by Jon E. Lewis
We were. Ten hours before a storm had swept the Peninsula of Gallipoli, and the ruin of it! Desolation everywhere. Thank God it was dark! It was better to have the first experience of trench life before the dawn. I stumbled over men lying on the ground, moaning, crying in their agony; their legs frozen to their hips. There was an utter utterness about it. There was no one to attend to them; no one to carry them back to the beach. Everyone was demoralized; everyone was sick, waiting, waiting for the stretcher bearers who never came.
I had only a hundred men, and the adjutant divided them equally between the four companies. I was detailed to ‘C’ Company. I was shown the communication trench. ‘You will find your company officer in a dug-out up there,’ the adjutant said. I found the captain and reported to him. ‘Twenty-five men,’ he said. ‘What a landfall.’ It was just before the dawn.
‘We stand-to at dawn,’ the captain said to me. ‘Post some sentries; we haven’t had any since the storm.’
I posted the sentries and walked up and down the trench. I linked up with the companies on my flanks. There was little rifle fire, but it had its terrors. Everywhere I moved I stumbled over dead bodies; they floated towards us on the receding flood. The dead bodies were washed over the parapet, and the rains had opened the shallow graves. The first hours in the trenches were horrible.
I worked for twenty-four hours. The next night I took out a patrol across the mud of No Man’s Land. I fell into the abandoned trenches; I crawled through the water with two men after me. I got within 20 yards of the Turks’ wire on my first patrol. I saw them digging in the darkness, improving their trenches and putting up new wire. They were as demoralized as we were.
The next morning the sun came up in a blaze of orange. It became very hot before eight o’clock and it was middle November. The company spent many days digging trenches to let the water run off from the front line. And there were orders for deep dug-outs as the winter loomed ahead.
There was not much sudden death, but there was slow death everywhere. The body was slowly dying from the inside. We talked to each other; we laughed occasionally, but always the thought of death in our minds – our insides were dying slowly.
The water was death; the bully beef was death; everything was death. I was afraid to eat a thing. It terrified me; it made me feel dead. A man would pass me holding his stomach, groaning in agony, and a few minutes later I would take him off the latrine, dead. The men contracted dysentery and fever every day. The bullets did not take a big toll. It was the death of germs.
I worked with my men all day and all night. I was lucky to snatch a few hours’ rest in the middle of the day. The company had now thirty men to hold 200 yards of front. The sentries were posted at incredible distances apart. And for ever the patrols and the fatigues and digging day and night – digging, digging, infernal, intensive digging.
The company had been in the line twenty-five days; it was a record. There was no talk about going out for a rest; there was nowhere to go, only down to the beach, and the beach was shelled incessantly. It was safer in the line.
The food consisted of tea and biscuits. No meat. There was plenty of jam, but if a man was ‘fed-up’ with war all he had to do if he wanted a nice bed on a hospital ship was to eat a tin of jam. Many a tired man looked longingly at the flaming red cross on the side of the hospital ship at night and opened a tin of apricots. They carried him away the next day or the day after.
There were rumours every day – cook-house rumours, latrine rumours, and trench rumours. They were always different. The regiment was doing this to-day and that tomorrow. No soldier will deny the psychological blessing of them. They were the hope of tired men, of fed-up men, and sick men. They were lovely rumours, always original and timely. Nothing came of them. Dig and dig; patrol and patrol; raid and raid. Above all, over all, hopeful, glorious rumours! The company is going out of the line to-morrow for a month. The company has been ordered to Mesopotamia. The company is going to Egypt for the winter. There were rumours all day and all night.
One morning the captain called me. ‘Our trenches must be deepened 3 feet,’ he told me. Why, God only knew. They were quite deep enough if a man went about at the stoop. Three feet deeper, and only twenty-five men left in the company to do the work.
‘Three days to do it, sergeant; and see it is done; don’t care how.’ It was done.
A few days later there was an incredible rumour. The General Staff would pass along our trench at noon. The men had to scrape off the mud with jack knives; they were given a pint of water to shave and, God above, their buttons had to be polished. The joke of the deepening of the front line trench was now obvious. The war must be made safe for the generals.
At noon the order was passed along to ‘Stand at attention.’
