Little Gully Publishing

Gallipoli under tranquil skies

Thu, 23 Apr 2026 00:00:00 GMT

On 23 April 1938, the Daily Telegraph and Morning Post published this article by Alec Riley, alongside two of his photographs from a return visit to the Gallipoli peninsula. The piece appeared just before Anzac Day that year, timed to coincide with a new Gallipoli exhibit at the Imperial War Museum to which Riley had contributed.

In it, Riley revisits the beaches and battlefields of Helles – places he had known as a soldier in 1915 – and describes what he found there more than two decades later.

Gallipoli under Tranquil Skies

Revisiting Beaches and Battlefields with the Eye of an Old Campaigner

By Alec Riley

On an April morning in 1915, British soldiers landed on the beaches of Helles; and although the survivors of those landings, subsequent battles, and months of occupation cannot forget their adventures, their recollections of the country itself are fading. Nearly twenty-three years have passed since most of them saw it.

My first glimpse of Gallipoli since 1915 was from a steamer approaching the Dardanelles. Across the blue waters were the light, grass-topped cliffs of Helles and Achi Baba’s distant slopes. The Cape, “W” and “V” Beaches and Sedd el-Bahr Fort were there in their old familiar forms. The River Clyde had gone, there were no lighters lying off the beaches, no signs of activity on shore, no smoke rising from the hill; but there were two new landmarks: the white lighthouse on Cape Helles, and on Guezji Baba, the obelisk of the British Memorial, which the steamer saluted with three siren blasts.

Identifying Dug-Outs

From each of several famous viewpoints on Helles Ridge the inland prospect is similar: Achi Baba, five miles distant, spreads his green and attractive terraces along the horizon, dominating the apparently featureless central country. By a track through olive orchards on the rear slope of Helles Ridge, I descended to Morto Plain, crossed it, and made my way up to Pink Farm. A short walk from Pink Farm took me to Twelve Tree Copse Cemetery, where three grassy terraces command a wide panorama of central Helles.

Survivors of countless digging parties may be interested to know that the average depth of their trenches was four feet when I saw them last, and that it was possible to walk a few yards in parts unchoked by weeds, brambles or young fig trees. Even certain lines could be identified from memory or a map, but others had changed beyond recognition.

Here and there I made out the grassy blocks of traverses and the hollows of trench recesses. Many dug-out sites were patches of sandy soil with tufts of grass, but some of them could be identified by local landmarks.

In 1915 we could walk along the Western Mule Track to the Ravines and Fusilier Bluff, through Sauchihall Street to White House, to Leicester Square, via Oxford Street, Piccadilly Circus and Regent Street; we could follow Nelson Avenue, St. Vincent and Argyle streets, or reach Birdcage and Barricade from Essex Knoll or Hampshire Cut. We knew, also, the two Australian lines, Oldham and Wigan roads, the Ghurka Mule Trench and Ardwick Green. Much of the story of Helles was told by its trench-labels; but these trenches, now, are unnamed and silent ditches.

Littered with Relics

Although copper, brass and the large forms of war material have been cleared away, innumerable relics survive. In certain areas the ground was littered with what were known as “shell-cases,” bullets, clips, odd rounds of S.A.A., shrapnel-balls and fragments of bombs, with tins, tunic and trouser buttons, and such details as a broken tooth-brush and the metal frame of a small mirror. There were shards of that popular pottery which is stamped “S.R.D.”; and a jar-neck with cork intact told its story of deliberate destruction—and waste.

The first of my return visits to Helles included June 4. Recalling some of the events of June 4, 1915, I allotted that day to Achi Baba and places of interest within reach of the Krithia road.

This road descends from Sedd el-Bahr to Morto Plain, and rises, near Skew Bridge Cemetery, to the spur-top between Krithia Nullah and Achi Baba Nullah, where it is sandy and rutted, but level for some distance and parallel to the track of 1915. It crosses Eski Line and then Redoubt, where a left-hand path leads to Redoubt Cemetery.

The Vineyard, a small area of flourishing but untended vines, 300 yards from Redoubt, was more fruitful in grenades than grapes in 1915. Here I had difficulty in penetrating close, overgrown trenches, where the air was stifling, and where bombs with short fuses lay in soft earth. The last British firing-line ran through the Vineyard. Like that of the Turks, it is shallow and bushy.

A Derelict Lighter

Achi Baba lies almost half-way between Dardanelles and Aegean, his spurs and terraces extending and declining in all directions. I recalled restless nights and hopeless dawns in the country below; and noisy days such as that other June 4 when the hill was shrouded in the smoke of blasting shell-fire. It was easier, however, to remember the lighter misfortunes of a time when I hoped that my stay would not last much longer–though I feared that it might.

My recollections of Achi Baba on this later June 4 are those of a hill-top silence, only broken by birds and the soft rustle of leaves; and of a hillside farm, where kindly Turks brought water and refreshment, while they invited me to rest in the shade of the olive trees.

I made an expedition to the beaches of Western Helles, by way of Pink Farm and Great Gully; following the winding gully to its shallow extremity near Krithia, inspecting Fusilier and Gurkha Bluffs with their surroundings, and descending “Y” Ravine to its beach. This broken and scrubby country was littered with relics; and, on the slopes of “Y” Ravine, I found traces of the primitive shelters of 1915. Beyond the rocky foot of Ghurka Bluff I came to the shore-end of Bruce’s Ravine—rugged enough in the past by even wilder now.

From the far end of a path along the spur, between coast and ravine, I surveyed Gully Beach. To my left was Great Gully, with its scrubby slopes and yellow curving cliffs; to the right, on the spur-shore and close to the concrete and rusting iron of a broken pier, lay a derelict K lighter which ran aground on the night of the evacuation. There were traces of dug-outs on the face of the spur-point, but only a sandy and weedy bank, behind the beach, marked the site of what I knew as an overworked Field Ambulance.

I planned a further walk, to cover “W” and “V” Beaches. The first objective was Lancashire Landing Cemetery, 300 feet above the beach and 1,000 yards behind it, where the gate-piers bear these words: “The 29th Division landed along the coast on the morning of April 25th, 1915.”

Lancashire Landing, or “W” Beach, lies between Tekke Burnu and the N.W. end of precipitous and cliffy slope which continues to Cape Helles, and it is backed by an irregular slope and small gully. Surveying the shore from each cliff in turn I looked down upon partially buried lighters and the remaining stones and iron supports of piers.

From the south-eastern cliff I made my way to Cape Helles, where the coast bends eastward sharply, and followed the cliff-line to a point below Fort No. 1 for the best view of “V” Beach.

Below me lay the cemetery, a few feet above the sands, with its memorial facing the sea and its gate facing the beach. Then came the low earth cliff, by which “V” Beach is backed, and a central jetty. Near the Old Fort were the remains of the River Clyde pier. Land adjoining the shore had been cultivated; a field near the fort was being ploughed, on the long slope behind the beach, sheep were grazing between old trenches where village children played.

I recalled the River Clyde: her bullet-chipped bows, the shell-holes in her deck, the water in her holds; the broken glass of her screen, and the large ports through which, during the landing, men had passed to gangway and lighters, and many to their deaths—for, in the Cemetery, several headstones bear this date: “April 25, 1915.”

Only the murmur of lapping wavelets disturbed the silence of “V” Beach.

The Shadows Lifted

Sunset reddens the Aegean and blackens Imbros and Samothrace, while colours fade from the darkening landscape and stars shine with increasing brilliance. In the cold glare of a full moon Krithia road wavers across hazy contours into shadowed obscurity. The Helles night-choir of howling dogs and hooting owls is augmented by a chorus of bull-frogs. No “strays” whisper over the battlefield, but the echoing sound of a farmer’s gun-shot is strangely familiar.

Grey dawn streaks, mirrored in Morto Bay, widen slowly as they change to pale yellow, gold and red. The olive-trees take shape; and calls of wakening life sound over field and valley. Then, the rising sun floods the early mist with his light, while he turns Achi Baba from grey to green and lifts the shadows from the dark country of the Nullahs.

Source: The Daily Telegraph and Morning Post, Saturday 23 April 1938.

‘Gallipoli Today’

type: entry-hyperlink id: 1TNRjSILJGJYrkrjvMtqGw includes, as an appendix, a detailed account of Riley’s return to the peninsula in the 1930s, together with many more of his photographs: type: entry-hyperlink id: 1TNRjSILJGJYrkrjvMtqGw

Gallipoli explained: video guides to the campaign’s defining moments

Tue, 14 Apr 2026 00:00:00 GMT

The Gallipoli Association has produced a series of short films explaining the key operations of the Dardanelles campaign. Three are available so far.

The first covers the Anzac landing at Gaba Tepe on the morning of 25 April 1915 — the dawn approach, the Ottoman defenders waiting on the heights above, and the opening hours of a fight that would last eight months.

The second covers the British landing at Cape Helles on the same morning — the naval bombardment, the troops going ashore at the five landing beaches, and the resistance they met from Ottoman riflemen entrenched along the cliffs.

The third covers the August offensive — the renewed Allied effort to break the deadlock, including the landing at Suvla Bay and the fighting on the Sari Bair range.

The films are clear, well-paced introductions for anyone coming to the campaign for the first time, and useful refreshers for those who know it well.

A day that shaped nations: the Anzac landing

https://youtu.be/g0aBAq5z-PE

Cape Helles: the impossible landing

https://youtu.be/NZLSzbKcIe8

The August offensive

https://youtu.be/Ar1P6FRoPZc

The Gallipoli Association is the foremost organisation for the study and remembrance of the campaign. Membership starts from £20 per year: gallipoli-association.org.

Escape from Germany: a prisoner’s tale

Thu, 02 Apr 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Jeanne Antelme’s type: entry-hyperlink id: 1L29TdosATUXszIt8kOrGZ – published by Little Gully in a new English translation – is the memoir of a French volunteer nurse who served at the rear base of the Gallipoli Campaign on the island of Lemnos. But Antelme was also a journalist, and not all of her wartime writing fits within the covers of that book.

In February 1917 she published an account in the Parisian press of her brother Fernand’s captivity and escape from Germany.[1] The Antelmes were Franco-Mauritian – British subjects by nationality, French by culture – and Fernand had volunteered for the French army at the outbreak of war. He was captured within weeks.

After his return to France he transferred to the British military, training as a pilot with the Royal Flying Corps. His sister’s account of his captivity and escape is translated here for the first time, followed by a short biography tracing his path from the Vosges to the skies over Egypt and India.

