LITMIR.BIZ

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to Gaba Tepe, the Admiral and Braithwaite both tackled me, and urged that the French should be ordered to hold on for another twenty-four hours—even if for no longer. Had they only raised their point before d'Amade left the Queen Elizabeth! As it is, to change my mind and my orders would upset the French very much and—on the whole—I do not think we have enough to go upon to warrant me in doing so. The Admiral has always been keen on Kum Kale and I quite understand that Naval aspect of the case. But it is all I can do, as far as things have gone, to hang on by my eyelids to the Peninsula, and let alone K.'s strong, clear order, I can hardly consent, as a soldier, to entangle myself further in Asia, before I have made good Achi Baba. We dare not lose another moment in getting a firm footing on the Peninsula and that was why I had signalled d'Amade from Gaba Tepe to bring up all the rest of his troops from Tenedos and to disembark them at "W" (seeing we were still held up at "V") and why I cannot now perceive any other issue. We are not strong enough to attack on both sides of the Straits. Given one more Division we might try: as things are, my troops won't cover the mileage. On a small scale map, in an office, you may make mole-hills of mountains; on the ground there's no escaping from its features.

      As soon as the French Commander took his leave, we steamed back for Gaba Tepe, passing Cape Helles at 12.20 p.m. Weather now much brighter and warmer. Passing "Y" Beach the re-embarkation of troops was still going on. All quiet, the Goliath says: the enemy was so roughly handled in an attack they made last night that they do not trouble our withdrawal—too pleased to see us go, it seems! So this part of our plan has gone clean off the rails. Keyes, Braithwaite, Aspinall, Dawnay, Godfrey are sick—but their disappointment is nothing to mine. De Robeck agrees that we don't know enough yet to warrant us in fault-finding or intervention. My orders ought to have been taken before a single unwounded Officer or man was ferried back aboard ship. Never, since modern battles were invented by the Devil, has a Commander-in-Chief been so accessible to a message or an appeal from any part of the force. Each theatre has its outfit of signallers, wireless, etc., and I can either answer within five minutes, or send help, or rush myself upon the scene at 25 miles an hour with the Q.E.'s fifteen inchers in my pocket. Here there is no question of emergency, or enemy pressure, or of haste; so much we see plain enough with our own eyes.

      Whilst having a hurried meal, Jack Churchill rushed down from the crow's nest to say that he thought we had carried the Fort above Sedd-el-Bahr. He had seen through a powerful naval glass some figures standing erect and silhouetted against the sky on the parapet. Only, he argued, British soldiers would stand against the skyline during a general action. That is so, and we were encouraged to be hopeful.

      On to Gaba Tepe just in time to see the opening, the climax and the end of the dreaded Turkish counter attack. The Turks have been fighting us off and on all the time, but this is—or rather I can happily now say "was"—an organised effort to burst in through our centre. Whether burglars or battles are in question, give me sunshine. What had been a terror when Braithwaite woke me out of my sleep at midnight to meet the Gaba Tepe deputation was but a heightened, tightened sensation thirteen hours later.

      No doubt the panorama was alarming, but we all of us somehow—we on the Q.E.—felt sure that Australia and New Zealand had pulled themselves together and were going to give Enver and his Army a very disagreeable surprise.

      The contrast of the actual with the might-have-been is the secret of our confidence. Imagine, had these brave lads entrusted to us by the Commonwealth and Dominion now been crowding on the beaches—crowding into their boats—whilst some desperate rearguard was trying to hold off the onrush of the triumphant Turks. Never would any of us have got over so shocking a disaster; now they are about to win their spurs (D.V.).