We did, and Lord Kitchener passed and his general’s cap was just six inches below the parapet. There were a number of Staff officers following him, and as they passed around the traverse of the trench their footsteps seemed to echo: ‘It’s hopeless! It’s hopeless!’
The next morning the company officer called me into his dug-out. He was a hard drinker and a brave officer.
‘There are rumours of an evacuation, sergeant,’ he said. ‘Kitchener does not like the look of it for the winter; but there is nothing official. Perhaps we shall have good news to-night.’
I smiled as I went back to my trench. When did the British Army ever retire? It was impossible. Here for ever. Flies in a spider web – million to one against ever getting out. Evacuation, no! I was sorry for those sick men who would believe the story. There would be more raised hopes, more denials, and more silly talk.
However, the impossible did happen. It was to be in ten days, the captain told me. Ten days, and the regiment would go to Egypt, the captain said – perhaps Cairo, certainly Alexandria. It was not a bad War after all!
The remaining days were full of feverish activity. Small mines were sunk; bully beef tins were filled with explosives and scores of rifles with time fuses were stuck about the trenches. I worked like a galley slave all day and all night. The British Army was going to leave the ghastly place and outwit the Allahs on the opposite hill. Yes, the British Army would sneak away in the night under the cover of darkness, what a story to tell my grandchildren! ‘Once upon a time, my young hearers, I fought in the rear-guard action when my regiment ran away from Johnny Turk at Gallipoli.’
The days passed with the usual routine work. There were only fifteen men now to carry on, and there were still three days before the evacuation. Three days! Would I get away safely? The web was drawing closer around me, around the company, around every man left at Suvla Bay. What if the Turks suspected?
The preparations were completed. I was detailed to fight the rear-guard action with five other men. I should do something to win the War. There was a conference in the company officer’s dug-out to talk over the latest plans. In twenty-four hours, with a bit of luck, I should be sailing down the coast in a destroyer.
I went back to the trench and made up a bed on the fire-step. I lay down and pulled a blanket over my shoulders and closed my eyes. A pain shot through my belly, a terrible biting pain. My whole body ached and ached; but tomorrow it would be goodbye to Gallipoli for ever. I slept, a sleep of pain, incessant pain.
‘Stand to! Stand to!’
Someone poked me in the ribs with a rifle butt. I sat up and rubbed my eyes. I tightened my belt and felt for my rifle. I stood on the fire-step and peered through the dim light out over No Man’s Land.
I felt a throb in my head; a rush of blood through my body. Darkness…black…black…darkness.
I was warm and snug. I woke up and looked around me. Where was I? In hospital – a whitewashed room with many beds.
I did not ask any questions; I was still and quiet. I wished I would feel so warm and peaceful throughout eternity. A young nurse came to my bed: ‘Sister! Sister! No. 10 has come round!’ She smiled at me, a lovely smile.
‘Nurse, where am I?’
�
�Malta,’ she answered, and she mentioned the place as if it were only a few hundred yards off W. Beach, Suvla Bay.
‘Malta!’ I mused. ‘Not Egypt… What happened?… The evacuation?…’
I slept again. When I awoke I took more interest in the ward and the beds around me. A patient in the next bed was reading a London newspaper. I saw the headline: ‘Suvla Bay Successfully Evacuated.’
Sergeant W. H. Lench enlisted early in January 1915, at St. John’s, Newfoundland, and arrived in England in April the same year. Joined the 1st Newfoundland Regt. at Edinburgh, and finished training at Stobs Camp, afterwards going to Gallipoli, where his regiment was attached to the 29th English Division, the only colonial unit that fought at Suvla Bay. At Gallipoli until the day before the evacuation, was in hospital in Malta, and sent back to England for convalescence in April 1916. After months in London hospital became staff instructor at the regimental depot at Ayr, Scotland, until March 1917, when he went to France, and was gassed near Monchy Le Preux in June 1917. Invalided home to St. John’s in July 1918, discharged unfit for further service.
THE END OF BULGARIA
N. C. Powell
After nine months in France, I joined the East Lancs. at Gugunci, travelling overland from Cherbourg to Taranto, thence by steamer to Itear, and finally by motor and rail across wild Greece to Salonica. On disembarking at Dudulah, an enemy aeroplane greeted us with its heavy drone, but proceeded on its way to bomb an ammunition dump some distance away. After going through the usual routine (bound by broad red tape), at Summer Hill Camp, I was, along with sixty or seventy others, duly despatched to my unit. I was thankful to find the unit at rest, occupying dug-outs in the base of a large hill.