Mr F. Antelme, having enlisted as a volunteer in August 1914, was taken prisoner on the 7th of September 1914. Sentenced for attempted escape to eleven months’ fortress imprisonment, of which seven were to be spent in solitary confinement, he escaped in September 1916.

I do not wish to produce a literary work here. I am simply going to tell – just as I heard it – this story of a man who escaped from Germany.

And this story has the merit of being true. I shall not take up much of your time. And if you understand it well, if you read between the lines, and if to my words you add your own thought, you will not regret, I am certain, having listened to me a little.

One day – it was at the very outbreak of the war, 5 August 1914 – two tall, strapping lads presented themselves at the recruiting office in X. To be taken at once: that was the essential thing. The branch of service mattered little. They were very quickly drafted into an infantry regiment.

At the depot, they attracted attention. And then, on account of the feverish excitement that gripped them both, they were set somewhat apart from the rest. In the shooting competition, they came first by a clear margin. From that moment, they demanded their turn to go into action.

They departed one fine evening for that lovely country of the Vosges. Their regiment was fighting there. The ranks already showed great gaps.

You soon made the acquaintance of those wicked bullets whistling past your ears, as if to warn you of their passage. And then, you only had to be on sentry duty to hear them wandering about you. Tac… toc… A sharp, dry sound, a snap, and a twig would slide down past your nose. Tac… tac… A dull thud, and it was a leaf’s turn to catch on your uniform.

The shells pursued you as if it were a game. Crack – and the blast of air threw you to the ground. Those devils, the Germans, had their fire well adjusted. At 1,000 metres, they dropped them right between your legs. Good God, how many of those poor soldiers were scattered to the winds. Then there were the wounded whom you could not abandon, who had to be taken to the dressing station. The poor lads begged not to be left behind. And so, despite the shells that kept raining down on you, you picked them up, one by one.

And you fought by day and by night.

One evening, you pushed forward. There was a sense of unease all around. The moon was waxing in the sky, but it was hard to breathe. The beeches and firs gathered great heaps of shadow at their feet. You could scent mystery in the air. From time to time, you stumbled over corpses. Death, always, everywhere. No one spoke. You passed hard by abandoned farms, so dismal in the solitude that enshrouded them.

The day came when the order was given to hold at all costs. And they fulfilled their mission. They found themselves surrounded. They employed every ruse and stratagem. Bandoliers were emptied, all provisions exhausted. The hours, then the days slipped away – and alone, abandoned, they were finally taken despite their resistance, in the shell-hole they inhabited. This took place on 7 September 1914.

They were disarmed, not without difficulty. That particular ceremony is never without pain when you still have the will to fight. But all the same, human strength has its limits, and despite the great cry of the soul and the atrocious sorrow, you had to bow your head.

The days that followed? Ah, the misery – when they think of it. It is like a wind of death passing over their hearts. Burying all the poor corpses, without distinction of race, then quickly fashioning a wooden cross before moving on to others. They had been told that if they wished to eat, they must take the belongings of the dead – those biscuits still stained with blood. The German soldiers insisted they had almost nothing for themselves. Well then? Eight days – ten, rather – ten days of this hellish business. And then the retreat began; they were taken to the rear.

Ah, that journey – with all the wounded, with all the other prisoners. All those trains departing, arriving, all that strength going off to fight theirs. And your stomach contracting, feeling ripped apart. The great hunger gnawing at you. It seems it is terrible to be hungry every day and never eat your fill. From time to time, they were thrown a morsel of bread. And that was all. And it was not much.

Internment in a camp still brand-new, unfinished. The absence of news, and the sordid sadness that seeps into your heart. The straw on which you sleep, the closeness of the earth, and always the hunger – the hunger. A ball of bread every four days, and a bowl of soup every 24 hours. The ball of bread you hang around your neck so that nobody takes it. The ball of bread you sleep with at night, to be sure of finding it in the morning.

The boots that dig into your flesh, penetrating so deeply they eventually numb the pain. The civilians – the deported civilians – the old men, the women and the children waiting in the neighbouring camp, suffering and dying. And the hunger again – always – always the hunger.

That existence lasted five months.

Five months? It does not sound like much, but five months of misery, five months during which you learned that the enemy had won battles and during which you had nothing but black bread. And then the cold, the mud, the hunger – the real misery – the great moral and physical desolation.

When improvements came and parcels began to arrive – it was in January, I believe. Just one month later, they escaped. They procured civilian clothes, which they buried where they usually went on work detail. And then, when the snow had covered the ground in a fine thick layer, they slipped into a ditch, between the sentries. There were four of them setting out. It took a good five hours to cover a hundred metres and slide, sheltered by the snow, beyond the perimeter.

They marched after that, by day, by night. They consulted compasses, pored over maps. The countryside grew ever whiter. They ran along the edges of woods, crossed villages, and pressed always further on.

And then, one afternoon, they found themselves accosted by an innkeeper:

‘Where are you going? Have you got papers?’

In reply, they spread out a yellowed old parchment on which some fine Turkish stamps lent an air of majesty. The man turned the paper over and over. They were about to set off again when he thought better of it:

‘And the other comrades?’

Things were turning sour. They parleyed. No use. He was holding on to their papers, the devil of a man – he was even going so far as to insist on them. What then? Soon the whole village would be up in arms. Better to risk ones last chance.

They made off in a hurry. Ah, the foul snow that came up to your knees, that pulled at your feet as if it, too, were in on it. Your legs went stiff and your joints cracked with pain. They ran a good few hours more, so strong was the reserve of hope. And despite the night, they had thrown themselves boldly into the heart of the forest. Then, around nine o’clock, the darkness being too deep, they stopped – hearts hammering in their chests, temples fit to split their skulls. They were done in, broken to the bone. And they strained their ears, listening for suspicious sounds in the distance.

They cut fine branches of fir, cold from having lain so long beneath the snow, and stretched out on them. And then, upon my word, they fell sound asleep. They could go on no longer.

It was just eleven o’clock when one of them felt a point pressed against his chest; at the same time, someone was pulling him by the leg. He started up, opened wide his eyes, which were blinded by lanterns. He made out a crowd of people howling at the top of their voices, just like wild animals. The din was appalling. Old men, adults, gendarmes – all surrounded them. He turned to his comrades. There too they were being threatened; a sabre was raised above their heads. And at the sight of this commotion, all four burst out laughing. It was so grotesque.

The chains were brought out.

‘French soldiers do not allow themselves to be chained.’

‘French!’ exclaimed the Bavarians.

‘Yes, French!’

‘French…’

The chains were put away and explanations exchanged. They had been taken for criminals. All the same, they had to go back to the village, where the crowd gathered around them. The women pitied them at the thought they would be shot. ‘Oh, these French! Nicht Disziplin.’ They were given food. And off they set again, limping along, legs worn out, broken with fatigue. Now they understood clearly that they would not be returning to France any time soon. And they no longer felt the slightest urge to laugh.

And then a NCO arrived and demanded the chains, he did. They spent the night in a cell. The very next day they were sent to the Kommandantur at Nuremberg. They crossed the entire city, chained and escorted by the mob. French! French!’ And still they were told: 'Why did you try to escape? You are going to be shot!’ At the Kommandantur, the duty officer had the chains removed at once. Orders were then given to place them in the Russian camp at G–, having first separated them. One was put to each company.

Ah, the wretched life that began again – the base, stupid, cold existence. The Russians did not understand French and the French did not know Russian. It was isolation and sordid closeness. The thousand little creatures running over your skin, roaming the length of your clothes and hiding in the straw of your bedding. And always the hunger returned. They shared, those great hulking soldiers – gentle as children, strong as lions – even as they themselves were dying of hunger, they shared their wretched rations with the Frenchman. Thin soup was ladled into an old pail picked up from a rubbish bin. Five or six of them dipped into it, and the Russians would say:

‘Eat, comrade, eat.’

And one day they witnessed a pitiful scene. A Russian soldier, no longer able to bear his hunger, had picked up a potato at the kitchen door. A German sergeant spotted him and set about chasing him, lashing him with a riding crop. The man collapsed.

Then my escapee threw himself at the brute. He was about to deal the fatal blow when his comrades held him back. It would have meant death. But what did it matter? He was dragged back to his barrack by force.

Another day, they performed an autopsy on a Russian soldier. In his stomach were 16 herring heads, in a state of complete putrefaction, picked up on the way to a work detail.

The court martial followed. The hearing, the arguments. And yet again, the German general declared that he understood perfectly that a soldier should seek to return to the field of hostilities in order to fight again, and that he commended them for it. They were sentenced nonetheless to eleven months imprisonment.

Down there, in the fortress of Oberhaus, the old mediaeval castle, life was almost tranquil. The food, compared with what had gone before, was not too bad. You ate.

Two months passed. The fortress was filling up with German soldiers. Room had to be made. They were sent to Nuremberg, to the cellular prison for common-law detainees – partly, too, as a reprisal.

No more shared quarters, but the cell, isolation, silence. The silence haunted by waking nightmares, with the endless crash of heavy ironwork, weighty keys, bells ringing at full peal and at every turn. An intolerable, atrocious noise within the silence. Oh, the silence peopled with nervous anguish, with infinite desolation. A silence that amplified the slightest sounds and sent them echoing. The faintest rustlings clung to your hearing, hammering at it painfully. Your head was battered, and a vile shiver ran the length of your body. And you would start, feeling a shock through your entire being, when the guard cracked open the hatch to slide in your rations and to watch you. To be alone and never to be alone – the dreadful subjection of it.

You could hear all the clocks of the city, too, coming back always, striking always, always. Your task was to mend sacks. And you took the opportunity to gather up the grains of wheat and barley that remained in them. You ate them to cheat the hunger a little – the great hunger that grew fiercer by the day. You were barely fed at all – to say nothing of the undrinkable malt on waking, a piece of black bread and a ladle of hot water in which a few grains of maize were lost, at eleven o’clock and at six. And that was all. Parcels and letters no longer had the right to reach you. You felt yourself going mad.

Each day, you were taken for exercise for three-quarters of an hour. This exercise consisted in walking one day in the prison yard and the next in a space I shall describe presently. In the yard, you walked five metres apart, round and round in a circle. Forbidden to say a word to one another, on pain of five to fifteen days in the punishment cell. The cell without light, a plank for a bed, the daily piece of bread and soup every three days. On top of which, you lost the right to write the one letter permitted every two months.

