by Simon Fowler
The evacuation operation was easily the most successful element of the entire campaign, with the loss of just three men. Painstaking efforts had been made to deceive the Turks into believing that the movements of the Allied forces did not constitute a withdrawal. However, there is some evidence to suggest that the Turks knew perfectly well what was happening but were content for the evacuation to take place because their troops were in almost as bad a condition.
The Deputy Quartermaster General Walter Campbell summarised the difficulties:
A retirement in the face of an enemy on land where you have plenty of room is a very difficult and critical operation but under the circumstances here, where one is bang up against your enemy, and where you have absolutely no room to swing a cat, and also have to embark in small craft every single man, gun, animals and stores on a beach which is under the enemy’s gunfire, and of which they know the range to the inch … you can imagine what a difficult anxious job it is. We have not only the enemy to contend with, but at any moment … a south-west wind might blow up.
The stores and kit which remained behind were either destroyed or booby-trapped. According to Company Sergeant Major William Burrows of the Anzacs:
Before the last of us left, all the available ammunition and bombs were collected. These were buried and on a cross stuck into the ground was the following inscription ‘To the Memory of Private Bullet RIP’. That was to prevent the Turks from becoming inquisitive and digging up the ammunition and the bombs.
Various stratagems were used to conceal the withdrawal from the Turks. Ingenious devices to fire guns automatically were devised, while the men’s feet were muffled to deaden the noise as they left their trenches, and on the beaches they maintained strict silence while waiting to be taken off. Sapper Eric Wattern was one of the last to leave:
The last day was rather queer. One would feel very much the same sensation on being left behind alone in a house that had been one’s home after the family and the furniture had gone. Two French 75s near our camp were very successfully trying to pretend that they were a battery of four guns … Ate as much as we could possibly tackle, to use up the surplus grub, and spent a happy evening opening bully and jam tins and chucking them down a well, also biffing holes in dixies and generally mucking up any serviceable articles.
After a period of rest the best troops, notably the Royal Naval battalions and the Anzacs, were sent to the Western Front, where they distinguished themselves in very different conditions on the Somme. The others spent the rest of the war in Palestine, Mesopotamia and Salonika.
It is hard to believe that anything good came from the landings in Gallipoli and the resulting eight months of misery. A number of authors have argued that the campaign could have been successful had sufficient resources been available. The future British Prime Minister Clement Attlee, who served as a junior officer at Gallipoli, believed its failure was due to the myopic concentration by the Allied High Command on the Western Front. And the Australian official historian Charles Bean made this telling point in the conclusion to his account of the involvement of the Anzacs at Gallipoli: ‘The real stake – the opening of communication with Russia, the crushing of Turkey, and the securing of allies in the Balkans – was worth playing for, providing that it was attainable by the means employed; but nothing could justify the initiation of the enterprise by means which could not attain the goal.’
A French .75 gun in action near Cape Helles. The French supplied both ships and large numbers of troops, but their contribution is often overlooked by historians.
But there were more problems than just a lack of resources. The British commanders were unimaginative and cautious, and did not make the best use of the resources available to them. Peter Hart points to the woeful operational planning and the inability to take advantage of any local tactical advantages:
This endemic military incompetence at command and staff level was then lethally combined with troops that had little or no experience of modern warfare in 1915. The lesson was clear: raw courage was not enough to combat bolt-action rifles, machine guns, trench systems, barbed wire and above all artillery. Amateurism was doomed and the British Army needed a more professional approach if it was to triumph in the Great War.
In all, some 56,707 British, Australian and French men lost their lives, and another 124,000 were wounded. But lessons were learnt about seaborne landings that would ultimately prove invaluable thirty years later on D-Day.
In particular, the Australians and New Zealanders proved themselves as a fighting force second to none, leading to an increased sense of national pride. The miserable performance of their British commanders began to sow doubts in the minds of politicians and their electorates back home that led to increasing demands for their governments to have a bigger say in the direction of the war.
