November 28th
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 sailcovers 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 inshore off West Beach, but five hundred yards from the pier, the closest a hospital ship has moved to the beaches as yet. Hodsall, the O.C., a temporary A.S.C. Major, does all he can for me, and I collar 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 shell fire. 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 86th Brigade the Turks hold slightly higher ground than we do, and I think that they must have opened one or two of their sapheads when their 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 from the north-east to-day is the fiercest that I have known, for, as well as being biting cold, it drives stinging sleet before it with terrific force. As I talk to an officer on the hill of IX Corps 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 endeavouring to get warm, they walked up to them with hands up, but were “shoo’d” away like a lot of sheep by our half-frozen Tommies, who advised them to “get to Hell out of it.” Pondering, they walked over towards the Salt Lake and were taken in by the casualty clearing station on “B” Beach. This morning a few have died. Officers in the line, if they were not on watch, were huddled together all night endeavouring 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.
To-day, 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.