May 18th
Our Brigade has now moved up about three-quarters of a mile in front of Pink Farm, and I go up this morning to find them. I ride up to, and leave my horse at, Pink Farm, and walk the rest of the way down past a ruined house, on over a small nullah, along the road past a battery up to a white house called Church Farm, where I think it is about time to halt and inquire the way. A few Tommies encamped in this house tell me Brigade H.Q. is two hundred yards further on in the trenches, and I walk on. I notice a Tommy walking in the same direction with a biscuit tin on his shoulder, which he has rubbed over with mud to prevent the sun glittering on it. I continue on in the direction indicated, and hear a few “pings” past my head, but thinking they are the usual spent bullets, take no notice. Suddenly something “zips” past my head, making a row like a huge bee flying at high speed; the noise being unlike the usual “ping” of a bullet passing harmless overhead, I conclude that I am being deliberately fired at by a sniper, and so bend double, and steering a zigzag course, jog-trot across the remaining fifty yards to a nice deep trench. On arrival, I inquire where Brigade H.Q. is, and am directed to a communication trench, which I go along and find myself at length in a square dugout with no roof, in which are General Williams, busy at work with a spade, Thomson, Farmer, and Reave. Concluding my business, and being instructed that the little ruined house in front of Pink Farm is to be the dump for rations, I say good-bye. Thomson says, “Now, Gillam, run like a bunny,” but, those bullets being a bit free at present over the trenches, I follow my own route back and walk along the hindmost trench, which I am told leads to a nullah which goes back in the direction of Pink Farm.
I pass Worcesters and Royal Scots in the trenches, and finally the trench dips down to a wide open space under cover, with a small brook running its course, out of which two nullahs run. This, I am told, has been officially named “Clapham Junction.” Unfortunately, a few shrapnel then burst immediately over “Clapham Junction,” and I therefore go to look for a waiting-room, refreshment-room, or booking-office in which I can take cover until the rain has stopped. I find a “refreshment-room” in the shape of an advanced dressing station, and two officers there very kindly give me breakfast. After breakfast I walk along the nullah, which I learn is now to be called Krithia Nullah, back towards the rear, and when the sound of bullets pinging away overhead ceases, I step out on to a newly made road, which is still under construction by the Engineers, and then come across the Manchesters again in a newly dug trench forming reserve lines. Walking back to Pink Farm, I mount my mare and canter back to the beach. Last night the Turks made a raid on the part of the line held by the Lancashire Fusiliers, endeavouring to capture a machine gun, but very soon gave up the idea. They lost heavily and left six prisoners behind.
Supply depot for my Brigade alone now working smoothly. We draw rations for the whole Division, men and horses, at six o’clock each morning by G.S. wagons. This takes two hours, during which the rations are carted from the Main Supply depot some three hundred yards inland from our depots at the back of “W” Beach, and sorted out to each of the three Brigade depots and the Divisional artillery depot. Breakfast at eight, and at 9.30 I go to my depot again and issue the rations to my units, meeting the Q.M.’s who have arrived with their transport. Receipts for the rations are then given me by the Q.M.’s, who cart them away to their own lines, where their first-line transport is encamped only a distance of three to five hundred yards away on the other side of the beach. At night they are taken up to the various ration dumps, and from there taken the rest of the way to the trenches either by hand or on pack-mules. At the forward ration dumps the work of redistribution is carried on under a continual flight of spent and “over” bullets, and standing there one is in constant danger of stopping one. Up to now several casualties have been caused, but mostly slight wounds. After five minutes one becomes quite used to the singing of the bullets, which sound quite harmless. It is only when an extra burst of fire breaks out that it is necessary to get into a trench or behind some sheltering cover. I ride up in the afternoon to Brigade H.Q., who have now dug themselves into a dry watercourse just in front of Pink Farm. I see General Williams and Thomson. Afterwards I walk up to the trenches where the Worcesters are, up beyond Church Farm, and across that open space. At Church Farm I am told that at this side of the building I am out of aiming distance from a rifle, and can only be hit by an “over,” but that at the other side of the building I come under range, and that it is not wise to loiter in that neighbourhood.
I therefore get across the three hundred yards of open space as quickly as possible, and vaulting into the safety of the trench, I inquire where Battalion H.Q. is, and following the direction given, pass along nice deep trenches with sand-bagged parapets. Trench warfare in dead earnest has now begun, and for the first time I realize what it is like: an underground world, yet not an underground, for one can see grass, flowers, and trees growing, but only close to. Walking from Church Farm to the trenches, I see nothing but lovely country leading up to frowning Achi Baba, and near by, in front, rows and rows of thrown-up earth. No sign of animal life of any kind. Yet once in the trenches I found myself in a world alive with energy—men cleaning rifles, writing letters, washing clothes, making dugouts, laying cables. I pass dugouts, little rooms of earth dug out of the side of the trench; some are cookhouses, some officers’ bedrooms, some messes, and some orderly-rooms, with tables and chairs. All this world has been created underground, and unseen by the enemy, only a few hundred yards away, in the space of a few weeks; and this is trench warfare, materialized by spade and shovel, by hundreds of strong arms, night and day. I come at last to H.Q. Worcester Battalion, and am directed to the mess—a nice dugout roofed in by timber. Major Lang is sitting at a table reading letters from home. I ask for letters for Captain Bush; am told they have been sent down to the beach by an orderly; am offered a drink, talk about the heat, which is getting tiresome now, and hear that soon we are to be served out with pith helmets. I say good-bye and start back. I am in a maze, and have to be directed back to the trench that I jumped into. I vault out and, zigzagging, jog-trot, for I am told to go quickly back to Church Farm, and hear two bullets singing their faint song far away over my head. I come to a nullah, where I find horses and mules in dug-in stables in charge of Roberts, Brigade Transport Officer, just in front of the little ruined house in front of our Brigade H.Q., and arriving there, hear that Thomson has gone back to Hill 138 with the Brigadier. I go back to Pink Farm, mount my mare, and cantering along the West Krithia road, catch them up. On either side of the road are now dug rest trenches, organized as camps—the trenches not as deep as the front trenches, but sufficiently so to keep the men under cover. I trot along the road through one of these camps, and am soon pulled up by an M.P. with the sharp order, “No trotting, please.”