For having said ‘good morning’ to one of his comrades, the escapee of whom I always speak was sentenced to five days in the punishment cell. The first hours were terrible. Then he thought of his neighbours. By means of certain agreed taps, they managed to understand one another. And so they began a long conversation. It was an infantry captain who told him, in this way, about the Champagne offensive in which he had taken part. The Morse system filled the days.

When you were not walking in the yard, you were taken with the common-law prisoners to their exercise ground. An exercise ground laid out like a great wheel, with the hub being the guards cage, raised above the ground. Each spoke was a wall two metres high and 40 centimetres thick. One prisoner was placed between each pair of spokes, and for three-quarters of an hour they could walk back and forth. The common-law prisoners had their heads covered with black hoods. You could never recognise them, and they could never recognise one another. The eternal prison. Oh, how they suffered then.

On Sundays, you went to Mass, always with the same ceremony. You were locked in little wooden boxes, well separated from one another and solidly bolted. An iron grille, and facing you the high altar, flanked by a guard on either side. That was all you could see. So you sang the hymns, just to hear your own voice.

Then you came back to the cell. The doors slammed. You heard the entire mechanism of the locks working without mercy. And the bells came at you again, and the chimes of the clocks.

This life in the cell? It seems you cannot form any idea of it, and that those of us who live without privation cannot begin to imagine it. When you come back exhausted from those three-quarters of an hour of exercise and you do not even have the right to stretch out on your iron bed, and you must sit upright on your wooden bench, and the silence returns with all the other noises, you must hold your head in both hands to stop it leaving you altogether.

Seven months of solitary. And then, once more, the daylight, the air – the camp, which seemed almost like paradise. You received letters now, you opened parcels, you cooked and you talked. There was the news to be read, the good news arriving from France.

And then the days passed, and their primary obsession returned. To leave, to go back and fight. And it was the eye and the ear that searched for the smallest clue.

A railway wagon stood there, being loaded. To slip inside like a thief (7 September 1916), to burrow beneath the stacks of crates and let yourself be covered without a sound. The wagon was sealed now, and it waited for its destination. You were suffocating, and your whole body ached. You could hear, right beside you, against the wall of the wagon, the sentry leaning against it. And then his footsteps, tapping the ground. The hours passed; night came. And then day again, the anguish, and then night once more. You guessed all this from the comings and goings. Forty-eight hours had elapsed and the wagon was still motionless. And you had not moved either. You could not move. At last it set off. A kilometre further on, the train stopped again, and a whole long day went by.

The wagon had been coupled, and now, for good this time, it moved. Fever burned in your head while you felt your temples beating harder and harder. The wagon jolted on the rails. Other trains brushed past you. Only the noise of whistles and engines reached you. Everything was diffuse in that darkness. It seemed you were far, far away, and yet every jolt of the train struck you like a great blow to the chest. The train seemed to be breaking apart, and you were thrown from side to side. You could barely slip the neck of the bottle between your lips – the bottle in which you had put your water. You had to ration it, be sparing. The days went by. You heard, indistinctly, distant and nearby voices calling out: 'Carlsruhe.’

And the days fell away. Five, six days. The door was opened. The wagons were unloaded. The crates were removed one by one. And then the leap from the wagon, and freedom.

—Jeanne Antelme

Fernand Antelme

Fernand (Paul Fernand) Antelme was born on 18 August 1888[2] in Mauritius to Louis Edgar Antelme and Léontine Couture. Although a British subject by nationality, Fernand was – like his older sister, Jeanne – culturally French.

The summer of 1914 found Fernand in Lausanne, Switzerland, alongside his close friend and fellow Mauritian, Frank de Chazal Mayer.[3] Upon the declaration of general mobilisation, the two men travelled immediately to France to volunteer, presenting themselves for enlistment on 5 August 1914. However, their induction was initially obstructed by military bureaucracy regarding foreign nationals; Mayer later noted that he would “never have succeeded” in joining without Fernand, who leveraged his social connections to mobilise the local Prefect and the British Consul. They were finally accepted into the 10th Company of the 52nd Infantry Regiment (52e Régiment d’Infanterie) based in Montélimar.

Fernand and Mayer were thrust into the violent Battle of the Frontiers in the Vosges sector. The regiment disembarked at La Chapelle-lès-Bruyères on 7 August and engaged in the offensive to cross the passes of Sainte-Marie and Bonhomme. The following weeks (August 10–30) saw the regiment engaged in twenty-four battles in thirty days, enduring brutal mountain warfare, artillery barrages, and fighting retreats through villages such as Saint-Blaise-la-Roche and Raon-l’Étape. It was during these chaotic movements that the two friends were separated; Mayer was wounded and evacuated to Grenoble.

Fernand’s war was short but intense. By early September 1914, the 52e R.I. was fighting desperately to hold the Meurthe valley. The regimental history describes the period of 4–6 September as chaotic, with the regiment suffering heavy casualties defending the village of La Salle and reconstituting near Mailleufaing under constant pressure.[4]

On 7 September 1914, just 33 days after enlisting, Fernand was captured by German forces. He spent approximately two years as a Prisoner of War, during which time he proved to be a difficult captive. In 1915, he made his first escape attempt, trekking 125 kilometres through enemy territory before being recaptured. He was court-martialed and sentenced to eleven months in prison, a punishment reportedly mitigated only by the diplomatic intervention of the Queen of Denmark.

His internment finally concluded with a successful escape in 1916. Fernand and three French comrades concealed themselves inside a large, empty biscuit packing case being returned to Basel, Switzerland. Upon the crate’s arrival at the Baden railway station in Basel, the four men broke out and ran, believing they were still in enemy territory, until Swiss locals informed them they were safe. Due to his status as a British subject serving in French ranks, the French Consul in Basel, Monsieur de Maricourt, was unable to process his immediate repatriation. Fernand was required to report to the British Legation in Bern before successfully returning to France, where he was awarded the Croix de Guerre on 13 September 1916.[5]

Following his return to Allied lines, Fernand transferred to the British military, receiving a commission as a Probationary 2nd Lieutenant in the Royal Flying Corps (RFC) on 12 January 1917.

His initial flight training in the United Kingdom followed the standard curriculum of the era, transitioning from ‘pusher’ biplanes to tractor configurations. His RFC service record[6] documents a diverse array of aircraft, including the Maurice Farman Shorthorn and Longhorn, the Airco DH.6, and the standard Avro 504 trainer. His training also extended to operational types such as the Airco DH.2 and FE.2b pusher fighters, the BE.2c/e reconnaissance platforms, and the Bristol Scout. Fernand was graded a Flying Officer on 22 May 1917 and confirmed in his rank on 13 June 1917.

On 19 July 1917, he embarked from Southampton aboard the transport Saxon, bound for the Middle East Brigade. He arrived in Alexandria and was posted to No. 22 Training Squadron at Aboukir on 7 August 1917. Aboukir was a hub of intense activity during this period; the training wings were operating at capacity, often plagued by mechanical shortages and high accident rates due to the mix of inexperienced pupils and environmental hazards.[7]

Fernand became a casualty of this high-tempo environment almost immediately. On 13 August 1917, while piloting an Avro 504 (serial 4786), he was involved in a mid-air collision with a BE.2c (serial 4712), piloted by 2nd Lieutenant H.J.T. Russell.[8] Fernand sustained severe injuries. He spent the remainder of August and September 1917 recuperating.

Upon his recovery, he was transferred to the School of Aerial Gunnery at Heliopolis (Cairo) on 1 November 1917. He spent the winter of 1917/18 completing his advanced training, gaining the necessary skills for a posting to the front.

On 22 March 1918, Fernand departed Suez aboard the transport KaraDeniz, bound for Bombay to support the expanding air operations in India. With the formation of the Royal Air Force on 1 April 1918, he was promoted to Lieutenant.

On 25 September 1918, Fernand was posted to No. 114 Squadron. Established at Lahore in late 1917, the squadron was tasked with army co-operation and policing duties on the North-West Frontier. Fernand remained with the squadron through the Armistice and was listed as an Aeroplane Officer on 3 February 1919. His transfer to the Unemployed List on 14 October 1919 marked the end of his military service.

Following the war, Fernand emigrated to Argentina – a common destination for the Anglo-French diaspora involved in agriculture. He married Karin Margarita Boyer in 1930, with whom he had three children: Juana, Louis and Norman. He died in Argentina on 24 April 1960, aged 71.

‘Histoire d’un évadé d’Allemagne’ by Jeanne Antelme, La Renaissance (Paris), 17 February 1917, pp. 2-4.
British military records give 15 July 1888.
Private Papers of F de Chazal Mayer. Imperial War Museum, Documents.4828. See also chazfest.com/portfolio-items/franck-de-chazal-mayer/.
Historique du 52e régiment d’infanterie pendant la guerre 1914–1918, Berger-Levrault (Paris), n.d.
L’Intermédiaire des chercheurs et curieux (Paris), 15 March 1938, p. 225.
AIR 76/9/110. Royal Air Force officers’ service records 1918-1919. The National Archives, Kew.
Ray Vann and Mike O’Connor, ‘Wings Over Suez: The History of RFC/RAF Training in Egypt 1916–1919.’ Mick Davis, ‘RFC/RAF Training Units in Egypt.’ Cross & Cockade International, Spring 2016, Vol. 47/1.
Casualty card, ‘RFC people’ database, airhistory.org.uk.

Rhys Crawley on Orlo Williams

Mon, 16 Mar 2026 00:00:00 GMT

Most accounts of the Gallipoli campaign are written with the benefit of hindsight. Orlo Williams’ diary is not. Written day by day in a tiny, near-illegible hand, it records what was happening at General Headquarters as it happened – and often before anyone in authority knew about it.

In this talk, presented to the Gallipoli Association in July 2025, Dr Rhys Crawley – senior lecturer in history at UNSW Canberra, author of Climax at Gallipoli, and one of the editors of type: entry-hyperlink id: 7EogC3ahncNBooGQJiTFLc – explains how the diary came to be published and why it matters.

https://youtu.be/Ca7wz7LdOkc

Orlo was an unlikely figure for a military headquarters. Oxford-educated, fluent in five languages, and already the author of several books, he moved from a civilian role at the House of Commons to the War Office, where his experience handling secret documents made him an ideal cipher officer. At GHQ on Gallipoli, he was responsible for coding and decoding every top-secret telegram between the peninsula and London. He routinely read critical messages before the generals, before the War Cabinet, and before the Prime Minister.