The Allies had the great advantage of surprise, initially on 25 April and then at Suvla Bay in early August, but it was an advantage that was soon squandered. On the other hand, the Turks had good defensive positions and benefited from short supply lines. By September, however, a stalemate had arisen that was as deeply entrenched as that on the Western Front. Neither side had the resources to defeat the other. So for the commanders-in-chief in London, Paris and Berlin, Gallipoli soon became just another ‘sideshow’ using up precious resources for no real benefit.
ANZAC LANDING
Ellis Ashmead-Bartlett was one of the few war correspondents who covered Gallipoli. His dispatches praised the prowess and bravery of the troops, particularly the Anzacs, but he became more and more critical of their leadership and what he believed was the futile sacrifice of so many men. Having come ashore in Gallipoli, he was almost immediately arrested as a spy and was detained for a short period while his credentials were checked.
APRIL 24th. Throughout the morning there were scenes of unwonted activity in Mudros Bay. The warships changed their anchorage and took up fresh stations, and the crowded transports slowly made their way to the entrance of the harbour. At 3 p.m. our boats brought the 500 men of the 11th Australian Infantry on board for the last time. Numbered squares had been painted in white on the quarter-deck, and on each of these a company fell in. The men were then dismissed and made their way forward to the mess decks. The hospitable British tars handed over their limited accommodation to the newcomers, who were to bear the brunt of the attack. At 5 p.m., our force, the Second Division of the fleet, consisting of the Queen [Elizabeth], Prince of Wales, London, and Majestic, with four transports bearing troops, and the covering ships Triumph, Bacchante, and Prince George, slowly steamed out of the bay. As we passed through the long lines of waiting transports, our bands played the national anthems of all the Allies, and deafening cheers greeted our departure. It was the most majestic and inspiring spectacle I have ever seen, but withal there was an atmosphere of tragedy, of life and hope and joy, a sense that we will never see another sun sink to rest.
The weather was beautifully fine, and when we had cleared the entrance of the bay we turned our backs on Gallipoli and steamed due west to pass round the far side of the island of Lemnos, en route for a secret rendezvous only known to the Admiral. It is painfully obvious that we can only effect a local surprise, because the Turks, in Sir Ian Hamilton’s own words, knew of the exact composition of his force before he ever left Egypt, and now they must have learnt from their aviators and spies, scattered amongst the islands, that our preparations are complete. They can also calculate on our striking between the waning of the old moon and the rising of the new.
At six o’clock the Australian contingent fell in on one side of the quarter-deck, and the crew of the London on the other. Captain Armstrong read Admiral de Robeck’s proclamation wishing success to all ranks. His place was then taken by the ship’s chaplain, who conducted a short service, and, as he uttered solemn prayers for victory, the men stood with bowed and bared heads. The Australians were then taken to the mess deck, where a hot meal was served out to them by the crew; then, after a smoke, they
turned in to obtain some rest before dawn.
It was the last sleep for many a brave warrior from ‘Down Under’.
At seven o’clock dinner was served in the wardroom, where the Australian officers were entertained as our guests. Everyone feigned an unnatural cheerfulness, the wine passed round, not a word was said of what the morrow might bring forth, yet over the party there seemed to hover the dread angel of death; after this tragic repast we surrendered our cabins to our Dominion friends, and snatched some sleep in the wardroom chairs. At sunset all lights were extinguished, and we steamed slowly through the night to an unknown destination, and to an unknown fate.
APRIL 25th. At 1 a.m. the fleet came to a dead stop and all on board were roused. I visited the mess decks, and watched the Australian troops having a final hot meal before falling in. They were as calm as if about to take part in a route march. At 2 a.m. the men fell in by companies on the numbered squares, of which I have already spoken. Boats had meanwhile been lowered and attached to the steam trawler which had towed three extra pinnaces from Mudros in addition to her own.
