A Marine at Gallipoli on the Western Front Page 7

  Towards tea-time twelve of our planes went over Achi Baba in one bunch. It was fun watching the Turks’ frantic efforts to stop them getting over his lines. Hundreds of shells were pumped at them but not one turned back.

  We were supposed to be standing by for the line, but only in case of a stunt. The Anson Battalion on our right got shelled heavily just before dusk. I could see groups of them standing about their dugouts, and a big shell came over from Asia and pitched amongst the dugouts. Then followed nine more in quick succession, one alone accounting for twenty casualties. Lots of men were wounded by stones and splinters of rock which were scattered about at a terrific speed.

  Orders for the line were cancelled on Tuesday as the 52nd Lowland Division was taking over our lines and headquarters. They hadn’t been on the peninsula long and hadn’t had a trip up the line. They seemed fairly eager to get up and referred to Achi Baba as ‘as wee bit muck’. They had an idea that they were going to walk right over it that trip up the line. Let ‘em try, we’d had some.

  Lieutenant Harden’s servant was away sick so Charlie Hamilton asked me to look after him for a time. There didn’t appear to be much to do for him, except share his parcels, borrow his books and field-glasses and make his bed down at night. The advantages attached to the job were numerous, some of them being no digging, no fatigues, no rotten stew, and a good meal with Hamilton, usually steak and chips, and that when the sun and flies had gone to rest.

  The colonel joined us up again from Egypt, looking spruce and fit, and with the rank of full colonel. Mr Dougherty came back too, also with another pip up and a brand new rig-out. Went for a bathe in the sea on Wednesday but got shelled out of it. Got back to camp safely and found two lovely parcels from home. Had a good feed and felt quite ill after it.

  Things were very quiet up to Saturday, hardly anything doing at all. The Scotties don’t appear to be shifting that ‘wee bit muck’. Water was awfully scarce and the quality of it poor. Nearly all the wells were dried up and it was no use digging for water. It meant a trip to the beach for a drop of decent drinking water.

  Some days we washed, some days we didn’t, and the flies! Scores to the square inch, and the vermin! One can strip and have a rub-down, search minutely amongst one’s clothes and, five minutes after dressing again, there they are again. Hundreds of troops were being taken from the peninsula every day with dysentery and jaundice.

  Chapter Five

  10 July 1915 – That ‘wee bit muck’

  The observation balloon went up from Ark Royal on the Saturday and our guns opened up on the Turkish trenches and positions behind Achi Baba. I had a lovely view of it all through Mr Harden’s glasses. Saw a cruiser sending some heavy shells over. We were standing by as immediate reserves to 52nd Division who were expected to attack at any time.

  Sunday the 11th was quiet until about 5.00pm when both sides opened up with the guns.

  Orders at 4.00am on Monday to stand by with gear ready for the line. A terrific bombardment opened up at the same time and the Turk replied with far more guns than we thought he possessed. It was impossible to see Achi Baba at all for the smoke and dust of the bursting shells. The 52nd Division attacked early in the morning and took four lines of trenches but, later, had to retire from one. They had taken about 400 prisoners but had lost heavily themselves. About 300 of the Turks passed our camp about dinner time. Orders to get rigged at 3.00pm and we set off for the line at half past. We were stuck in the CT the whole day. Hundreds of Scotties passed us. In fact it was one long procession of groaning, cursing and crying, wounded men.

  It was surprising how many of them cried. They were nearly all very young though, and everyone was utterly fed up and miserable with thirst and exhaustion. Lots of wounded Turks went down too, but they seemed a much older and staid set of men. Every one of them looked afraid though, as though they were thinking they had escaped one death, only to be going straight into a more certain and more horrible death. In one or two cases a wounded Scottie and a Turk were helping one another down the trench. The RAMC people were having a tottering time. It was a blazing hot day and they were doing nothing but carry the more serious cases on stretchers from the line to the aid station at the bottom of the CT. The procession eased off a little towards dusk and just odd batches of wounded men and water carriers would pass us.

