Diary. (Written September 23rd.) General Godley was on the Lord Nelson. He had been sick for some time, and had been taking three days off. Roger Keyes desperately anxious to go up the Dardanelles, come what may. He is the proper man to do it, but I think it’s only singeing the King of Spain’s beard.
At Imbros the General, Charlie B. and I had a stormy row ashore and a long walk to GHQ, where I found Willy Percy, who had been badly wounded, now recovering. I saw Tyrrell, George Lloyd and Deedes. The news had just come through of Bulgaria’s mobilization, but they did not know against whom. I wonder if the Bulgars will attack both the Serbs and the Turks. That would be a topsy-turvy, Balkan thing to do, and might suit their book. We ought to have had them in on our side six months ago. From GHQ we came back to Anzac. The General has had my dugout kept for me in the fort, where Christo and I now live in solitude, for all the rest are gone. I found a lot of new uniforms and a magnificent (Foot) Guard’s cap full of gold braid waiting. I put this on but Christo cried violently: ‘NO, NO, NO, not until we ride into Constantinople as conquerors.’
HQ are on the other side of the Turkish fort, in a tiny valley across which you can throw a stone. They have all the appearance of a more comfortable Pompeii, and are scarcely more alive; it is the quietest town I have ever seen; there lies in front a ridge of valley, a dip of blue sea, and a good deal of the Anafarta plain. The first night on arriving the cold was bitter, also next morning. Pleurisy has already started. This morning the General went up to the Apex and behind it. He was not at all pleased with the fire trenches. He nearly drove Doddington, the officer at that moment instructing the Australians, mad first by criticising everything – I thought pretty justly – and then by standing about in view of the Turks and not worrying about shells or bombs. I did my best to get him in. The Australians were all laughing at Doddington for his caution and fussiness. Incidentally, one of the big mortar-bombs fell in the trench as we arrived. Hastings is Intelligence officer. It’s luck to have got him.
Sunday, September 24th, 1915. No. 2 Outpost. A lovely morning. There was a bracing chill of autumn and yet warm air and a smiling, southern look across Anafarta Plain, with great hills on the other side, stately and formidable. Swallows everywhere. Up till now it’s been very silent. I thought that the noise of war was past, but bullets and shells have been whining and moaning over us. At Anzac yesterday morning they had about twenty men hit by one shell, and I saw a lot of mules being dragged down to the sea as I went in. We walked through the ‘Camel’s Hump’ with Colonel Chauvel and Glasgow, on to No. 1 Outpost, now deserted, with the beautiful trench made by the six millionaires. Poor chaps, I wonder how many of them are alive. Cazalet, of whom I had grown very fond, is dead, Hornby’s missing. I was very sad to hear that Reynell was killed on the night of the 27th, when we left. A fine man in every way. His men worshipped him. Poor Reynell was killed charging. He ought not to have been there; he was an extraordinarily gallant fellow. A lot of French transports were leaving Egypt as we left, maybe for Asia. We shall do nothing more here unless we have an overwhelming force. We have never done anything except with a rush. Directly we have touched a spade we have ceased to advance, and have gone on adding bricks to the wall which we first built and then beat our heads against.
This morning we had a service in the valley, which is extraordinarily beautiful. The flies are awful, horrible, lethargic; they stick to one like gum. The men in the trenches are wearing the head-dresses that Egypt has sent. I went with the General in the afternoon to Anzac. We walked back as shelling began. We had one whizz round us, and a man fell beside me on the beach. I heard a tremendous smack, and thought he was dead, and began to drag him in to cover, but he was all right, though a bullet had thumped him. The flies and their habits deserve to live in a diary of their own. They were horrible in themselves, and made more horrible by our circumstances and their habits. They lived upon the dead, between the trenches, and came bloated from their meal to fasten on the living. One day I killed a fly on my leg that made a splash of blood that half a crown would not have covered.
Diary. Monday, September 27th, 1915. No. 2 Outpost. Last night Ferguson dined. He said the Indians could all get home from Mudros if they gave the hospital orderly ten rupees. The hospital orderly would then certify them as having dysentery. Some did not at all want to go, others did. One old fellow with a great reputation for gallantry left with a self-inflicted wound. When they were reluctant about fighting, he thought it was due to the fact that it was Moslems they were against.