There was only a faint sheen from the stars to light up the dramatic scene on deck. This splendid contingent from Australia stood there in silence, as the officers, hurrying from group to group, issued their final instructions. Between the companies of infantry were the beach parties, whose duty it was to put them ashore. Lieutenants in khaki, midshipmen – not yet out of their ’teens – in old white duck suits dyed khaki colour, carrying revolvers, water-bottles, and kits almost as big as themselves, and sturdy bluejackets equipped for the shore. At 2.30 a.m. the pinnace towed the boats alongside, and the Australians climbed down the wooden ladders. Thanks to the constant rehearsals there was no confusion, no overcrowding, and not a single mishap occurred. The tows then went astern, each battleship trailing four behind her. At 3 a.m., the fleet began to move slowly towards the shore until, a little after 4 a.m., the distant silhouette of the coast became visible for the first time. At 4.30 a.m. the Queen, London, Prince of Wales, and Majestic were in line about three thousand yards from the shore. The signal was then given for the tows to cast off, and make their way to the beach. It was still very dark and each pinnace, towing four boats, looked like a great snake as it slowly forged ahead.
We, who assembled on the bridge of the London, were now to pass some nerve-racking minutes of suspense which seemed like hours. Very slowly the twelve snakes of boats steamed past the battleships, the gunwales almost flush with the water, so crowded were they with khaki figures. To our anxious eyes it appeared as if the loads were too heavy for the pinnaces, that some mysterious power was holding them back, that they would never reach the shore before daybreak, and thus lose the chance of a surprise. The distance between the battleships and the boats did not diminish, but only because we were steaming very slowly in after them, until the water gradually shallowed.
Every eye and every glass was fixed on the grim line of hills in our front, so shapeless, yet so menacing in the gloom, the mysteries of which those in the boats, looking so fragile and helpless, were about to solve. Not a sound was heard from the shore and no light was seen; it appeared as if the enemy had been completely surprised, and that the Australians would land without opposition. The stars above the silhouette of the hills were frequently mistaken for lights. On the bridge a sharp-eyed signalman suddenly called out ‘there’s a light on the starboard bow’, but after a brief examination it was pronounced to be a star, and this nautical astronomer turned away in confusion.
The progress of the boats was indeed slow, dawn was now breaking, and we feared they would never be able to land in the darkness. At last something definite did happen. Precisely at 4.50 a.m. the enemy showed an alarm signal, which flashed for ten minutes and then faded away. The next three minutes passed in breathless anxiety, for we could only just discern the outline of the tows, which appeared on the beach. At this moment seven destroyers conveying the rest of the covering troops glided through the intervals between the battleships and followed the boats inshore.
At 4.53 a.m. there came a very sharp burst of rifle fire from the beach, and we knew that our men were at last at grips with the enemy. The sound came as a relief, for the suspense of the prolonged waiting had become intolerable. The fire only lasted for a few minutes, and then a faint cheer was wafted across the water. How comforting and inspiring was the sound at such a moment! It came as a message of hope, for its meaning was clear: a foothold had been obtained on the beach.
At 5.23 a.m. the fire intensified, and we could tell from the sound that our men were in action. It lasted until 5.28 and then died down somewhat. It was impossible to see what was happening, although dawn was breaking, because we were looking due east into the sun, slowly rising behind the hills, and there was also a haze over the sea.
Throughout the afternoon the fighting continued, and the London was continually receiving signals to bombard positions, where the Turks were vigorously pressing the Australians back to the first line of hills they had seized at dawn. It became more and more obvious that the Dominion troops were extremely hard pressed. The wounded were brought off the shore in boats and pinnaces, in a never-ending stream, and the accommodation on the single hospital ship, allotted to Anzac, speedily gave out.