He also wrote it all down – which he was emphatically not supposed to do.

The result is roughly 80,000 words of headquarters life as it was lived: the planning, the delays, the gossip, and the mounting frustration as the campaign stalled. Orlo was not kind to his superiors. He described senior staff officers as ‘fundamentally stupid’ and the campaign’s commander, General Sir Ian Hamilton, as a man with a ‘shallow at times obstinate mind’ who ‘never does anything at all.’

His position gave him a front-row seat to one of the campaign’s most dramatic moments: he was the officer who deciphered the telegram from Lord Kitchener that effectively sacked Hamilton. He also witnessed – and praised – the subsequent evacuation, calling it a ‘really great feat of organisation.’

Orlo brought a camera, too. Around 50 of his photographs appear in the book, most previously unpublished: the River Clyde with its sally ports cut into the hull, dead men in the trenches, officers crowded around makeshift tables above the beach.

Crawley’s talk also covers the considerable challenge of turning the diary into a published text. An earlier attempt by an American researcher – who read the entire manuscript into a dictaphone because it could not be photocopied – produced a transcription full of errors. The editors spent years working through Orlo’s handwriting to produce a reliable, annotated edition.

Orlo’s own verdict on the campaign was characteristically pointed: a warning against placing ‘undue confidence in cabinets.’ It remains sharp reading, more than a century on.

type: entry-hyperlink id: 7EogC3ahncNBooGQJiTFLc is edited by Rhys Crawley, Stephen Chambers and Ashleigh Brown, and published by Little Gully.

‘To the Dead of the Dardanelles’

Fri, 27 Feb 2026 00:00:00 GMT

On 9 June 1930, General Henri Gouraud stood before the newly completed French memorial at Sedd-el-Bahr, on the tip of the Gallipoli peninsula, and addressed a gathering of veterans who had returned to the battlefields where they had fought fifteen years earlier.

Gouraud knew the ground intimately. He had commanded the Corps Expéditionnaire d’Orient during some of the fiercest fighting of the 1915 campaign, and was himself severely wounded there in June of that year.

Gouraud’s address was published in the Revue des Deux Mondes (vol. 58, no. 1, 1 July 1930, pp. 204–208). The translation below is ours.

For more on French memorials and cemeteries at the Dardanelles, visit our companion site, French commemoration at Gallipoli.

General Gouraud: To the Dead of the Dardanelles

Address delivered on 9 June 1930 at the inauguration of the monument at Sedd-el-Bahr

My dear comrades-in-arms,

How deeply moved we are to stand once more before this landscape, unchanged since those tragic days!

Beyond lie Seddul-Bahr and its beaches, where shells once fell as thickly as on the frontline; yonder, the cypresses where, one June day, we buried General Ganeval to the sound of a furious cannonade on the British front; the pylons and Zimmermann Farm. At our feet lies Morto Bay; the dugouts and shelters where I once reviewed the magnificent 6th Colonial Regiment under Colonel Noguès; the ridge of Eski Hissarlik, where heavy shells crashed down amid the beauty of those evenings of the Orient. Further north are those corners of the battlefield that were so fiercely contested: the Rognon, the Quadrilateral, the Haricot, the approaches to Kerevez Dere.

Further off is the height of Achi Baba, which loomed so closely over us that I was forced to hold my reviews at night to present decorations won in action. And over there, on the coast of Asia, were the emplaced batteries of In Tepe, which completed the circle of fire around us.

To be sure, during the years that separated us from those heroic times, our thoughts often turned to our comrades who rest in Turkish soil; but the Nation owed it to herself to raise a monument to their memory. And we, the survivors, are likewise fulfilling a duty. Allow me to thank your devoted president, Colonel Weisweller,[1] for having so ably organised our pilgrimage, and to congratulate Monsieur André George, the Architect and Curator of the French Embassy; the monument his artistry has created is truly worthy of our Dead.

Henceforth, ships passing offshore will see, rising from this soil drenched with so much French blood, the lofty column that shall proclaim forever France’s fidelity to those who sacrificed themselves for her.

To all of them – the men of the 175th Infantry Regiment, of the 176th, Zouaves, Legionnaires, Colonial troops of the 4th and 6th, Senegalese, Chasseurs d’Afrique; gunners of the 75s, the 155s and the 240s, of the trench mortars; sappers, airmen, sailors. All these brave men – soldiers of General Masnou, killed in action alongside his admirable Chief of Staff, Commandant Romieux; of Colonel Vendenberg, wounded; of General Bailloud; of General Ganeval, killed; of General Girodon, wounded. The sailors of Admiral Guépratte, and the sailors of the Bouvet, the Jauréguiberry, the Henri IV, and the Latouche-Tréville.

We come to lay more than a palm frond; we come to bow our heads in contemplation of the sacrifice of our Dead, that we may remain worthy of them in our love for our country.

Like our Dead, we have the right to be proud to have fought here, on this ground described by one of our adversaries in these words:

“The narrow Gallipoli peninsula is truly mountainous terrain, covered with successive chains of steep ridges, whose slopes are deeply gullied and torn by fissures.”

“Sparse bushes on the hillsides and along the banks of streams... together with a few plantations of stunted pines, form the only vegetation in this generally barren landscape.”

We will shortly pay tribute to the dead of the Bouvet and to all those whose endeavour was shattered on 18 March by the underwater mines.

The valour of the Turkish army was evident on this soil from the very first landing on 25 April, an operation that demanded magnificent courage from General Ruef’s French brigade at Kum Kale. On the eve of leaving Paris, I received a letter from the architect of the École Polytechnique,[2] drawing my attention to the bravery of the assault company in which he served during the attack on Kum Kale; by evening, he was the sole surviving section leader.

At that same hour, General Hunter-Weston’s 29th British Division was landing amid the wire entanglements of Seddul-Bahr, capturing them only at the cost of heroic sacrifice, while General Birdwood’s Australians and New Zealanders stormed the ridge at Gaba Tepe.

It took us three days of fighting to gain a firm foothold on the peninsula. Then, once the Turkish reserves arrived, we had to withstand the furious attacks of the 1st, 3rd, 6th, 7th, and 8th of May. General d’Amade could speak far better than I of the courage and tenacity displayed in those engagements upon which the fate of the expedition hung.

Later, on 4 June, the 21st, 28th, and 30th, and 12 July, further progress was made until we reached the edge of the Kerevez Dere, while the British lines drew closer to Krithia. But the peninsula was sealed off, and we settled into a war of attrition – an unequal struggle, for the Turkish army could replenish itself, whereas the Allied divisions had only their existing strength and fought far from home, suffering all the privations such remoteness entails. I must nevertheless acknowledge that the Supply Corps and the Medical Service showed supreme devotion, as did the sailors of Admiral de Boisanger who were responsible for landing supplies and ammunition. All of them worked so often under shellfire!

The day came when, after the failure of the Battle of Suvla-Anafarta, the Allied governments decided to redirect their efforts towards Salonika and Serbia. One after the other, the two divisions from the Dardanelles were absorbed into the Army of the Orient. And so, it gives me great pleasure, Poilus of the Orient, soldiers of Macedonia and Albania, to salute you here – you who, after the fighting on the peninsula, endured the marshy, fever-ridden plains of Macedonia and the freezing valley of the Vardar, winning your laurels at Florina, at Monastir, and in that victorious offensive of September 1918 which carried you all the way to the Danube.

I am glad to salute you, Monsieur Antériou, former Minister of Pensions, at their head; you who had the honour of being wounded in action, and were subsequently entrusted with the fine and generous duty of watching over our wounded, our widows, and our orphans.

The monument which pays reverent homage to our dead stands upon ground already steeped in history. That coast of Asia, on the far side of the Straits, is the plain of Troy; the rivers watering it were called the Simois and the Scamander; the Turkish guns were positioned behind the tumuli of Achilles and Patroclus. On the peninsula, my command post stood on the tumulus where Protesilaus fell; the trenches we dug along that ridge cut through the cemetery of Elaeus, from where Alexander the Great embarked for Asia; and behind us, on the other side of the peninsula, there rose from the sea that island of Samothrace, from where Victory herself took flight.[3]

We have yet other duties to discharge. First, to pay the same homage at the cemetery where our valiant British comrades-in-arms lie at rest. And then, we shall go to pay the tribute owed to their sacrifice at the cemetery where our courageous adversaries of those tragic times lie.

For not only did we all witness here the bravery and tenacity of the Turkish soldier, but a unique feature of the war on this sector of the immense battlefront was that there existed no feeling of hatred between the combatants.

Among our soldiers, there were many who had been mobilised in Constantinople and who lamented that Turkey had the misfortune to find herself opposed to us.

One of the most moving memories I retain from that time is of an evening when, after one of the June engagements, I was informed that, in the ebb and flow of the day’s fighting, a Turkish captain and a wounded French soldier had been found in the same trench, lying side by side. The soldier, brought back to the dressing station, immediately recounted that he owed his life to the Turkish captain. Having lost his own field dressing, the soldier was saved when the captain, who had two, gave him one, enabling him to staunch the bleeding.

I went at once to the dressing station to see this captain and thank him. His face already pale with approaching death, he told me that I brought him the last joy of his life, because, like many Turks, he loved France; that he deplored the war having compelled him to defend his country against her; and that he died in the hope that, once the war was over, the friendship between the two peoples would blossom anew.

Nor have I forgotten that, if the wounded were able to be treated aboard the hospital transports and sent back to France, it was because the Turkish guns emplaced three kilometres away on the Asiatic shore – which so often swept our landing beaches with their fire – never once fired upon the hospital ships flying the Red Cross flag, respected by all civilised nations.

But all that is now a glorious past for the two adversaries who met in this narrow arena. C'était écrit. It was written.

Today, in that same spirit expressed to me by the dying Turkish captain in June 1915, we salute the renewal of the age-old bonds of friendship between our two countries – a historical tradition and a pledge for the future – consecrated by the Treaty of Friendship and Arbitration signed last February.

General Gouraud

French commemoration at Gallipoli

The memorial inaugurated by Gouraud in 1930 stands within the French military cemetery at Sedd-el-Bahr, where the scattered battlefield and post-war burial grounds of the peninsula were consolidated into a single site.

Our companion site, French commemoration at Gallipoli, documents this process with historical photographs and narrative, and includes a searchable database of the 2,257 burials in the national cemetery.

