May 3rd
It is a perfect morning, but it is getting very hot. I ride up about 10 a.m. with the company sergeant-major to as far as the furthest of the white pillars, and there we tether our horses to a tree and walk the rest of the way up the white road. All is absolutely quiet on the front—not a shell, not a rifle shot.
All firing from the Fleet has ceased, and the gunners on shore are busy cleaning their guns and digging gun-pits and dugouts. It is quiet and peaceful. At the front line I cannot see any signs of the enemy. I chat with Major Barlow of the Essex, who was at Warwick with me. He is now O.C. Essex. It is strange being without the roar of the guns once more.
The Fleet has been treated to rather a hot reception, and finds it advisable to lie a little further down the entrance to the Straits, which it accordingly does. The mouth of the Straits looks glorious: the intense blue of the sea, with the warships and transports with their motley collection of lighters, picket boats, etc., all stand out strongly against the steely blue of the sky. Further off, the lovely Isle of Imbros shimmers like a perfect gem set in a sapphire sea. One can just make out the lovely violet tints of her glorious vales, tempered by the pearly grey mists that lightly swathe her mountain crests, as she stands out sharp against the sky. A beautiful sight and not easily forgotten. Looking landward, the trees are all bursting into leaf, the country is wrapped about in a cloak of flowers and flowering grasses, with Achi Baba as a grim and rugged sentry, its sides sloping away to the sea on either hand. Truly a grim and forbidding sentinel, but one which most certainly has to be passed if we are to do any good at all.
To-day an enterprising Greek landed in a small sailing vessel with a cargo of oranges, chocolate, and cigarettes, and in a very short time was quite sold out. We shall be having a Pierrot troupe on the beach next.
At night as the moon rises to the full the picture is perfect. The coast of Asia—that land of mystery and romance, with the plains of Troy in the background, immortalized for ever by the sweet singers of ancient Greece. One can almost picture those god-like heroes of the past halting in those titanic fights which their shades perhaps wage nightly in the old battlefields of Troy, halting to gaze in wonder and amazement on the strange spectacle unfolded before them—modern war, that is, and all its attendant horrors. Hector, Achilles, and Agamemnon in their golden harness—their old enmities forgotten—must surely gaze in astonishment on the warlike deeds and methods of another age than theirs. The soft, shimmering sea merges into liquid silver where in the dim distance the little wavelets lap around the silent sleeping isles. There is Tenedos, standing like a sugarloaf in a silver bowl, silent as the night itself, and filled with mystery. Further off Imbros, that queen of the isles, sleeps like a goddess wrapt about in a garment of violet and silver, all unheeding apparently of war’s alarms—surely on such a night as this the mythology of the ancients becomes a living thing, and it does not tax the intellect much to imagine Diana, queen and huntress, surrounded by her attendant maidens, pursuing the quarry through the violet vales of the isles. Again, one can almost hear the splashing of Leander as he swims the Hellespont to keep his tryst with the lovely Hero.
Most of those living on the beach have dugouts now, but I still live in a little house made of biscuit-boxes. The Royal Scots came into action the first time last night. The Munsters were taken by surprise and had their trench rushed, and the Royal Scots were given the job to retake it, and cleared the trench of the enemy with two platoons at the point of the bayonet in twenty minutes. Greek civilian labour has now been landed, and we use them for unloading the lighters. A Turkish spy could with ease pass himself off as a Greek labourer of one of the gangs. Personally, I think we are making a mistake in employing them.
Carver tells me that the other day he noticed one sitting half-way down the cliff in full view of Yen-i-Shehr, waving to and fro a fly-whisk with a metal band fastened round the handle which clasped the ends of the horsehair; he feels confident that by the way he was waving the whisk, with the rays of the sun reflecting from the metal band, he was signalling by code to the Turkish observation post on Asia. I think it was quite possible for him to do so, for a bright piece of metal reflecting the strong rays of the sun in the clear atmosphere of this part of the world can be seen a long way off, and I should say quite easily as far off as Yen-i-Shehr is from “W” Beach. To a casual passer-by the Greek would appear to be waving flies away from his face with the whisk. Flies are daily becoming numerous here. One of the Greek foremen, who spoke English, assured me that it was only a matter of weeks now before Greece would come in on our side, and that he looked forward to the day when he would take his place in the ranks.
It is strange how very silent everything is to-day—not a gun nor a rifle shot—and we stroll about the beach chatting with the Naval officers.