As usual, with the start of all British expeditions, the medical arrangements were totally inadequate to meet the requirements of the hour. Optimism had minimised our casualties to the finest possible margin, but the Turks multiplied them at an alarming rate. Apparently there was no one in authority to direct the streams of wounded to other ships where accommodation could be found for them, and many were taken on board the warships. Finally, orders came that the wounded were to be sent on board those transports which had already discharged their landing parties, and doctors would be sent aboard to look after them until they reached safety; many succumbed who might otherwise have been saved.
The boats returning to the London all brought the same tale of things going badly, heavy casualties, the beaches choked with wounded, who could not be moved, while the enemy’s attack showed no diminution in strength or persistency. About 9.30 p.m., one of our pinnaces came off for fuel and water, and I was able to return in her to the beach. We steamed in close to the shore under what appeared to be a kind of hailstorm caused by the bullets striking the sea. Fortunately most of this fire was high, and I found some cover under the shelter of the hills, when I had landed on the narrow beach, some thirty yards wide. I climbed ashore over some barges in the semi-darkness amidst a scene of indescribable confusion. The beach was piled with ammunition and stores, hastily dumped from the lighters, among which lay the dead and wounded, and men so absolutely exhausted that they had fallen asleep in spite of the deafening noise of the battle. In fact, it was impossible to distinguish between the living and the dead in the darkness. Through the gloom I saw the ghost-like silhouettes of groups of men wandering around in a continuous stream apparently going to, or returning from, the firing-line.
On the hills above there raged an unceasing struggle lit up by the bursting shells, and the night air was humming with bullets like the droning of countless bees on a hot summer’s day. Nevertheless, this little stretch of beach was so angled that it provided a haven of refuge – if a precarious one.
Ellis Ashmead-Bartlett, Uncensored Dardanelles
(Hutchinson, 1928)
Men of the 11th Division embark on ships at Lemnos in preparation for the landings at Suvla.
Chapter 2
SOLDIERS’ LIVES
Conditions on Gallipoli were never good. In part this was due to the fact that everything had to be imported from Egypt or even from Britain. Even the water that was so vital in the hot summer months had to arrive by sea. Matters were not improved by the poor sanitary conditions, which inevitably led to debilitating outbreaks of dysentery and other diseases such as typhoid.
SUPPLYING THE TROOPS
All supplies came in by ship to one of the bays. Initially, supply ships
were moored off the coast, but the threat of German submarine attacks from May onwards meant they had to unload everything in Lemnos – 60 miles away – and then small vessels would ferry it all to the coast. Tens of thousands of items, including food rations, other supplies and munitions, arrived each day. And once it had arrived on the beaches, it all had to be physically moved by hand or by cart to where it was needed. On a visit to Anzac, Sir Ian Hamilton found men ‘staggering under huge sides of frozen beef; [and] men struggling up cliffs with kerosene tins full of water’.
With great difficulty depots were established at Helles and then at Suvla. Indeed, by the winter they were so well stocked that they had enough reserves to last the troops at least a month in case of emergency. Harold Thomas of the Army Medical Corps described Suvla in his memoirs:
Besides the hospital tents perhaps the most striking features of the landscape were the enormous dumps of ammunition and ‘rations’ – mountains of bully beef, and biscuits towered up foursquare to the sky; nearby were ‘dumps’ for kinds of stores, one pathetic pile being formed of dead men’s kit, haversacks, water-bottles, broken rifles, and all the flotsam and jetsam of the battlefield.
An aerial oblique photograph of the Suvla Beach area showing the hospitals and stores areas which were constructed in the weeks after the landings.
Even so, some things remained in short supply. In particular, it was hard to find wood for use in fires. Major B.G. Weller wrote:
Wood was so scarce that it was with the utmost difficulty men could collect enough scraps to make a small fire to boil water for their issue of tea. This led to a curious fact. It was noticed that men on the peninsula invariably walked with their eyes glued to the ground. The reason was soon apparent. They formed a habit of always looking for any scrap of wood or anything that would burn. Used matches even, were eagerly picked up and stored. [WO 95/4291]