Footnotes

The 1930 pilgrimage was organised under the presidency of Lieut.-Colonel Weisweiller (1875–1936), who had served at the Dardanelles in 1915 with the 175th Infantry Regiment. As president of the Association Nationale des Anciens Combattants des Dardanelles since 1924, he coordinated the voyage of some 500 veterans and their families to Gallipoli for the inauguration.
The architecte de l’École polytechnique was the official architect responsible for the buildings of the École Polytechnique in Paris, France’s foremost military and scientific grande école, founded in 1794. Gouraud’s point is that even the holder of such a distinguished civilian appointment served as an infantry section leader in the assault on Kum Kale.
Gouraud alludes to the Winged Victory of Samothrace (Nike), the celebrated Hellenistic marble sculpture discovered on the island of Samothrace in 1863 and now displayed at the head of the Dariüs staircase in the Louvre. The statue depicts the goddess of victory alighting on the prow of a ship, her wings spread wide. Gouraud’s image casts the island itself as the plinth from which Victory rises.

‘You will be buggered’

Sat, 07 Feb 2026 00:00:00 GMT

In 1977, Peter Liddle of Sunderland Polytechnic interviewed Brigadier J.A.C. Taylor, DSO, MC, about his First World War experiences.¹

Taylor had embarked for war as a second lieutenant in the 10th Manchesters, East Lancashire (later 42nd) Division, the first Territorial division to go on foreign service. Taylor was aboard the transport HMT Avon which departed England for Egypt on 10 September 1914.

‘Now there is one thing that I must ask you to put on tape,’ said Mr Liddle, ‘and that is this splendid story of the warning by your commanding officer of the dangers that you young men might face in Egypt. Now what was this?’

‘Oh yes, that was a perfect scream,’ replied Taylor. ‘On parade, he was a real bluff old fellow and I remember the battalion was called to attention and he said, now then you young fellows. I must tell you we are in a land which is rife with buggery and you young fellows must be damn careful what you are about when you go out in the place or before you know what will happen, you will be buggered.’

The commanding officer of the 1/10th Manchesters was Lieutenant Colonel John Buckley Rye, VD, who was with the unit for 42 years in peace and war. It was the 6th Volunteer Battalion Manchester Regiment when he joined it in 1886 as a subaltern. Colonel Rye had the honour of taking the battalion out on active service, as commanding officer, when it was despatched to Egypt in September 1914. In the following spring, the battalion was in action at Gallipoli, and later went to France, but Colonel Rye was taken ill on the Peninsula and invalided home in late June 1915. In his younger days, Colonel Rye was a stalwart of the Oldham Rugby Union Football Club, and played for the county on several occasions. He also played for Oldham Cricket Club. He was proprietor of Taylor and Rye, yarn agents.

Brigadier John Alexander Chisholm Taylor, DSO, MC, born 3 November 1890, was an architect from Oldham. He left England in 1914 as a subaltern in the 1/10th Manchesters, was a company commander in June 1915 at Gallipoli, served with distinction throughout the war and commanded the battalion after the Armistice. He was mentioned in despatches and awarded the DSO and MC with two bars. In 1948, Taylor was an honorary colonel in the Royal Artillery.

What Egypt was really like

Colonel Rye’s earnest warning reveals more about Edwardian anxieties than the actual dangers facing his young soldiers. The reality for the rank-and-file was less moral peril, more heat, dust, and discovery.

Signaller Alec Riley records this culture shock in type: entry-hyperlink id: 6n9fXN0kcwgzHIZLLPZOcr. Mobilizing with the 6th Manchesters, Riley offers a ground-level view of young men encountering a landscape utterly removed from their experiences in Northern England. Riley’s dry humour brings to life the daily absurdities of garrison duty, from navigating interactions with local Egyptians to the serious business of defending beer supplies from light-fingered Australian troops.

type: entry-hyperlink id: 1TNRjSILJGJYrkrjvMtqGw span his complete war service: from Egypt, through the hell of Gallipoli, to his convalescence in a great Victorian military hospital.

‘TAYLOR, J A CHISHOLM’, Liddle Collection, University of Leeds, LIDDLE/WWI/GS/1583.

Banner image: Men of the Manchester Regiment explore a village near Sidi Gaber, Alexandria, 1914. From an album compiled by an unnamed soldier in the 6th Manchesters. Tameside Local Studies and Archives Centre, Manchester Regiment Archive, MR4/23/102.

The invisible man at GHQ: a review of the Orlo Williams diary

Fri, 09 Jan 2026 00:00:00 GMT

While the trenches of Gallipoli are well-documented, what actually happened behind the scenes at General Headquarters? One book, type: entry-hyperlink id: 7EogC3ahncNBooGQJiTFLc, pulls back the curtain on the command center of the campaign. We are pleased to feature a review by esteemed historian Dr Mesut Uyar, who describes the diary as a “rollercoaster” of suspense, gossip, and sharp intellectual observation. From Orlo’s “unpretentious” voice to his unique insights into legendary figures like Kitchener and Hamilton, find out why Dr Uyar considers this book an essential read for anyone seeking the full story of the campaign…

type: entry-hyperlink id: 7EogC3ahncNBooGQJiTFLc, by Orlo Williams, Rhys Crawley (Editor), Stephen Chambers (Editor), Ashleigh Brown (Editor), Little Gully Publishing, 2025, xii + 415 pp.

Unlike other so-called “Oriental side shows,” the Gallipoli Campaign remains immensely popular, and library shelves are groaning under the weight of an ever-increasing number of books. This is not a new phenomenon. From the very beginning of the campaign, combatants from all sides, as well as journalists, felt an urge to record their observations and experiences. Consequently, we are blessed with thousands of memoirs, diaries, and other personal narratives, though only a small percentage of them have been published. This raises the question: do we really need more books about the Gallipoli Campaign?

In the case of Captain Orlo Williams’s diary, the answer is a definite yes. While the popular understanding of the First World War locates the personal experience of war firmly in the trenches, Orlo’s diary provides a revealing and hitherto largely overlooked account of the day-to-day operations of an operational-level headquarters. As a cipher officer, Orlo was well-positioned to observe the inner workings and personalities of the General Headquarters (GHQ) of the Mediterranean Expeditionary Force. His position made him essential, yet simultaneously invisible, as he held no command or operational responsibilities. He was, essentially, the forgotten figure in the corner of a group photo of celebrities.

Orlo, however, possessed the intellectual capacity for observation and the literary talent to capture his thoughts in fluent prose. His diary entries offer not only unique insights into the daily functions and sometimes mundane affairs of GHQ, but also tantalizing glimpses of gossip, intimate thoughts, and deep emotions.

Orlo was a gifted diarist. His entries capture both major daily events and personal feelings remarkably well. Unlike the so-called diary of his superior, General Ian Hamilton, Orlo’s honesty and attention to detail hook the reader immediately. Like a novelist, Orlo takes the reader on a rollercoaster ride through the unfolding military campaign—sometimes moving smoothly, other times full of action and suspense. One feels a sense of regret that our reliable observer was unable to witness the April 25 landings from a broader vantage point to provide more detail. However, when he did have an opportunity, Orlo used it to the fullest—most notably in his account of the decision-making process for the evacuation of the Gallipoli Peninsula. His perceptive comments on Hamilton and Kitchener are particularly valuable.

In addition to providing an accurate picture of GHQ, Orlo reveals the motivations and functions of keeping a diary. It is apparent that, as a highly trained citizen-soldier, Orlo tried very hard to use writing to cope with his experiences of war. He used the pages not only to celebrate victories and achievements but to unload his emotions as discreetly as possible. This is why he wrote of literature, music, horse riding, and gossip; these were elements of civility that helped him stay sane and recover from the shock of loss. While Orlo did not appear to keep this diary for public consumption, the way he presents events and observations suggests he wanted to set the record straight—as seen in his criticisms of Kitchener, Hamilton, Birdwood, and Cecil Aspinall (the future official historian of the campaign), and his praise for unsung heroes like General Monro, Wyndham Deedes, and Guy Dawnay. It is not surprising, then, that he donated his diary to the Imperial War Museum shortly before his death.

The editors have done a terrific job, not only in uncovering this golden nugget from a dark corner of the archives but also in adding helpful summaries of the campaign at the start of each chapter to guide the reader.

In conclusion, I strongly advise serious readers of the Gallipoli Campaign to obtain a copy of this insightful and frank diary of a modest and unpretentious citizen-soldier.

Mesut Uyar The University of New South Wales, Canberra, Australia

Through a commander’s eyes: the reality of life at Helles

Fri, 07 Nov 2025 00:00:00 GMT

A new edition of type: entry-hyperlink id: 2lPkfRglaTcrzcbCaWK18h brings a rare and valuable first-hand account of the Gallipoli campaign back into publication. The book, originally released in 1936, contains the personal correspondence of Colonel Sir Henry Darlington, who commanded the 1/5th Battalion, Manchester Regiment. As a historian who has deeply researched the Gallipoli campaign through countless personal accounts, reviewer Jim Grundy finds Darlington’s letters offer a profound insight into the immense strain and daily existence of a commander on the peninsula.

Letters From Helles. The Uncensored Correspondence of a Battalion Commander at Gallipoli by Colonel Sir Henry Darlington.

Edited by Michael Crane and Bernard de Broglio.

Little Gully Publishing, 2025, 277 pages. Softback. ISBN: 978-1-7640773-2-3

By the time Colonel Sir Henry Darlington was evacuated at the end of September 1915 he was the last one of the 42nd (East Lancashire) Division’s original battalion commanders left on the peninsula. After his departure his men, 1/5th Battalion Manchester Regiment, depleted by death, wounds and sickness, formed a composite unit with 1/6th Manchesters.

Originally published in 1936, Darlington's “Letters From Helles,” letters he sent to his wife, is a rare tome today — most copies having been destroyed by the Luftwaffe in 1940. They give us the story he told those at home about his journey to Egypt in September 1914, and his service there before landing at Gallipoli in May 1915.

After meeting one of Darlington’s grandsons, who contributes a foreword to this new edition, Little Gully Publishing has reproduced the original text but have added a biography of Darlington, mini-biographies of those he mentioned and a timeline setting out the battalion's service at Helles. The work is extensively illustrated throughout with Darlington's own photographs taken on the peninsula. They alone are a fantastic record of the campaign.