      Here come the Turks! First a shower of shells dropping all along the lower ridges and out over the surface of the Bay. Very pretty the shells—at half a mile! Prince of Wales's feathers springing suddenly out of the blue to a loud hammer stroke; high explosives: or else the shrapnel; pure white, twisting a moment and pirouetting as children in their nightgowns pirouette, then gliding off the field two or three together, an aerial ladies' chain. Next our projectiles, Thursby's from the Queen, Triumph, Majestic, Bacchante, London, and Prince of Wales; over the sea they flew; over the heads of our fighters; covered the higher hillsides and skyline with smudges of black, yellow and green. Smoky fellows these—with a fiery spark at their core, and wherever they touch the earth, rocks leap upwards in columns of dust to the sky. Under so many savage blows, the labouring mountains brought forth Turks. Here and there advancing lines; dots moving over green patches; dots following one another across a broad red scar on the flank of Sari Bair: others following—and yet others—and others—and others, closing in, disappearing, reappearing in close waves converging on the central and highest part of our position. The tic tac of the machine guns and the rattle of the rifles accompanied the roar of the big guns as hail, pouring down on a greenhouse, plays fast and loose amidst the peals of God's artillery: we have got some guns right up the precipitous cliff: the noise doubled; redoubled; quadrupled, expanded into one immense tiger-like growl—a solid mass of the enemy showed itself crossing the green patch—and then the good Queen Lizzie picked up her targets—crash!!! Stop your ears with wax.

      The fire slackened. The attack had ebbed away; our fellows were holding their ground. A few, very few, little dots had run back over that green patch—the others had passed down into the world of darkness.

      A signaller was flag-wagging from a peak about the left centre of our line:—"The boys will never forget the Queen Elizabeth's help" was what he said.

      Jack Churchill was right. At 1.50 a wireless came in to say that the Irish and Hants from the River Clyde had forced their way through Sedd-el-Bahr village and had driven the enemy clean out of all his trenches and castles. Ah, well; that load is off our minds: every one smiling.

      Passed on the news to Birdwood: I doubt the Turks coming on again—but, in case, the 29th Division's feat of arms will be a tonic.

      I was wrong. At 3 p.m. the enemy made another effort, this time on the left of our line. We shook them badly and were rewarded by seeing a New Zealand charge. Two Battalions racing due North along the coast and foothills with levelled bayonets. Then again the tumult died away.

      At 4.30 we left Gaba Tepe and sailed for Helles. At 4.50 we were opposite Krithia passing "Y" Beach. The whole of the troops, plus wounded, plus gear, have vanished. Only the petrol tins they took for water right and left of their pathway up the cliff; huge diamonds in the evening sun. The enemy let us slip off without shot fired. The last boat-load got aboard the Goliath at 4 p.m., but they had forgotten some of their kit, so the Bluejackets rowed ashore as they might to Southsea pier and brought it off for them—and again no shot fired!

      Hove to off Cape Helles at quarter past five. Joyous confirmation of Sedd-el-Bahr capture and our lines run straight across from "X" to Morto Bay, but a very sad postscript now to that message: Doughty Wylie has been killed leading the sally from the beach.

      The death of a hero strips victory of her wings. Alas, for Doughty Wylie! Alas, for that faithful disciple of Charles Gordon; protector of the poor and of the helpless; noblest of those knights ever ready to lay down their lives to uphold the fair fame of England. Braver soldier never drew sword. He had no hatred of the enemy. His spirit did not need that ugly stimulant. Tenderness and pity filled his heart and yet he had the overflowing enthusiasm and contempt of death which alone can give troops the volition to attack when they have been crouching so long under a pitiless fire. Doughty Wylie was no flash-in-the-pan V.C. winner. He was a steadfast hero. Years ago, at Aleppo, the mingled chivalry and daring with which he placed his own body as a shield between the Turkish soldiery and their victims during a time of massacre made him admired even by the Moslems. Now; as he would have wished to die, so has he died.

      For myself, in the secret mind that lies beneath the conscious, I think I had given up hope that the covering detachment at "V" would work out their own salvation. My thought was to keep pushing in troops from "W" Beach until the enemy had fallen back to save themselves from being cut off. The Hampshires, Dublins and Munsters have turned their own tight corner, but I hope these fine Regiments will never forget what they owe to one Doughty Wylie, the Mr. Greatheart of our war.

      The

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