As it was early March, the weather was cold but fine. Occasionally the cold was accentuated by the laziest wind I have ever known – ‘the Vardar Wind.’ Our ‘rest’ was short-lived: orders to return to the line awakened us to our senses, kits were soon packed, and we moved off in good time to reach our objective about dusk. In Pearce’s Ravine we were joined by a squad of Greek muleteers who carried our rations and rum. ‘A’ Company, led by a dour Scotsman, then branched off and took a direct route over the top. On we ploughed our way in silence, meanwhile breaking up into platoons with 50 yards or so between, until the line was in sight. I was marvelling on our good fortune so far, when the serenity of my thoughts was rudely shattered. There was a terrific series of explosions. I had barely time to throw myself flat, and take cover behind my steel helmet. I felt the ground tremble beneath my body. Pandemonium reigned. The company was scattered as if by magic, and the cries of men and mules rent the air. After what seemed to be an eternity, we pulled ourselves together and reached our sector. Instead of going to posts as arranged, we were picked out haphazard. Specialization qualifications did not count; signallers, Lewis-gunners, bombers, and riflemen were jumbled together, sorted out in threes and fours, and sent to various posts.
Along with two others, I was found a post in No. 3 bay, and, feeling much like a jelly, I took first turn on the fire-step. My rifle I placed on the parapet, and I peered out into beyond for the next two hours. My turn over, I paced the bay in an effort to speed up my circulation, but with little success. Few words passed between us until midnight, when a corporal ordered us to relieve an outpost in Jumeaux Ravine. We slouched off and wended our way down a sap until we reached our destination and relieved our comrades, who made all haste back.
Our physical position was uncomfortable, having to stand on sloping ground: all on sentry together, one facing half-right, ready to call for artillery assistance by means of a Verey light pistol, the other facing his front, rifle in position with one ‘up the spout,’ whilst the third turned half-left, holding two icy-cold Mills bombs that were to be thrown to cover our retreat in case of attack. Our cover consisted of sand-bags piled breast high in two rows. Long before time for returning the cold had numbed our bodies, our tongues were silent, and, had the enemy chosen that particular time to pay us a visit, our resistance would have been feeble indeed.
The hours dragged wearily on, and as dawn pierced the blackness of night we turned about and scrambled back to our trenches. We all ‘stood to,’ and I peered beyond the parapet, waiting expectantly for the full light of day, which revealed the magnificent Belachitza Mountains, standing grim and gaunt frowning upon us from afar. Lake Dorian rested at their feet in quiet repose, a haven of rest for thousands of wild birds that met in wailing congregation each mom. Directly in front of us stood Petit Couronne, backed up by its parent, Grand Couronne. Both had been bombarded incessantly, and they seemed to tower over us hurling their defiance in our teeth. Away on our left the ‘Pips’ arrayed themselves, five in number, all in line, each succeeding one taller than the other. They glared at us with their bulk and seemed to say: ‘Five sentinels are we. Pass us if you can.’ I was awakened from my reverie by the terse order ‘Stand down!’ A rum issue followed; we didn’t get drunk off it either: and breakfast consisted of tea with no quality excepting a high temperature, bacon which had been fried to the crispness of a frosty morn, and bread. After devouring our portions, we recovered our composure to some degree. Tis a wonder to me we ever recovered anything after the happenings of the previous night. Not being required for further exertions, we found sleeping places, mostly small dug-outs capable of holding three or four at once, and ‘got down to it.’
I was awakened by a sergeant ordering me to fall in at 6.30 for burial fatigue. My whole being revolted against the necessary reminder of last night’s jolting; I never could face the gruesome task of giving the last rites to fallen comrades. I ascertained the casualties from unofficial sources: these being nineteen killed and wounded, along with four mules; among the dead were one sergeant and two other ranks who came out with me. Poor devils! They never had a chance to fight, being put out before seeing the front line or the enemy.