Sir Ian Hamilton wrote the preface to the original work (which is also reproduced now). Despite writing that he “must not spoil my preface by making it a vehicle for publishing my own thoughts,” he could not resist doing so. More usefully, he tells us, “even now when we know that they [Darlington's letters] only gave one half of the story they will do us all good to peruse.” [1] And this leads us to consider the information Darlington decided to share and what he withheld; how he tried to balance reflecting reality while providing reassurance that all was well.

An early example concerns the voyage from England to Egypt. Darlington told his wife that most of the officers were sick crossing Biscay. C.S.M. Walter Spencer, who Darlington had served with in South Africa (and whose death on the peninsula in May 1915 he recorded in a letter) told us rather more.

“Practically all my Company were placed hors de combat for a day or two. Just fancy having two full days tossed about mid-ocean. One of my sergeants (George Beazant) wanted the ship to go down. Of course, he wasn’t the only one who said this.” [2]

Similarly, while Darlington reported the death of one officer, another of his officers, Second Lieutenant Eric Burrows, took a very different approach.

“Poor Freddy Brown [3] was killed. It was a terrible blow to every one... Our company has had six killed and altogether about 15 wounded. A man in my platoon was shot in the neck yesterday morning and died almost immediately. Mercifully he didn't suffer at all but was unconscious all the time. It was all very terrible for us. I have never come face to face with death like that in my life, and he was one of the best men I had... The 7th Battalion were sent out last night to dig yet another line and were rather badly cut-up, three officers being wounded, and the incessant cry of 'Stretcher-bearers!' was appalling.” [4]

After the near destruction of 4th Battalion Worcestershire Regiment on 6th August 1915, Darlington described the aftermath.

“I went up to the fir wood near here yesterday with my glasses to have a look at the battlefield, and it is a sight, our Brigade and the Worcesters’ dead are lying about in whole platoons.” [5]

While he often referred to bad smells, it was never as explicitly stated as Second Lieutenant Arthur Behrend, 1/4th Battalion East Lancashire Regiment, who described a patrol into no man's land at Cape Helles on 13th May 1915.

“The smell was now overpowering, and I raised myself on hands and knees to see if I could find the cause. I did find it, and the shock took my breath away. A dozen men in fighting kit were lying, mostly face downwards, in an orderly row. A few yards in front of them I saw an officer and a sergeant, and, a pace or two back, a bugler. They were Worcesters — I recognised the cap badge — and it was clear they had been caught by machine-gun fire while advancing in open order. It was also clear they had been lying out there among the poppies and tall daisies for a week or more, a pitiful tribute to their regimental motto ‘Firm’.” [6]

But, of course, Behrend was not writing to a letter to his wife. Darlington’s reticence is perfectly understandable but, as the struggle dragged on, he could not hide his fears and frustrations. His letters show how he alternated between anger at the shortage of every military necessity to insisting that, nevertheless, the Turks would collapse suddenly. And as his battalion was hollowed out, he bemoaned the quality of the reinforcements being sent to him.

“Somehow drafts seem mere bullet food nowadays.” [7]

“I call it damned impertinence to try and quell the Turk with the riff raff we have got here just now. I only hope we are not trying to quell the Hun with the same muck.” [8]

In the background to all this was the deteriorating health of everyone on the peninsula. By August/September 1915, 78% were suffering from diseases such as dysentery and jaundice; 64% had septic sores; and around half of those who had been there longest were displaying symptoms of heart disease. [9]

Darlington could not hide that septic sores on his hands were causing him problems, as it affected his handwriting. But his health, generally, was worsening. Shortly before he finally left Gallipoli, he wrote:

“I am slightly off colour to-day... No symptoms, but just what the old hands get here, a general feeling of being off colour and slackness.” [10]

What you will not find here are detailed descriptions of fighting. But you will understand what it was like to simply exist at Helles, to try to keep going; of the stress that even a more guarded correspondent could not fail to show. Overall, it is an excellent insight into the life of a battalion commander (and temporary brigade commander) at Gallipoli. There's much more to be said about it but that can be resolved by reading the book.

Highly recommended.

Jim Grundy.

[1] Hamilton quoted in Crane, Michael & de Broglio (Eds.), “Letters From Helles. The Uncensored Correspondence of a Battalion Commander at Gallipoli,” p. 6, Little Gully Publishing (Sydney) 2025.

[2] ‘Leigh Chronicle and Weekly District Advertiser,’ 2nd October 1914. Also p. 76, type: entry-hyperlink id: 481ZndYriPUM9NfbvnG4HT.

[3] Captain Frederick Seddon Brown, 1/5th Battalion Manchester Regiment, was killed in action on 26th May 1915. Buried in Lancashire Landing Cemetery, he was the 31 year-old son of James and Helena Brown, of Mere Oaks, Standish-cum-Langtree, near Wigan, Lancashire.

[4] ‘The Wigan Examiner,’ 19th June 1915.

[5] Crane & de Broglio (Eds.), “Letters From Helles,” p. 94.

[6] Behrend, Arthur, “Make Me a Soldier. A Platoon Commander in Gallipoli,” pp. 74-75, Eyre & Spottiswoode (London) 1961.

[7] Crane & de Broglio (Eds.), “Letters From Helles,” p. 104.

[8] Crane & de Broglio (Eds.), “Letters From Helles,” pp. 119-121.

[9] MacPherson, Major-General Sir W. G. & Mitchell, Major T. J., “History of the Great War Based on Official Documents. Medical Services, “ Vol. 4, p. 58, H.M.S.O. (London) 1921.

[10] Crane & de Broglio (Eds.), “Letters From Helles,” p. 134.

When a ‘small aspect’ of a global war gets a big book

Fri, 10 Oct 2025 00:00:00 GMT

We’re pleased to present this expert review of Ian Burns’ new book, type: entry-hyperlink id: 1EJeHuh3tdjZWvFZosKTDm. It comes from Dr Mesut Uyar, a leading authority on Ottoman and modern Turkish military history.

Currently a Professor of Military History at the University of New South Wales, Canberra, Dr Uyar combines deep academic knowledge with firsthand experience as a decorated military officer. He has authored key texts on the subject, such as The Ottoman Army and the First World War, and co-edited other major volumes, including The Routledge Handbook of Modern Turkish History.

His expertise is especially relevant for this review, as Floatplanes Over the Desert covers naval aviation on the Palestine Front. Professor Uyar’s forthcoming book, The Ottoman Army and the Gaza Battles, delves deep into this same theatre of war.

Here are Dr Uyar’s thoughts on the book:

According to the respected historian of early aviation R. D. Layman, the naval aviation of the First World War has not received the attention it certainly deserves. While he may have been right when he published his important book in 1996, that is no longer the case, and this handsomely produced volume is a testament to the vitality of recent literature on First World War naval aviation.

Floatplanes Over the Desert is a big book on a small but interesting aspect of the so-called ‘Oriental side show’—the Palestine Front during a global war. This book is clearly a labour of love. Burns, a retired aerospace engineer, has spent many years conducting research and collecting materials. After a lifetime of effort, he has put his findings into writing. Drawing on his unrivaled knowledge of the subject, he focuses not only on the Royal Naval Air Service (RNAS), as many others have, but also on the French Navy’s Aéronautique maritime, which played a crucial role, especially at the beginning of the war.

Although the book looks daunting in terms of its size (568 pages, 390 photos, and 12 maps), the text is easy to read, and the photos greatly bolster the pleasure of reading. The book comprises 18 chapters in addition to an introduction, an afterword, and 10 appendices. It has the characteristics of both a monograph and a specialised encyclopedia. As such, it can be read cover-to-cover, dipped into for a chapter of choice, or consulted for specific information. For example, the chapter about Castellorizo Island is a stand-alone work in itself. Furthermore, the book provides valuable context with information on smaller campaigns and minor fronts, including a much-needed background chapter on aviation in the Middle East.

Last but not least, the book is served well by the publisher. The Little Gully press did a terrific job in proofreading, formatting, and all the other publishing processes, a standard that many well-known publishers now struggle to meet due to subcontracting to India and China.

Overall, this is an excellent, well-crafted book that is thoroughly recommended.

Mesut Uyar The University of New South Wales, Canberra, Australia

We called this place ‘Little Gully’

Tue, 23 Sep 2025 00:00:00 GMT

This month, Michael Crane of Little Gully Publishing led the Gallipoli Association’s Helles Battlefield Study Project on the Gallipoli Peninsula. The initiative focuses on documenting the material record of the 1915 battlefields.

Says Mike:

I can now boast I have definitely been in Little Gully!

Little Gully holds particular significance for our publishing project, which is named after this very location. It is where Alec Riley, a signaller with the 42nd (East Lancashire) Division, spent his last days on the peninsula, an account detailed in his type: entry-hyperlink id: 1TNRjSILJGJYrkrjvMtqGw, which we published in 2021.

We called this place ‘Little Gully.’ The section lived in it for some days. It was a blind alley, but there were steep paths up the sides near the head. The ledges in the cliff face were strata of harder rock than that above or below which, in places, was sufficiently far back to give us room to walk and work on the ledges, the lower one in particular. We could reach this ledge by climbing up a heap of stones. The place was really a shallow cave. Vick lived in it, and here our lines were overhauled for breaks and bared places. Several miles of wire were man-handled in this cave. We lived in shallow holes in the gully floor. Our kitchen was on the right, near the heap of stones. I lived in a small hole on the left. Ormy and Claude had adjoining holes, opposite. About 20 feet up the gully-side there was a shelf of rock ten feet wide, and we could walk round the head of the gully on it. Brigade headquarters, where Tim lived, and the signal office, were high up on the left of the gully…

After the war, Alec Riley returned to Gallipoli and described the coastline north of X Beach, noting how the cliffs are broken first by Little Gully and then by the larger Gully Ravine, which he refers to as ‘Great Gully’. It is this contrast that likely gave Little Gully its name.

Mike’s recent fieldwork directly connects the detailed historical accounts found in Riley’s diary and other contemporary accounts to the physical landscape as it exists today, underscoring the importance of on-site studies in understanding the past.

Join the Gallipoli Association to access the detailed reports of the Helles Battlefield Study Project.

The Great Amphibious Adventure

Mon, 01 Sep 2025 00:00:00 GMT

Twenty-five years after Gallipoli, Captain Charles Arthur Bolton—known affectionately as ‘Bessie’ to his fellow officers—penned this retrospective for the Royal United Service Institution Journal. Bolton served as GSO3 in the Operations Section at GHQ Mediterranean Expeditionary Force.