This morning the General and I went round Colonel Anthill’s trenches. Billy Hughes was there, as independent and casual as ever. He came out here as a sergeant and is now Acting Brigade Major. I am giving him a shirt. Many of the men are very done. I do not think that they will try to combine to insist on a rest, but I don’t know before the winter is out.
Billy Hughes was not the only member of his family who was independent. His father, a well-known Australian doctor, on one occasion gave one of the chiefs of the British RAMC his sincere opinion about the treatment of the sick and wounded. After a while the chief of the RAMC said: ‘You don’t seem to understand that it is I who am responsible for these things.’ ‘Oh yes, I do,’ said the Australian doctor, ‘but it’s not you I’m getting at; it’s the fool who put you there.’
Diary. Thursday, September 28th, 1915. No. 2 Outpost. Last night I dined with Sam Butler and Harold Woods. Walked back through a still, moonlit night, with the sea and the air just breathing. Very bright stars. We sent up flares. The General was ill this morning, so did not go out. The Greek interpreters have been called up for mobilization. This Greek mobilization ought to do some good about the German submarines. Last night at Anzac they had iron needles dropped from aeroplanes. I always objected to this. This morning over our heads there was a Taube firing hard at something with a machine gun. It produces an unpleasant impression, I suppose because it is unfamiliar, to hear the noise straight above one. Two bombs were dropped – at least, I suppose they were. They fell with a progressive whistle, but not close to us; another big one, however, an 8-inch one, I believe, from the Dardanelles, fell with a tired and sensuous thud just over the ridge.
Wednesday, September 29th, 1915. No. 2 Outpost. The General went out at nine this morning, Pinwell and I with him. He went to the Apex and round. In the evening Kettle and I talked in the fort.
Friday, October 1st, 1915. No. 2 Outpost. Yesterday morning General Godley, General Birdwood, de Crespigny92 and I went round the trenches, Apex, Anthill’s, etc., from 9.30 until 3. A very hot day; I wish that Generals were a hungrier, thirstier race. We had some light shelling, into which the Generals walked without winking or reason, though they made us take intervals.
George Lloyd has gone home. Ashmead Bartlett wrote a letter to Father Asquith criticising the campaign and saying that Hamilton ought to be recalled. The War Office have now recalled him and he goes back cheerfully. Ross turned up last night; glad to see him again. He said that a statement was to be made almost at once, and that we weren’t going to be here for the winter. He had a notion that the Italians were going to take our place. This morning there was a very heavy mist; the hills and the sea were curtained in it. My clothes were wringing wet. The Greek interpreters have been called up by the Greek mobilization and have gone to Imbros, some of them to try to avoid going. They have, says Christo, ‘kria kardia’ (cold feet). Xenophon, in a moment of enthusiasm, changed Turkish for Greek nationality. He now speaks of the days of his Ottoman nationality with a solemn and mournful affection, as of a golden age. He envies his cousin, Pericles, who was not so carried away. Kyriakidis is too old to go, thank goodness.
Going into Anzac with the General, and glad to be quit of the renches. It’s a weary business walking through these narrow mountain trenches, hearing the perpetual iteration of the same commands. The trenches are curiously personal. Some are so tidy as to be almost red-tape – the names of the streets, notices, etc., everywhere – and others,
slums. (Later.) I went into Anzac with the General to see General Birdwood, but he had gone out to see the bombardment from the sea. The General went off to the New Zealand hospital ship, Mahino. I went to get Pinwell off, who was ill. The General and I had a very philosophical talk coming back; I said to the General that it would be difficult to write an article on this campaign. Half the splendour of war was the comradeship, the joy of giving and eagerness for sacrifice; GHQ had destroyed that. No one wanted to get killed to prove that Hamilton was more wrong than everyone had evidence of. He said GHQ had taken birdwood’s plans cold, Helles and Suvla. Birdwood would probably have modified his Helles plan in view of the notice the Turks had been given; Birdwood had never had any recognition. It was mainly Braithwaite93. Helles was all right in principle, but when they didn’t drive the Turk back by pounding him, the obvious plan would have been to have attacked higher up.
