December 14th
The time gets nearer, yet the aspect of the beaches does not change. Shelling is about the same, but getting rather bad, at odd, but fortunately rare, intervals. The days are now lettered, but the letter of each day is secret to all but a very few. All we know is that when the last night does arrive it will be “Z” night. I have a shrewd idea that to-day is either “W” or “V” day, so that the time is near. It will be hard luck if I collide with a shell now, after dodging them all these months. What of the schemes for evacuating the first line when all those in rear are clear away? The line for the last few nights will be very thinly held by us.
The second and third lines are thickly wired with barbed wire in front, which stands in fences 8 feet high. At intervals there are passages through these fences to allow us to pass through on our way to and from the line. On the last night these passages will be closed, and the only way to get through will be by barbed wire gates across the few roads. Officers will be on duty at these gates, and they will have fixed thereon telephonic communication to the beaches. The final evacuation of the front line will be carried out as is the present daily evacuation of troops, keeping to a strict programme. The officer in charge of the last party down a certain road will report his unit and name to the officer in charge of the gate. This will be checked by the list which the officer will have with him of the last parties down, and if correct the officer, who will then know that the last troops have passed through, will telephone this information to the beach, close and bar the gate, and proceed with the party to the next line and himself report to the officer at that gate, where the same procedure will follow. And so on to the beaches, the only way to which is by the roads. After the last parties have passed through the last line, then those on the beaches will know that all have passed safely through, and that there are three lines of trenches thickly protected by barbed wire between the beaches and the enemy. The last parties to leave will be hurried on board the waiting destroyers, trawlers, and ships; the skeleton framework of the Supply depot, the remaining stores which have been unavoidably left, will be set ablaze by the igniting of petrol-sodden hay. The remaining officers will make a bolt for the few remaining pinnaces. That is the scheme.
The British population of Suvla daily dwindles away, unbeknown to the ignorant Turk. Ammunition and ordnance and all manner and kind of stores and equipment are daily disappearing into the holds of the waiting ships. These ships are not more numerous than the ships which have lain in the bay in the safety of the boom since August 6th, so that from their presence our plot is not given away. To the enemy our daily life appears the same, and he gives us our daily ration of shells—now of good quality and effective—and no doubt is laughing at us, with the memory of the recent awful storm and the coming blizzards of a rigorous winter. If all goes well, if the well-laid schemes of our G.S. “gang not agley,” and no bloody rearguard action is forced upon us, it will be our turn to laugh in a few days. To-night the wind has changed to the north-west; we may hoodwink the Turks, but not the mighty elements, and we pray that they will be our allies in our task. If our enemies, then we must give ourselves up in unconditional surrender, hoping for no mercy.
Carver has just arrived from Helles on a mission quite apart from the scheme of evacuation. To our surprise he is unaware that we are evacuating, and tells us that all at Helles are also ignorant of the coming event. No preparation of any kind is being made to evacuate Helles. He leaves again to-night, back for Helles. The 86th Brigade and part of D.H.Q. are now moving off. I go to “Y” forming-up post, just at the foot of our gully, and view the scenes there. The beaches have been shelled this afternoon. If they but drop a few over this evening they cannot fail to claim many victims. Shadowy figures march up in perfect order and form up. Roll-calls are made, sharp commands issued: “Stand at ease!” “Stand easy!” whereupon the figures talk, lean on their rifles, or lie down resting on the ground.
Elphinstone is going off with his Brigade, as he is their Supply Officer. I make him up a box of the plentiful medical comforts, including a few bottles of champagne for his Brigade H.Q. to feast on while on board. I say good-bye to many friends in the Brigade, as the order to move down is telephoned up from West Beach to the officer at the receiver attached to “Y” post. Troops are called to attention, and in two deep they march down towards the beach, entering the safety of the trench that has been dug there, pass in safety behind the mounds of earth and the small, rocky promontory, and file along the pier in single file up a gangway on to a small paddle-steamer, which sails out to the bay to the waiting ship. I listen to the chatter of the Dublin Fusiliers, to their philosophical comments on the situation, and feel glad for them that they are seeing the last of this damnable campaign. One of them has heard “on good authority,” and tells his friend, “that they are bound for Aldershot.” I leave them and walk back. No shells come over. Inland I hear the steady crack, crack, crack of the rifles. I turn into bed. Our Brigade, the old 88th, alone of the Division is left in the line.