May 13th
At two o’clock this morning I was awakened by a most curious noise. It sounded like thousands of men off “V” Beach crying and shouting loudly. Shortly after I see searchlights, about eight of them, flashing from the battleships at the entrance to the Straits. The noise goes on for about half an hour and then suddenly ceases. I stand for a few minutes puzzling what it is, and watching the searchlights still wielding their beams of light around, and then turn in again.
At 6 a.m. I am told that the Goliath has been torpedoed and sunk. A Turkish destroyer came down the Straits and got her clean amidships, and she sank in half an hour. I hear that half the crew is lost. The destroyer, if seen at all, disappeared in the darkness. Poor old Goliath! and it was only the other day that I was watching her in action.
We now move our depot upon the high land on the left of “W” Beach and further inshore, and divide it into four, one for Divisional troops and one for each Brigade. While on this job at 7 a.m. I hear the sound of bagpipes coming nearer and nearer. It is the first time that I have heard bagpipes since I was on the Southland with the K.O.S.B.’s. Sure enough it is the K.O.S.B.’s, “all that are left of them,” some three hundred strong out of the strength of eleven hundred that they landed with from the Southland. They come swinging down to the beach with one officer at their head, and to see them marching well behind the inspiring skirl of bagpipes almost brings tears to my eyes. Three hundred left out of a crack Scottish battalion, average service of each man five years. I ride up to Brigade again this morning and find all very quiet on the front. I hear that we were successful in yesterday’s and in last night’s battle, and that the Gurkhas have taken a large important bluff on our extreme left on the other side of the gully.
I bathe in the afternoon, and while enjoying the pleasure of doing side-strokes with the sea having a slight swell on, I hear that terrible rending noise of a 6-inch shell, similar to those that dropped near me the other morning, which “bursts with a bang at the back of the beach.” My bathing is promptly brought to an end, and I go back to my “bivvy.” I feel safer there, somehow, but why I should I cannot explain. But all who have been under shell fire will bear me out in the statement that even if one is in a tent one feels more confident under shell fire than if in the bare open, with the exception, of course, of when one is caught under it going to some definite place or finishing some urgent definite work. Then one’s mind is concentrated on getting to that place or finishing that job. But sitting down on the beach hearing the heavens being torn asunder by an unseen hand, as it were—the noise of the tearing developing into a mighty hiss and shriek, ending in a great explosion which shakes the earth under your feet and echoes far away into the distance, followed by the whine of flying pieces of hot metal, sometimes very near your head—is a most disconcerting and unnerving position in which to find oneself.
For the benefit of those who have been so fortunate as to never have heard a shell burst in anger, a slight description of it may prove interesting. The first thing one hears is a noise like the rending of linen, or perhaps the rush of steam describes it better. This gets louder and louder, and then, as the projectile nears the end of its journey, one hears a whine, half whistle, half scream, and then the explosion. If it is very near there is an acrid smell in the air. One’s feelings are difficult to describe. You duck your head instinctively—you feel absolutely helpless, wondering where the thing will burst, and as you hear the explosion a quick wave of feeling sweeps over you as you murmur, “Thank Heaven, not this time!”
Unfortunately, they have got the range of our beach accurately now, and are beginning to do real damage. The little shells that we had earlier did not frighten us much, but these beastly things make us all jumpy.
Several men have been hit to-day, and about a dozen horses and half a dozen mules killed. All are taking cover as best they can. If one hits this bivouac where I am now writing, this Diary comes to an untimely end.
I wish our aeroplanes could find this gun; it appears so close up to us, and if it takes it into its head to fling these beastly things about all day long, this beach will be untenable. A damned fool near me has just said, “If they go on much longer they will hurt somebody.” I chuck a book at his head.
In France they do get a chance of rest behind the scenes now and again, but here it is one constant “Look out!” and down we bob. After a bout of shelling one imagines shells coming. For instance, when an aeroplane sails over, people duck their heads, as it sounds just like a shell; and then also there are so many ships in harbour that one is constantly hearing the noise of escaping steam, sounding just like a shell.
One of our men has just had the side of his boot torn away; fortunately, however, only the skin of his foot was grazed and bruised.
Fifty horses have now been killed, and three men killed and a few wounded.
Had to go on duty at depot at head of beach. Shelling stopped. Finished duty 6.45. Shell immediately came, and I fell flat behind some hay. After that a few more came over and then stopped.