There was a radiance over Anzac; the sunken timbership shone against the sunset, with the crew half of them naked. Shells screamed over us, and in the Headquarters hollow parts of them came whimpering down.
Saturday, October 2nd, 1915. No. 2 Outpost. I hurt my eye last night and cannot see occasionally. Had a bad dream about Beb the night before last. Hope he is all right. This morning General Godley, Colonel Artillery Johnson and I went round to see the guns, all across the Anafarta plain. Yesterday they had been shelling a good deal and had killed some Gurkhas. The rest broke and ran for the big sap. We trudged about in the open, the Turkish hills in a semi-circle round us; we kept about 50 yards apart. We found one dead mule that had been sniped. I thought it very risky for the General. However, nothing happened. For almost the first time I heard orders given. Have been meeting various school acquaintances these days. Tomorrow I have to change my dugout and go down to HQ. It’s a nuisance. I have now had (1) an original one on the cliff (2) one with Tahu and Jacky Hughes at HQ New Zealand Gully (3) my Louis Quinze dugout looking over the sea (4) the death hole here (5) the Turkish fort, the best of all.
Sunday, October 3rd, 1915. The General and Charlie went to Suvla. I lunched at Anzac with Butler and Woods. Woods had been told he might be asked to take charge of the Turks in Maadi near Cairo. We played chess. There was a good deal of shelling. I saw several poor fellows hit. They had a man killed the other day just below the dugout. Hamilton, in his answering telegram to the King’s compliments, has said that the spirit of the troops was fine but their health bad. It’s a curious admission to have made unless there was a reason, as it must cheer the enemy up.
Monday, October 4th, 1915. I changed my dugout this morning with an infinity of trouble and dozens of trips. I didn’t like the men doing it much as it involved standing on the roof, and if one of them had been shot I should have felt responsible and unduly luxurious. However, we did it all right, and now I am in a half-covered place, all right as long as it doesn’t rain. This morning the Turks had a very fierce demonstration. The bullets kicked up the dust at the mouth of the gully in every direction. Colonel Johnson was nearly hit; some came up the gully and only hit one man. They shelled us with big stuff that came over crawling tired and groaning, bursting with a horrid noise and torrents of black smoke. I picked up one bit of high explosive just outside.
General Carruthers94 lunched. He said people sent curiously inappropriate stores sometimes. In the middle of the summer they had sent us here mufflers, cardigan jackets, and two thousand swagger canes. These were now at Mudros. The General has sent for two Ford cars. I don’t know how he will use them. Chauvel has taken over command while the General is sick. He borrowed all my novels.
Tuesday, October 5th, 1915. General Cunliffe Owen turned up. He said we are going to attack through Macedonia. Heaven help us! Bulgaria has been given twenty-four hours’ ultimatum by Russia. Went into Anzac, to go by boat to Suvla. Met Chamberlain, who was at Arnold’s (my private school). He said there was no boat. I went on and played chess, coming back through one of the most beautiful evenings we have had, the sea a lake of gold and the sky a lake of fire; but Chamberlain and I agreed we would not go back to Anzac or to Arnold’s if we could help it.
Wednesday, October 6th, 1915. I was going into Suvla with Hastings, but in the morning a Turkish deserter, Ahmed Ali, came in. He promised to show us two machine guns, which he did (one German, immovable, and the other Turkish, movable), and seven guns which he had collected; this he failed to do, and also to produce three more comrades by firing a Turkish rifle as a signal. In the afternoon I had a signal from Sam Butler to say he was leaving, sick, for Egypt. I walked in to see, and found he had gastritis.