I duly fell in and was one of the party detailed off to dig pits to bury the carcasses of the four mules. We laboured through the night. A drizzle set in to our discomfort, and our greatcoats felt like lead casing. Interruptions were many; a machine gun kept us bobbing up and down at irregular intervals. We left off at dawn, but the results of our work would have made a decent navvy laugh. Four nights it took us to complete our job, including the dragging of the carcasses a distance of 80 yards; and how they stunk as their bellies burst when we rolled them into the pits! If it took us four nights to excavate those pits, we filled them up in less hours, relieved to get away and return to normal trench duties.
Winter gave way to summer, and the weeks lengthened into months. We held the front line, reserve, and finally a short spell of rest. We returned to the fray looking the worse for our exposure to the merciless rays of the sun, with faces and knees resembling the colour of mahogany. Horse Shoe Hill proved to be our residence, and from there a good view was to be obtained from Doldzeli in the west, stretching along the front beyond Dorian and along the Belachitza Range. How different they looked after casting their winter mantle, donning a covering of magical light; beauty of an untamed variety was there, even to my hard-baked eyes.
The ‘pips’ stood up in front of us, not unlike a huge railway embankment reaching to the clouds. Many hours have I spent in roaming the lower and nearer ones, in the darkness of night or by the light of the moon. Owing to a large decrease in strength. caused by the playful antics of Johnny Bulgar, who treated us to many displays of accurate shooting with trench mortars, cramps, grenades, machine guns, and a few personal visits, these, coupled with malaria, played havoc amongst us – despite all precautions, including nets for bivouacs and faces. I was posted as linesman to ‘A’ Company and I thought myself in for an easy stretch, but I was soon to have my illusion dispelled. For a few days everything went smoothly, until one day, after a ‘strafe’ on our right, the line of communication was down. Waiting until early dusk I ventured out without rifle, but kept my helmet and gas-mask. Running over the wire with one hand, it led me a dance, down ra
vines and up again, over and round much scrub until I found a dug-out at the other end. After introducing myself and the nature of my visit, I turned about, baffled, but determined to, trace the wire more carefully. In ceasing once or twice to regain my breath I could not help but admire the beauty of the scene. The silvery moon, spreading out her beams of light to play in phantasy among the hills and ravines, held me momentarily enraptured.
My breath regained, I eventually discovered the cause of my wanderings. Having found both ends of the wire, I sat down close to some bushes and a path. So engrossed was I that the challenge, ‘Who goes there?’ startled me out of my wits. I managed to mumble back, ‘East Lancs.’ These spirits proved to be a party of pioneers led by an officer who were out on wiring duty. They passed by. I completed my job and took a circuitous route back to our lines. I was pleased with myself on returning, every line being in order, and I snatched a short sleep before I took myself off to the cook-house for an early drink. On popping my head through doorway a corporal bawled at me. ‘Who was out on the b – lines last night?’ ‘Me,’ I replied. ‘Why?’ He answered, ‘You lucky b – . The colonel received a complaint concerning a shady looking suspect on the wires. He immediately collared me and two men and sent us out to shoot at sight, but nothing could we see of him.’ I then informed him of the route I had taken in returning. A jolly good job for me that I had entered into the spirit of the night that whispered of peace and tranquillity. The incident passed over, and I made my way back to the dug-out with a firm resolve that never again would I attempt alone the dangerous duty of repairing broken lines (and I never did).
Some time later, just as we were about to be relieved, the line running out to Pip 41 was down, so it had of necessity to be repaired before handing over. We were short-handed and no one could – or would – go with me. I waited, during which time our relief came up. Upon explaining the situation, one of them volunteered to accompany me. Off we went, like two hares, intending to be as sharp as possible; we found the break and, kneeling down, started to work, when a hail of bullets whizzed past. We threw ourselves flat. After a few minutes’ wait, we crawled about to find the ends we had let go. It was an eerie experience, and fraught with danger, for each time we arose bullets zipped past us uncomfortably close. We hugged the ground in our efforts for safety, and stayed there until our task was completed. Beads of sweat stood out on my forehead as we crawled to a knoll about 100 yards away. There we paused to recover our equilibrium and made a dash for our line. It was no joke being out in front of our lines open to attack by raiding parties of Bulgars, who knew every inch of the ground.