  We were able to get forward a few yards every half hour or so and, by one o’clock on the morning of the 13th, had reached Trotman Road, our old firing line. It was now a back number, the firing line being two or three trenches in front. Nobody knew for certain. Very few signs of fighting came from the front, just now and again a spasm of rapid fire with its complement of Very lights. Away on our right we could see the French lights. They hung in the air for quite a minute, suspended by a parachute. We found the trench deserted except for a few spare Scotties. They appeared to be walking aimlessly about, as though they belonged to nobody and had no object in view. Some were half daft, the others quite daft. We found one, a quartermaster sergeant, blind to the world and everything that was going on around him. He was full of rum.

  The Scotties didn’t appear to have done so well in this sector and the line was a little behind the ones on the flanks. No doubt a little straightening job for us. I managed a couple of hours sleep till ‘stand to’. About 7.00am I was talking to Sergeant Spicer, and several more chaps were in the bay, including Bill Finch and Lance Corporal Robinson. All of a sudden, Robinson gave a yell and, as we looked, both he and Finch were on the ground. A bullet had come from somewhere, hit Finch between the eyes, knocked the back of his head out and then ploughed its way through Robinson’s shoulder and shoulder blade. Finch was a big powerful chap and it was at least two hours before he died. The stretcher-bearers had just time to get him to the dressing station before he died. Robinson was pretty bad too.

  All that morning Scotties kept coming down from the two trenches in front and everyone appeared to be going down to Brown House to fill his own water bottle. They never thought about taking half a dozen or so. They said they had no officers or NCOs left with them and everybody was doing as he liked. No one on watch, no one consolidating the new trenches. Colonel Luard put sentries on the CT and stopped the Scotties going down. Although scores had gone down for water, none returned.

  About 10.30am I set off to fetch two rum jars full of water from Brown House. As I reached the top of the CT I heard a terrific din from the front, men yelling and shouting, then a sharp burst of rifle fire. As I looked over the top I saw a horde of Scotties and Turks all mixed up, running like mad for Trotman Road. It appeared that the Scotties had been in the firing line all night with the Turkish prisoners and something happened to cause a panic. Perhaps they had all lost their nerve. Anyhow, they deserted their trench and the prisoners followed on like so many sheep. Things looked pretty serious for a time. It just depended who got there first, our party or the Turks. Major Sketchly of divisional HQ, who happened to be up the line, grasped the situation and led a party of Plymouth marines over the top and took possession again, for which he received the DSO. Things were pretty quiet after that until 3.40pm. I had got back from fetching the water, feeling half dead and wet through with perspiration, when Captain Gowney nailed me. ‘Find Mr Harden,’ he lisped, ‘and tell him to report at the Colonel’s place at once.’ Found him, asleep of course, mouth wide open and full of flies. Woke him up and delivered my message, then went down with him to the Colonel’s shack. All our officers were there and the pow-wow was well on the way. I couldn’t hear a word of what was said but knew the substance of it as soon as Mr Harden came out. We were to go over at 4.30 and take three lines of trenches. Our artillery would bombard from 4 to 4.30. As soon as they stopped we were to go over.

  They had been exactly half an hour talking and that’s all the information we got. Some didn’t even get to know that much. It was 4.20 when Harden came out and by the time we reached the platoon, which was on the extreme right, it was time to go over. Our artillery had
stopped and were then no doubt preparing to lift. Mr Harden said to Sergeant Spicer, ‘Get the platoon to follow me’, and off he went up a narrow little CT, two feet deep at the best place. The rest of the platoon followed us, just like sheep. Our next trench was on top of a rise about 120 to 160 yards away and we were then out of sight of the Turk. I passed an order down from Harden that we were to get down behind the parados of the next trench and fix bayonets. We passed several rotten, stinking, dead Turks as we went up, swollen to about three times their normal size by the heat, and the stench from them was simply awful, something absolutely unforgettable.

  We reached the trench and did as ordered, or perhaps about half a dozen of our platoon did, when the order came to charge. Nothing so far had happened from the Turk, but as soon as the order to charge came along, things happened all at once and all over. It was though he had been biding his time until we said ‘Go’. Shrapnel came at us like a hailstorm, bullets were whizzing by and a few odd bombs and grenades were bursting about. Our own artillery had opened up again and it was just like Hell let loose (or so I should imagine).