Readers of Orlo Williams’ diary, type: entry-hyperlink id: 7EogC3ahncNBooGQJiTFLc, will recognise Bolton from Orlo’s vivid portraits: ‘stout and burly,’ ‘a very good fellow’ who had studied at Oxford, a chess companion during quiet moments, and later, somewhat poignantly, as ‘old heavy-eyed Bolton’ who felt increasingly sidelined as the campaign progressed. Orlo even composed a humorous verse about him:

Bolton sits about the room In an attitude of gloom...

Bolton’s account complements Orlo’s observations of the hastily assembled staff and their frantic preparations for the landings of 25 April 1915. What follows is Bolton’s article as it appeared in the RUSI Journal of May 1940 (Vol. LXXXV, No. 538).

TWENTY-FIVE YEARS AGO THE GREAT AMPHIBIOUS ADVENTURE

By C. A. B.

Midnight, 11th March, 1915. A despatch rider from Battalion H.Q. with a telegram, ‘‘Report at once to H.Q., 29th Division, Leamington.” On arrival, new orders to report at War Office forthwith; twenty-four hours to say good-byes and prepare, and then, at 3.30 p.m. on Friday, 13th March, a special train at Charing Cross awaiting a small assembly of General and Staff officers. At 4 p.m. we are all aboard; General Sir Ian Hamilton and the nucleus of his General Staff leave for the Gallipoli adventure, with the First Lord of the Admiralty and a few friends and relations to wave them ‘‘Godspeed.”

There were twelve of us on the train, the Commander-in-Chief and his A.D.C., St. John Brodrick; his M.S., and brother-in-law, S. Pollen; Major-General Braithwaite and his son as A.D.C.; Williams (G.I.), Fuller, Grant, and Aspinall (G.2s), Dawnay and myself (G.3), and [Orlo] Williams, librarian to the House of Commons, as Cipher officer.

At 7 p.m., having embarked in H.M.S. “Foresight,” we left Dover for Calais. There was a thick fog, and as we steamed towards France we lost direction; presently the sound of heavy guns was heard and, as we learnt later, we were off Nieuport and the left of the line in Flanders. Having altered course, we eventually reached Calais about 9.30 p.m. Here the C.-in-C’s second A.D.C., John Churchill, joined us, and thirteen in number we left at 10.30 p.m. for Paris, en route for Marseilles, by special train.

Paris, 7.30 a.m., 14th March; and half an hour later on to Marseilles. There we arrived at 6 p.m. and embarked in the fast light cruiser H.M.S. “Phaeton.” We slept in harbour that night and early the following morning steamed for Toulon to fuel with oil. A hasty dash ashore to post letters and look round, and then, at 1 p.m., we started on our final stage. The Mediterranean was very kind, blue as only it can be and calm as the proverbial millpond. The “Phaeton” maintained a steady 28 knots, vibrating greatly but otherwise serene. Through the Straits of Messina and the Grecian Isles we steamed as if on a yachting cruise and then, precisely at 2 p.m., on 17th March, as we dropped anchor at Tenedos, H.M.S. “Dartmouth” arrived with Admirals de Robeck and Wemyss and General d’Amade aboard. We were at our journey’s end, four days less two hours since our train steamed out of Charing Cross.

That night we stayed at Tenedos, while the Admiral Commanding, the Commander-in-Chief and the French Commander conferred and we heard of the attempt to be made next day by the combined British and French fleets to silence the Turkish forts and force the Straits. The morning of the 18th found the “Dartmouth” gone and still in the “Phaeton” we set out to reconnoitre the Peninsular. During the outward voyage we had, under the direction of the C.G.S., studied such maps as were available and we were anxious to compare our deductions with the ground itself. We therefore steamed slowly along the coast about a mile off shore from Cape Helles, almost as far as Bulair, and in the Gulf of Xeros we came upon the five-funnelled Russian cruiser ‘‘Askold”—the ‘‘packet of fags” as the Navy called her—keeping a lonely watch. With our glasses and telescopes we studied the land and more especially the areas which from the map we had selected as possible landing places. At every such spot the Turks were observed to be digging hard, so that we knew for certain, what we had only surmised before, that the previous naval activities had put the enemy wise to our intentions.

Back we turned, therefore, as if for Tenedos and then, as we passed Cape Helles, we altered course, increased speed and, passing the battered forts at Seddul Bahr, entered the Straits. As we steamed in, a most inspiring sight unrolled itself before our eyes. In a great semi-circle, facing and bombarding the forts at the Narrows and Kilid Bahr, were the battleships and cruisers, apparently stationary, and around them a swarm of smaller craft. Presently, when one had had time to sort out one’s first impressions, we began to notice splashes on the water about our ship and to realise that the Turkish field batteries on the Asiatic coast were paying us some slight attention. Then, as we steamed still further in, we suddenly became conscious of a large ship slowly—very slowly—moving towards us on our starboard bow, very low in the water and with a slight list forward. All her crew, except presumably the stokers in the engine-room, were on deck and it looked as if at any moment she might sink before our eyes. This, we discovered, was the “Inflexible” which had struck one of the Turkish mines, which a little later sunk her sister battleships, “Ocean” and “Irresistible” and the French battleship “Bouvet.” She was being escorted by destroyers and we turned and followed her, ready to give what help we could, in case she sank. Then, having seen her as far as Rabbit Island, where she was beached, we steamed for Tenedos.

Next day we proceeded to Mudros and, as the “Phaeton” was ordered home, we transferred to the S.S. “Franconia” and established our G.H.Q. aboard. Five days we waited there and various officers of the Intelligence branch, including Doughty Wylie and Deedes, joined us and then, on the 24th, we were off again, this time for Egypt.

On the 26th we reached Port Said, and left the following day at 12.45 p.m. for Alexandria, where we arrived that evening. As far as Ismailia the railway followed the line of the Canal defences and we were thus able to see for ourselves the sites of the chief points of the Turkish attacks, which had taken place some six weeks previously; and at two places the actual pontoons, which the Turks had used.

At Alexandria we were quartered in the Savoy Palace Hotel with our offices in a building about half a mile away in a street off the Mohamed Ali Square. Rumour had it that the house was previously a well-known “maison tolerée” and that many enquiries were made of our clerical staff after dark from former clients of the departed ladies. During the daytime, however, we were not disturbed and from 28th March till 7th April we were busy, with Captain F. Mitchell, R.N., to help us, working out details of the contents of ships, ships’ cutters, steam pinnaces, picket boats, lighters, etc., for the landing of troops, guns, ammunition, animals and stores upon an open beach. This work so inspired one of our number [Orlo] that he wrote the following lines, a copy of which I have before me now:—

The P.N.T.O. and the P.M.L.O.

Round Tekke Burnu slowly steamed A British Man-of-War, The guns were slowly booming from The forts of Sedd-el-Bahr, With no light but the fitful gleam Of searchlights from afar. The P.N.T.O. and the P.M.L.O. Were gazing at the strand; “Do you suppose,” the P.N.T.O. said “That we shall ever land?” The P.M.L.O. said nothing, but He coughed behind his hand. “If seven tugs with seven tows Started at dead of night,” The P.M.L.O. said, “I wonder if They’d land enough to fight.” The P.N.T.O. thought abstractedly And simply said, “They might.” “And will they,” asked the P.M.L.O., “Land on the proper beach, This one on ‘X’, that one on ‘Z’, And so on each to each?” The P.N.T.O. held his finger up Like one about to preach. “We’ve thrashed it out, with wrinkled brows And tears,” the P.N.T.O. said, “And none will land on ‘W’ That ought to land on ‘Z’.” The P.M.L.O. politely smiled The smile of the well-bred. “At break of dawn” the P.N.T.O. said, “Our ships will open fire, The gallant troops will then advance As far as they desire.” The P.M.L.O. was indistinct; I think he muttered “Wire.” “And what is wire," the P.N.T.O. cried, “Against a naval shell? One of us goes there every day And shoots away like hell.” “And do you," said the P.M.L.O. “Not leave your card as well?” But when the fateful morning came, Whose, how, and why and when, Are matters little suited for A merely ribald pen. The P.N.T.O. and P.M.L.O. Both quitted them like men.
In after years, the text book said To budding G.S.O’s, “This is the Golden Rule for both P.N.T.O.’s and P.M.L.O.’s: Its no good counting up your hands, Before you count your tows.”
[Notes] Pronounce P.N.T.O. as Pinto and P.M.L.O. as Pumelo. PN.T.O. Principal Naval Transport Officer. P.M.L.O. Principal Military Landing Officer.

Meanwhile transports had been arriving daily, but not as yet with any of the Administrative Staff of G.H.Q., so that the General Staff were doing administrative work, and rightly or wrongly, committing our “A” and “Q” to plans, with which they might, on arrival, disagree. This was most unsatisfactory but in the circumstances unavoidable.

On 8th April we left Alexandria and by the 10th we were back again at Mudros, this time in the S.S. “Arcadian.” And here it is as well and perhaps time to explode a myth, which is still prevalent and almost handed down to history, namely the story that the “Aragon” was the luxury ship of G.H.Q. G.H.Q. were never in the “Aragon,” luxury ship though she may have been. The “Aragon” was the Headquarters ship of the Governor of Mudros, Rear-Admiral Roslyn Wemyss, and remained at Mudros until the end of the campaign. The “Arcadian,” no luxury ship, as those who lived aboard can certify, after being off the Peninsular until the second week in May, took G.H.Q. to Imbros, where they disembarked and formed a camp ashore.

(It has always been my desire to destroy this myth, so I hope the above digression may be excused.)

At some date during the next fortnight the Administrative Staff arrived and had to pick up the threads as best they could in the short time available and make all necessary measures to fit in with the plans in which we had perforce involved them. For us of the General Staff, the time was passed in putting the finishing touches to orders, transmitting messages to the War Office and visiting Divisional and other Headquarters on neighbouring transports, which were arriving daily in the harbour.

On or about 18th April, the date for the landing, weather permitting, was fixed for St. George’s Day, 23rd April. On the 21st and 22nd it was blowing a gale, so that there was no hope of effecting a landing next day, and the operation was postponed until the 25th. In the meantime it had been decided that certain officers of the General Staff were to land with the covering force, and Williams (G.1) and Doughty Wylie were ordered to go ashore from the “River Clyde” on “V” Beach, while I was detailed for “W” Beach.

