make one convoy, take stock and make a note of it, and take the whole through Sed-el-Bahr up to the spot Thomson had pointed out to me in the afternoon. I think of the tale of the odd-job man who had been given every imaginable job in the world by his old lady mistress, and who asked her if her house was built on clay, as he would very much like to make bricks in his spare time. I go back to Phillips; the convoy is turned round and off we trek, I at the head, Phillips in the rear. I meet Davy on the way up with a convoy of his, and accordingly instruct him to join on to my convoy. He says, “Look here, Gillam, old boy; you’re fagged out and are making a mess of things; go back to bed, old boy. I know all about it, and we have to take these mules to Pink Farm.” I wish Pink Farm elsewhere, express my feelings to him in forcible language, and finally convince him under protest. However, we are soon friends again, and his convoy links up in rear of mine. We hear three reports of a rifle ring out on our right. A sniper, still undiscovered, at work. We arrive at “W” Beach, arresting the start of another convoy, which in turn also becomes part of ours, and I go to find O’Hara. Having found him, I told him my tale of woe; he says he will come with me to the 88th Brigade; and after taking stock and tacking a watercart on to the rear of the column, we trek off to Hill 138. Stopping there, O’Hara has a chat with the A.P.M., who has been to the 88th H.Q. and assures us that we are on the right track. On through the ruined village of Sed-el-Bahr we go, down through a poplar grove enclosing a Turkish cemetery, when we overtake the C.R.A., riding alone with an orderly. We are on the white road that I noticed in the afternoon, and the C.R.A. takes the lead, as he states that a part of the road further up is rumoured to be mined. Krithia lies ahead on our left in flames, a wonderful sight.
It has stopped raining; we pass several brooks, and from them comes the clamouring noise of loudly croaking bull-frogs. We pass one after the other four white pillars of stone, about a hundred feet in height. On my right I can see dimly the waters of the Dardanelles. Dawn is just developing. The C.R.A. raises his hand and we stop. He rides cautiously forward with his orderly, and after a minute returns and orders us to follow him. He turns sharply to the left, makes a wide circuit, we following, and comes out on the white road once more farther up. He then leaves us and disappears. We continue for three hundred yards, when I come to the conclusion that we are very near our destination, tell O’Hara so, and the command is given “Halt!” O’Hara and I walk on up the road. Not a sound is heard—no shells, no rifle fire whatsoever. I can see no one about. I look to my right, where Brigade H.Q. should be, and find nothing but some shallow dugouts. We go off the road to the right amongst bushes, and trip over a few poor dead Tommies. We come back to the road. O’Hara thinks I am wrong. Good Lord! supposing that I am wrong after all this!
We walk up the road further, and suddenly come to a sentry standing in a trench on our right. I look to the left and see another trench and a sentry a little way on, on guard. The road goes on into darkness. I am smoking a cigarette, and am ordered peremptorily by the sentry on my right to put it out. We question him, and find that we have arrived at our front line. Every man of four is on guard, the other three sound asleep in the bottom of the trench. The sentry tells us that the Turkish line is a good way ahead, and that he has seen or heard nothing from there since he has been on guard. He is shivering with cold, though muffled in his coat, but for all that looks a fine type of fellow. But he is “pukkah” and 29th as well. Finest troops in the world, bar none. The finished type of a disciplined British Tommy. Oh! for six more Divisions of this quality: Achi Baba would have been ours this day. He directs us to Brigade H.Q. Following his direction, we turn back down the road and come back to the shallow dugouts.
During our absence Thomas, of the Essex, and a Naval officer, smoking a huge pipe and muffled to his ears in his white muffler and blue overcoat, had arrived. They tell us the dugouts are the 88th Brigade H.Q. We inquire for Thomson and the rest, and are told that they have gone to 86th to confer. One by one the little patient mules are unloaded, and proceed down the road, to wait, and the boxes, rations, ammunition, and water are spread singly amongst the thick gorse off the road, so as not to be seen by the enemy in the morning. While this goes on I talk to the Naval officer, and learn from him that he is an observing officer for the ships’ guns; he appears a very cool customer. He tells me that he is a very unlucky man to talk to; that an officer yesterday was wounded while talking to him, and another killed last night under the same circumstances. I wish him “Good-night and good luck,” and go back to the mules, and help to hasten their unloading by helping myself. Colonel Patterson, O.C. Mule Corps, keeps on urging upon us the importance of not losing the ropes, as when lost they are difficult to replace. The last mule being unloaded, we search for the watercart, but it is nowhere to be found; but tins of water are up now, and we hear that a well has been found, the water pure and not poisoned, as we had feared. And so we start to trek back. A short way back and O’Hara shouts “Halt!” Then he says to me, “Gillam, where’s that —— mine we’ve heard so much about?” I answer, “Great Scott!” Somebody behind us gives a muffled cough, and a Tommy, one of the armed escort, steps forward and in a Tommy’s polite manner says, “Begging your pardon, sir, but we are standing on it.” O’Hara shouts “Walk—march!” and we move at a good four miles an hour until we arrive at the white pillars and the friendly sound of the croaking frogs; we realize at any rate that we are safe from land mines. Evidently this mine is a false alarm. Permission to smoke is given, and the Syrian boys exchange ration cigarettes and chatter to each other in Russian. Up to now they had been almost entirely silent. We pass many French troops sleeping in little hastily made camps, and we pass some Zouaves, looking picturesque in the early morning light in their quaint Oriental uniforms. And so through the silent cemetery and poplar-trees, through Sed-el-Bahr, now a large French camp, back past Hill 138 and home to “W” Beach. I give O’Hara a few of my iron-ration biscuits and almost stagger to my Supply depot, for I am hardly able to walk any further, and lie down on my valise, that my servant has thoughtfully laid out for me, beside the S.S.O. and Colonel Beadon, falling off to sleep with the satisfaction that to-morrow at any rate the 88th will have their rations.