  I had grabbed up a pick or a shovel, I couldn’t say which it was; I know I carried my rifle in my left hand and the other thing in my right. I jumped across the trench with Mr Harden, yelling like mad as usual, but didn’t get very far. A shrapnel round burst just in front of me and something seemed to hit me all over at once. Down I went, and the force of the thing that hit me sent me over and over backwards for about six yards. I realised two or three things immediately. One was: I’d had enough; another was: inside a trench is safer than outside; they are made for cover; and another: I shouldn’t get court-martialled if I had lost my rifle. I didn’t stop to look for it, but made a hop, skip and a jump and was inside the trench. It was more like a road. An old Turkish trench it was, about eight-feet wide and very shallow. Several of our chaps were already there, wounded, one of them just about going out. A couple of Scotties were looking to him. There was a machine gun just where I jumped in, manned by RNAS fellows, with an officer in charge. He did look a mess too, clothes all torn and filthy and eyes nearly closed through want of sleep. His gun’s crew looked no better and half of them were asleep under the lee of the trench. There were several Scotties too, lying about, but none taking an active part in the stunt, or making any effort to help bind our wounds up. ‘What about that wee bit muck now, Jock?’ I asked one. ‘Arraway to Hell with yer wee bit muck,’ he growled. Our fellows kept coming back, hit in all sorts of places. Mr Harden followed me in after about five minutes. He asked me where I was hit and I told him through the left knee. He looked like a butcher’s shop for blood, but it was another chap’s blood, or most of it was. He thought a bomb had burst by him filling him full of splinters, but nothing very serious. He showed me his chest and it was cut and scratched all over. He said he was going to get down to the dressing station, he didn’t fancy that trench. I dressed my own wound when he was gone. I had to cut my left trouser leg off about the knee to get at it. I could see where the bullet had gone in, just on the inside of the left knee, but it hadn’t managed to get right through. I could see the big blue lump at the back where the bullet had lodged. Another cutting job for someone! My wound wasn’t bleeding much and wasn’t particularly painful while I sat down. I intended sitting down for a time too. The amount of stuff that was hitting the trench was enormous. Showers of dirt and stone kept coming in and everybody was covered with it. Shells and bombs were hitting the front and back of the trench but nothing actually came in it. One fellow came rushing along the trench, yelling at the top of his voice ‘Oh my God, I’m hit!’ I told him he’d get hit again if he didn’t get down. I wanted to dress his wound, but no, he wouldn’t stop. Said he was dying but he appeared pretty lusty about it, and dashed down the little CT as though he was in a race. They kept coming along, some going straight down, some stopping where I was, and nearly all bringing fresh news of the battle. Heard that Mr Dougherty was killed, Captain Chandler, the adjutant, badly wounded, and lots of other chaps I knew killed or badly hit. The battalion had taken all the trenches and some were still pushing on to the first slopes of Achi Baba. One poor devil came staggering along the trench muttering and mumbling in a fearful manner. Blood was pouring from his mouth and where his left cheek had been was a gaping, ragged hole. A bullet had gone in his mouth and out through the side of his face, taking the whole of the cheek with it. He did look awful. After about half an hour and when our bit of trench was packed tight with wounded and dying, Captain Gowney came in from the front and dashed off down the CT, brandishing his revolver. After about ten minutes he came back with a crowd of our chaps at his heels. He had been rounding the shirkers up and had made a good haul. ‘Who are you?’ he yelled at us. ‘Wounded,’ I replied. ‘Be careful.’ ‘Be dammed,’ he said, ‘come on, walk over ’em’, to the shirkers and hangers back. And he stood there until they had all clambered out of the trench. He looked just like a raving maniac as he stood and kept waving his revolver about in a most alarming manner. I felt quite relieved when he followed the crowd. And to think that only last August he was serving out buns and coffee in the canteen at Pompey.