I ride with Thomson to “V” Beach and the River Clyde comes in sight, seen from the high ground near the lighthouse, which was the Turkish position on April 25th. I hear from him the events of that awful day. How, when the General and Costaker were hit, he was ordered to go back to the Clyde and to take Reave. How he was on one end of the hopper, lying down, and Reave the other, and had to attract his attention and call to him to follow. Then they had to get back over dead bodies and the wounded under a hail of bullets, which zipped overhead or crashed against the hopper and sides of the Clyde with a loud bang. He described the scenes on board the Clyde, and the cries of wounded; the arrival of messages on steam pinnaces, signallers at work semaphoring to battleships and transports. And there lay the River Clyde, now a haven of rest, with a solid pier built out from shore and alongside it, using its hulk as a harbour. “V” Beach, now a model of an orderly advanced base, under the organizing talent of the French, looked a different place to the “V” Beach that I saw last. We search for Costaker’s grave without success. Two huge graves are on the right of the beach looking seawards—the graves of those soldiers and sailors whose bodies I saw laid out for burial on April 27th, wired round, and with fine crosses erected on each. I ride back with him through the village, past the camp of the amusing Senegalese, and along the new road that leads to “Clapham Junction.” On either side rest camps have developed, composed of lines of trenches and dugouts, sheltered in trees and bushes.
I see several batteries of “75’s,” and one is in action.
Down a slope through trees, and over little nullahs covered with growing gorse-bush, over meadowland past the site of our old Brigade H.Q., till when within sight of our new H.Q. we come into uninterrupted view of Achi Baba, and Thomson then says we had better trot. On arrival, tea is ready, and a new cake has arrived. It had taken three weeks to come out, and yet tasted quite fresh. We have tea in the open, at the bottom of the dry brook, and afterwards I take my departure. On return to “W” Beach, over comes a big shell, and immediately all work is stopped, and one and all, General and private, make for cover. Drivers rush to their lines and untie their mules and horses, and trot, canter, and gallop to the safety of the shore at the foot of the cliffs right and left of the beach. We wait beneath the friendly, sheltering cliffs, and hear the swishing shrieks as the shells hurtle through the air, bursting on the beach and on the higher ground. Then, as one shriek does not end with the crash of an explosion and its noise continues, we look at each other with a certain amount of apprehension, until with a fearful rending it sweeps down on to us, helplessly taking cover on the steep sides of the cliff, and crashes with a deafening roar almost at our feet, as it seems, but really fifty yards away. Immediately there is a rush to more sheltered ground half-way up the cliff, and three forms are seen lying helplessly in the road. One is my staff-sergeant, with a scalp wound and badly shaken, and two are dead, mangled beyond description. Thank the Lord, my staff’s wound is not serious. Well, he is for Blighty now, and good luck to him!
We find the animals—mules and horses—have been strafed rather badly. The lines that they are on are in very exposed positions as far as shell fire is concerned, and it was not possible to get many away, and in consequence the casualties among the poor helpless creatures were serious. Hyslop, our Vet., dispatched all that he could on their last journey with one pull on his revolver, pressed to their foreheads. As a pause came in the shelling, so he rushed out from his dugout and finished off those which were wounded beyond cure, going about the horrid task coolly and methodically, at intervals, being forced to rush for cover to save his own skin, but ever ready, when chance offered, to go back to his merciful task. Though we have been on this Peninsula but a few weeks, the Veterinary Services are efficient beyond praise, and the cases of all animal patients, suffering from the smallest ailments to the most serious of wounds, are dealt with by the Veterinary Officers with the same care as the Medical Corps bestows on human patients.
Looking back on the episodes that occur when the beach is subjected to shell fire, with the fear of getting hit oneself removed temporarily, the humour of them enters into our thoughts and conversation. What So-and-so looked like when he slid down the cliffs. “Did you see Colonel —— dive behind those boxes, or the R.E. General competing in a fifty yards’ sprint with his batman?” If it were possible to record on a cinema film these scenes that are instantaneously caused by the arrival of big shells, without recording the bursting of a shell or the occurrence of casualties, then a film could be produced which would rival in knockabout comedy any film of Charlie Chaplin’s. The French have been fighting this afternoon, and the “75’s” banging away for all they are worth. A very big battle has been going on on the right. Perhaps this is why we have been given a taste of shelling.