December 23rd
It is a fine, cold day. We now walk about on the beach with our ears always listening for the sound of a gun from Asia or Achi Baba, upon hearing which we get ready to fling ourselves to the ground or dive into a dugout. I go along to the H.Q. of the 86th and 88th Brigades, both built in the side of a cliff just this side of “X” Beach and almost opposite our D.H.Q. Their dugouts are delightfully cosy little houses; they are practically safe from shell fire and form a great contrast to Divisional H.Q., dug a little way to the right in trenches which are in full view of the enemy and in danger of a shell dropping plumb on to them at any moment.
The day drags wearily away. There is nothing much to do but bookwork, making up accounts, and visits to the Main Supply depot. It is an extraordinary thing, but almost every time I stroll over to the Supply depot from our office on the cliff, over comes a shell either from a howitzer on Achi or “Quick Dick” from Asia. I prefer the howitzer. It gives you a chance to quickly look round for the nearest dugout and dive in. Whereas “Quick Dick,” with its boom-whizz-bang, is on you before you can count two, and leaves you almost gasping, wondering that you are still standing alive instead of flying through the air in little bits. Each day victims are claimed. I thought my Q.M.S. had “got it proper” to-day, but I saw him do a marvellous head-dive behind a mound, protecting dug-in stables, which saved him. It makes everybody living on the beach very bad-tempered. At night they drop them over at intervals. But we are one too many for Asia by night. One can distinctly see the flash of the gun and can count twenty-three slowly before the shell arrives. The French are very clever over dodging these night shells from Asia. A man perched up on a stack of hay watches Asia intently. He sees a flash, blows loudly on a trumpet, and everybody gets to cover like rabbits. Result: remarkably few casualties. Of course, the flash of the gun does not tell whether the shell is addressed to “V” Beach or “W” Beach, and one cannot fail to at times be amused, in spite of the grimness of it all, for the lookout man on “V” Beach might see the flash and give a mighty blast on his trumpet, whereupon all rush for cover, and twenty-three seconds later the shell swishes over, not to “V” Beach at all, but to “W” Beach. The Turkish gunners appear to have their tails very much up, no doubt through the evacuation of Suvla and Anzac. And enemy airmen are very daring, swooping right over our lines and at times dropping an odd bomb or two. Men and transport move about as freely as ever, though, which is such a contrast to Suvla; though, of course, our line being further inland than it was at Suvla, the enemy have difficulty in reaching the transport with shrapnel. If not, probably our transport would not be so reckless. The roads at the foot of the cliff can no longer be used, having been made impassable by being washed right away in parts.