  I think nearly every one of those chaps had trod on my wound in passing. I think they were too scared to have any feeling for us. They had hung back and skulked until their hearts were the size of peas. I had been there about an hour when the chap in charge of the MG yelled to his crew to stand by. He said the Turks were attacking on the right and coming towards us in thousands. He slewed his gun round and was just going to loose off when he noticed that they were French colonial troops making an attack half left. I made my way down shortly after that and found that I could walk, although the wound was very painful and the left knee joint had gone stiff. Got halfway down the CT to Trotman Road, just where three of those rotten Turks were lying, when I came across Bob Hester crouching down on the trench bottom. ‘Hello Bob,’ I said, ‘are you hit?’ ‘No, but I can’t see,’ he replied. He said a shell had burst as he was going up the trench and blinded him. I’d an idea that he had been rubbing dirt into his eyes. He was trembling like a leaf and it was plain to see he had a pretty bad funk on. He wouldn’t go down with me. Said he’d wait and see how he went on.

  There was an aid station at the top of Oxford Street and I had my wound dressed and a ticket given to me. They told me there that if I could walk at all, I’d better set off as I wouldn’t get a stretcher for hours. Got about halfway down and had to make way for a stretcher. Major Clark was on it, groaning and moaning. He had been shot through the wrist. I’d been shot in the knee but had to walk. He must have been pretty bad though. I got down by Brown House and came across Sergeants Milne and Squib, both drunk on rum. ‘How’s the boys getting on up there, Askin?’ Milne asked me. ‘Go up and see, you drunken pig,’ I answered sweetly. There was a bit of excuse for Squiby. He didn’t lay claim to having ‘guts’. He came out with the reinforcements and, since landing, had lost a stomach weighing about three stone. Milne was a worm though, with a big mouth and scrawling nature.

  It took me hours to get down. I kept calling at different dressing stations in the hope of getting a lift but there was nothing doing. ‘Make your way down to the First Field Ambulance,’ they all said. That was in Fleming Gully, nearly at the beach and quite four miles from where I’d been hit. I got about half a mile away and sat down, beat to the world. I couldn’t have gone another ten yards if all the Turks on the peninsula had been after me. I was nearly sick with the pain of my leg and everything kept going black in front of my eyes. Two big Australian gunners came along after a time and carried me the rest of the way. I had a good drink of tea and a rest and felt heaps better. There were crowds of our fellows there, some laid out on stretchers, others sitting round drinking tea and munching hard biscuits. I had my wound attended to again and was told to hang around until they were ready to take the bullet out. They roused me up about midnight. I’d fallen fast asleep on the floor outside the marquee. I went inside
this marquee that acted as operating theatre and waited until the doctor was ready. There were dozens of fellows laid out on stretchers, some waiting to be operated on, some coming round and others just dying. There were no lights in the place except the electric torches carried by the sick-bay staff. It looked awfully weird but worse than the appearance was the sickening stench of blood and antiseptics.

  My turn came at last, one of the attendants asking me if I was the chap who wanted a shrapnel ball taking out of the knee. I made him wise and followed him to the doctor. He put me face down on a stretcher and commenced poking and probing about. He shone a light on my face after a bit and asked if I could stand the knife. I told him I could stand anything if only he was quick about it. He got busy then while his chap shone his light on the back of my leg. I think the doctor must have used his knife to sharpen pencils with, or as a tin-opener. Anyway he was a deuce of a time, minutes at least, before he had cut me enough. He swore a few times, then gave a grunt of satisfaction as the ball came away. After that he pushed a tube of antiseptic paste in the hole. In at the front and out through the back, then worked it backwards and forwards a few times, something after the manner of cleaning out the bore of a gun. He complimented me on the way I’d stuck it and said he thought I had fainted with making no noise. I told him I was getting quite used to it now. Had the wound properly dressed, another drink of ‘maz’ (tea) and sat down outside to wait for the next wagon to the beach. What a terrible journey it was too in that GS wagon. Along a road, or what had been a road, we went, past the village and castle of Sedd-el-Bahr, past the fort at Cape Helles, and on to the clearing station on the beach. It was a succession of jolts and bumps from start to finish and we were thrown out almost. I could have laughed when we got in one of the marquees at the CCS. We were waiting for blankets when a chap came in. He wanted a tooth out. It struck me as being funny, that amongst all that suffering there should be one with common toothache. And poor devil, I bet he was suffering as much as any of us. The doctor didn’t waste much time with him. Sat him in a chair, asked him which it was and out it came.