October 26th
A cool, fine morning, rather cloudy. Birds again flying in large coveys overhead—wild geese and crane, etc.; men fire at them, though it is strictly against orders. Hardly any artillery duels in morning. Go up to C.R.E. dump with Major Fraser, and later, leaving him, go on to Brigade and have tea. Adjutant of Worcesters, who was wounded in the landing in April, and who has been back in England, was there. We who have been out here all the time look upon those who have been back in England with great interest.
After tea, Morris, the Machine Gun Officer, takes me out to see his machine gun emplacements on Gun Hill, which is a little hill lying some two hundred yards behind our front-line trenches, the ground on its left rising steeply to the high ridge overlooking the sea, and on its right sloping gently down to the low land.
We pass the Worcester Regiment in the reserve trenches dug in an open space on the left of Brigade H.Q. looking inshore; then we pass down a communication trench, coming out into an open space behind a small mound called Gibraltar, round which we pass down a slope leading to a rocky ravine filled with large boulders, a few trees, and patches of thick gorse-bush. There the Hampshire Regiment are dug in.
To the left of the ravine are a few graves, and now and again a bullet kicks up the dust close by them. Smith, the Hampshire Quartermaster, jokingly informs me of a certain way of getting a cushy Blighty wound. If I want one, all I have to do is to stand by these graves after dark, and wait. In under two hours, most probably in five minutes of waiting, I shall get one in the leg. The bullets come from a Turkish trench high up on the cliff-side on our left front. To the right of the ravine one is safe, protected by a rise in the ground. On the left of the ravine one is in constant danger of a smack from a bullet, and more so at night.
We continue our way, passing down another trench, and shortly after come out into the open in a lovely glade of grass and trees situated in dead ground, protected by a little hill in front called Gun Hill. On its slopes we once more enter a trench, which encircles the hill, very similar to the ramparts of an ancient castle. It is a little fortress on its own, standing aloof from the system of trenches situated behind our front line, but in front of our support line, yet blending in with the uneven lie of the land, thereby not making a conspicuous target. At intervals are machine gun emplacements, with machine guns in position, pointing through apertures in the sand-bagged breastwork. At the first that we come to we find the sentry not looking out. I shall never forget the frightened look on his face as it meets Morris’s suddenly appearing around the corner of the sand-bagged wall a few inches from him. He gets a stiff “strafing.” We continue our way, and at the next emplacement come upon a sentry who presents a unique object. For his head is covered by a sand-bag, through which are holes made for his eyes and mouth. To this headgear are fixed sprigs of gorse-bush, and as he stands stock-still, with his head and shoulders filling the gap in the breastwork, it must be impossible for an enemy observer to detect his presence from the background of gorse and trees. Yet if he is detected a sniper has him for a dead certainty. It is so far safe for such sentries, however, for up to now no casualties have occurred amongst them from a sniper’s rifle.
Morris asks, “Is everything O.K.?” and the sentry, without looking round, replies, “All’s well, sir.”
I stand beside the sentry and look at the view in front of me—a beautiful view of sloping hills up to the heights of the cliffs which overlook the sea; and on their slopes I see distinctly the irregular light-brown lines of thrown-up earth, denoting the Turks’ front-line trenches and ours, running opposite each other to the summit of the cliffs, about three hundred yards apart.
We are six hundred yards from the enemy line, and can be certain victims for a Turkish sniper should he be aware of our presence.
From this position at night sometimes the Turk receives the contents of belt after belt of machine gun ammunition poured on to his second and third line and communication trenches by indirect fire, ranged by day, causing him great inconvenience and to wonder from where the bullets come.
Our front line is always warned when any such stunt is on, so that they may not arrange for their working parties or patrols to be out in front. Looking at the country in front of me, I can see that here on these rugged slopes the Turk would have but short shrift if he attacked us—as of course would we if we attacked. Result, deadlock, like two cats spitting and sparring at each other. Morris says he is always pleased to show people round his pet hobby. I was immensely interested, and Morris might have been showing me round a farm.
We come back in the gloaming, Morris now and again stopping to order paper and litter to be picked up, for General de Lisle is around here frequently, and has the eye of a hawk.