Thursday, October 7th, 1915. NZ and A Div. HQ. This morning we went up with Ahmed Ali, and lay waiting for the Turkish deserters until after six. One Turkish rifle shot, a thicker sound than ours, was fired at Kidd’s Post, but no Turks came. Ahmed Ali was distressed. The dawn was fine; clouds of fire all over the sky. The Turkish deserters and prisoners were put through a number of inquisitions. There was first of all the local officer, who had captured the Turk and was creditably anxious to anticipate the discoveries of the Intelligence. Then there was GHQ, intensely jealous of its privileges, and then Divisional HQ, waiting rather sourly for the final examination of the exhausted Turks. The Turkish private soldiers, being Moslems, were inspired rather with the theocratic ideals of comradeship than by the esprit de corps of nationality, and spoke freely. They were always well treated, and this probably loosened their tongues, but Ahmed Ali was more voluble than the majority of his comrades, and I append information which he supplied as an illustration of our examinations and their results. The two sides of Turkish character were very difficult to reconcile. On the one hand, we were faced in the trenches by the stubborn and courageous Anatolian peasant, who fought to the last gasp; on the other hand, in our dugouts we had a friendly prisoner, who would overwhelm us with information. ‘The fact is you are just a bit above our trenches. If only you can get your fire rather lower, you will be right into them, and here exactly is the dugout of our captain, Riza Kiazim Bey, a poor, good man. You miss him all the time. If you will take the line of that pine tree, you will get him.’
Diary. Saturday, October 9th, 1915. NZ and A Div. HQ. Ahmed Ali proposed coming to England with me when I went there. Last night we had bad weather. I was feeling ill and walked out when a sort of whirlwind came down. It whizzed away part of the iron sheeting over my dugout and poured in a cascade of water, soaking everything. It was not possible to light candles and I thought the rest of the sheeting would come down like razors. Christo never turned up. I resigned myself, but finally Ryrie came and lent me a torch, and I slept, wet but comfortable, under my cloak.
This morning the doctor, Colonel Sutherland, told me to go off to a hospital ship, but I said no, I would stay on here or go to Imbros. I told the General so. He said: ‘Better to go, but if you think you can stick it, wait a day and I might take you with me to Alexandria.’
Sutherland came back and said I must go. I thought of Imbros and trying to ride up to Skinoudi, but felt too weak. Finally I settled to go. I told the General I should be offered other work but should not accept it without his consent, and that it had been a great pleasure serving him for the last five months, which is very true. He said that there was no work to do here now, and if there were a push I might come back again. I said: ‘Yes, unless I get caught up in Asia Minor work.’ I felt awfully reluctant to go but Sutherland said I should be no use for work for a month. Charlie came in after dinner very unhappy, but admitted he didn’t think he could stay very long. He is a very good man. A bullet came in. While the General and I talked, it was reported that the Turks had up a gas cylinder opposite to the Gurkhas, but we both thought it pretty unlikely. The rest of the time was one long farewell-taking. I wrote a thing trying to get all the interpreters mentioned, and pointing out they had never wanted Anzac as a permanent job. Zachariades made me flowery speeches, and dear old Kyriakidis.
Diary. Monday, October 11th, 1915. NZ and A Div. HQ. Saturday night
was one of the quietest I ever heard; the spirit of peace without sleep breathed. The night before, after the storm, when Turks and English had got alarmed it had been a tempestuous night, and an angry dawn, very windy with the stars paling in the skies, and musketry in a bad mood crackling all round at intervals.
On Sunday morning I saw Chaytor and everyone but Pinwell, and gave away my stores. I said goodbye to the General who was quite delightful, tipped the men, and tottered off with Colonel Sutherland and Charlie; finally having a garland of Colonels to say goodbye95.
At this point the diary ends, for the writer was evacuated on the hospital ship, and did not return to Active Service for several months. Of all those who had sailed from Egypt with General Godley on April 12th, the General himself remained the only man who saw the campaign through from the first to the last day, with the rare exception of a few days of sickness.
Chapter Three
Kut
1916
After some months of convalescence, I was passed fit for Active Service. Admiral Wemyss97, Commander-in-Chief of the East Indian Fleet, had done me the honour to ask me to serve under him, when I was well again, as his liaison and Intelligence officer. I accepted very gladly, for I knew how devoted to him were all those who served Admiral Wemyss. The unappreciative War Office showed no reluctance in dispensing with my services, but my orders got lost, and it was only late in February when I left. When my weak qualifications in the way of languages98 were put before the Department concerned, the brief comment was: ‘This must be an immoral man to know so many languages.’
About this time the question was perpetually debated as to whether war should be made mainly on the one great front or en petits paquets; that is, practically all over the globe. ‘Hit your enemy where he is weakest,’ said some, while others were violently in favour of striking where he was strongest.
Mons, Anzac and Kut Page 18