The wind subsided by the 23rd, so that afternoon about 2.30 p.m. I left the “Arcadian” and embarked on another transport, the name of which I have forgotten. The beastliness of modern war has done its best or worst to cloud the pageantry of ancient times, but this departure from Mudros harbour for the great adventure was one of those occasions when one could be excused a feeling of exhilaration and pride and, even after all these years, the memory still remains. As the Official Historian has said, “As each transport passed through the waiting fleet, cheer upon cheer broke from her crowded decks and the watching bluejackets cheered and cheered again.” We were off and the great day had come at last.

The following day we spent at Tenedos, and that evening, just before dusk, we of the G.H.Q. landing party for “W” Beach transhipped from our transport to H.M.S. “Implacable.” With us aboard were Brigadier-General Hare and his Brigade Major, Frankland, the 2nd Bn. Royal Fusiliers, and H.Q., and half “D” Company, 1st Bn. Lancashire Fusiliers. I happened to be near the ladder as some of the troops were climbing aboard and one of the young soldiers slipped and dropped his rifle in the sea. His Company Sergeant-Major’s comment came at once, “Don’t you worry, my lad, there’ll be lots of dead or wounded men to-morrow from whom you can get a rifle.” True, no doubt, but not a well chosen word of encouragement!

We dined with the Captain in his cabin that night and later turned in for such sleep as we could snatch before an early rise next morning. The Chaplain very kindly gave his cabin up to me.

At 5 a.m. we were up on deck and half an hour later the bombardment of the beaches started. In the half-light that precedes the dawn, at 6 a.m., the tows of boats could be seen leaving their ships for the shore, and shortly afterwards the sun rose in a red ball from behind Achi Baba, shining full in our eyes. At 7 a.m. we got into our picket boat and making for the northern end of “W” Beach, we successfully landed about a quarter of an hour later under the shelter of the cliff. I immediately made my way to the beach and the sight that met my eyes was one that made me wonder how the troops had ever got ashore. A belt of wire, at least 9 feet in depth, stretched from cliff to cliff except for a gap about the centre of the beach, some 10 to 15 yards wide. Along the beach were some 60 to 70 dead or severely wounded Fusiliers, and in the northern corner was the Medical Officer doing his best to succour all he could. The water’s edge was red with blood as it lapped against the shore. There was no time to brood on such matters and we set about selecting sites for Headquarters and for the various forming-up places, supply depots, water stations, etc., that were to be established later on the beach or in its vicinity.

In the meantime sappers of the 1/2nd London Field Coy., R.E., were busy clearing the beach itself of dead and wounded and of wire entanglements. A little later I discovered that there was no Brigade Staff on the beach and heard that the Brigadier had been badly wounded and the Brigade Major killed. Farmar, the Staff Captain, was with the firing line. Kane, the Brigade Machine-Gun Officer, was on the beach. Although I belonged to G.H.Q., and not to the 29th Division, and had not seen Divisional orders, I found myself the only executive Staff officer present. For two hours no further boats approached the shore, until about 9.45 a.m. the 1st Bn. Essex Regt. landed and I met them and explained the situation to the C.O. As he was moving off, I turned away and to my intense astonishment saw a most unexpected sight—a complete civilian, dressed in a blue lounge suit with a straw hat on his head and carrying a Gladstone bag. In answer to my amazed enquiry, he told me he was the interpreter attached to the 1st Essex. As the firing line was only a comparatively short distance beyond the crest overlooking the beach, I took on myself the responsibility of ordering him to stay on the beach. What was his fate I never knew, for I did not see him again.

Wolley Dod, G.S.O.1, 29th Division, arrived ashore at 12.30 p.m., and I was then able to carry on with the duties for which I had been sent ashore.

The day wore slowly on; a few minor incidents come back to me; smoking a cigarette and chatting with Kane, when a very spent bullet hit him in the left temple, penetrating so slightly that I was able to extract it as if it had been a tooth; having some trouble with a Chaplain over the burial of the dead; but our chief worries were the lack of progress in our advance ashore. We knew that the landing at “V” Beach was held up, and that no appreciable advance had been made by the troops from our own beach. We felt the lack of artillery and no guns were landed until late in the afternoon. The working parties on our beach had been, perforce, used to reinforce the firing line and, although the beach was clear, other essential work was held up.

About 9 p.m. those of us, who could, lay down to try and snatch some sleep, but immediately afterwards firing broke out all along the line above the beach and continued more or less regularly throughout the night. Sleep being impossible, we stood about and talked and smoked amid a steady stream of “overs” whipping into the sea behind. The rest is history.

C.A.B.

Charles Arthur Bolton CBE (1882–1963), educated at Marlborough College and New College, Oxford, was a British Army officer whose career spanned both World Wars. Commissioned into the Manchester Regiment in 1902, Bolton attended Staff College in 1912. He played rugby for United Services and was called up by England as a reserve for their match against the 1908–09 Wallabies, before gaining his sole cap in a win over France at Leicester in 1910, playing as a wing-forward.

During WWI, Bolton served at Gallipoli as GSO3 on Sir Ian Hamilton’s GHQ staff, acting as the GHQ representative at the Lancashire Fusiliers’ landing on W Beach on 25 April 1915. Around mid-1915, he became Brigade Major of the 88th Infantry Brigade, 29th Division. He was with that Brigade on 6 August at Helles and later that month at Suvla, but in September fell victim to dysentery and was evacuated to a hospital ship and thence home to England. Despite multiple mentions in despatches and significant staff work throughout the war, Bolton felt overlooked for decorations, though he eventually received a CBE in 1919.

After transferring to the Tank Corps, Bolton commanded the 5th Battalion Royal Tank Corps (RTC) from 1927 to 1931. The battalion was one of the units in the Experimental Mechanized Force. He then commanded the RTC Centre at Bovington from 1931 to 1935. Recalled from retirement in 1940 as a Brigadier, he built the Middle East Pioneer and Labour Directorate from nothing to an organization of 110,000 civilians and 67,000 soldiers across 190 companies.

Bolton retired to South Africa in 1942 and died in Eastbourne in 1963.

Inside GHQ

Captain Bolton’s retrospective complements the more detailed portrait found in type: entry-hyperlink id: 7EogC3ahncNBooGQJiTFLc, recently brought to publication by Little Gully.

type: entry-hyperlink id: 7EogC3ahncNBooGQJiTFLc offers an unparalleled window into the daily experiences and frustrations of the staff officers who planned one of the most ambitious—and ultimately tragic—operations of the First World War.

Orlo captures not just the camaraderie that sustained these men, but also the professional jealousies and political maneuvering that shaped the campaign’s execution.

type: entry-hyperlink id: 7EogC3ahncNBooGQJiTFLc →

New RAN plaque on Lemnos rekindles debate over historic cairn

Wed, 27 Aug 2025 00:00:00 GMT

A new plaque commemorating the vital role of the Royal Australian Navy (RAN) on the Greek island of Lemnos during the First World War is to be installed. This initiative by Melbourne’s Lemnos Gallipoli Commemorative Committee will rightly honour the contribution of Australian sailors and engineers.

Lemnos served as the crucial forward base for the 1915 Gallipoli campaign. Later, Mudros Harbour was the historic location for the signing of the Armistice of Mudros in October 1918, which ended the war with the Ottoman Empire and was witnessed by the RAN.

A distinctive stone cairn on the island has been suggested as a potential location for the plaque. While it has been proposed that this pyramid-like structure was built by Australian engineers in 1915, its origin is a matter of debate. Some attribute it to White Russian refugees who were on the island after 1920. However, our detailed analysis suggests a different origin.

We present photographic evidence arguing against the cairn’s existence during the 1915 Gallipoli campaign. Our best guess is that the structure was in fact a ‘conspicuous’ navigational beacon built sometime between 1917 and 1918 by Royal Marines engineers, possibly to guide the vast Allied fleet that assembled for the Armistice.

We invite you to read the article and weigh in on this historical puzzle.

Lemnos Pyramid Puzzle →

Three battle-worn seaplanes capture Jeddah: an exclusive extract from ‘Floatplanes Over The Desert’

Wed, 20 Aug 2025 00:00:00 GMT

In June 1916, as the Great War raged across Europe’s trenches, a very different kind of aerial warfare was unfolding in the sweltering waters between the Red Sea and the Arabian Sea. Far from the Western Front, the Royal Naval Air Service’s East Indies & Egypt Seaplane Squadron was pioneering new forms of naval aviation in one of the war’s most challenging theatres.

At the heart of these operations was HMS Ben-my-Chree, a converted Isle of Man packet steamer that had been transformed into one of Britain’s early seaplane carriers. Under the command of Commander Charles Rumney Samson, this unlikely warship carried just five floatplanes—two Shorts, two Schneiders, and a Sopwith Baby—into the furnace-like conditions of the Yemen coast. There, operating in heat so severe that engines could barely lift their aircraft above 1,500 feet before their cooling water boiled away, these naval airmen would demonstrate the psychological impact of air power on isolated Turkish garrisons.

This dramatic episode forms part of Ian M. Burns’ comprehensive new study, type: entry-hyperlink id: 1EJeHuh3tdjZWvFZosKTDm. The 568-page work, richly illustrated with photographs and maps, chronicles the operations of the French Navy’s Aéronautique maritime and the Royal Naval Air Service in the Middle East and Eastern Mediterranean.

In the extract below, we follow Ben-my-Chree from her intensive bombing campaign at Aden in early June 1916, through a dawn raid on Sheikh Said, to her urgent summons to Jeddah on 15 June, where Turkish forces were under siege by the Arab Army. What follows is a remarkable account of how three battle-worn seaplanes, operating at the very limits of their capabilities, may have provided the final push that secured a crucial Red Sea port.

Ben-my-Chree at Aden and Jeddah

Ben-my-Chree sailed from Port Said on 2 June to take passage through the Suez Canal and on to Aden. In her hangar were two Shorts, S.2 and S.3, two Schneiders, B.1 and B.3, and Baby B.5.¹ Besides Samson himself the pilots were Flt Lts Bankes-Price, England, Wright and FSL L.P. Paine. Observers were Lt J.H.B. Wedderspoon, 2Lt Benn (he was promoted Temporary Captain on 8 July, later confirmed and backdated to April 1916), 2Lt J.M. Burd, and 2Lt L. Clarke. Ben-my-Chree approached Aden at dawn 7 June, sending off Short S.2, with Wright and Burd to reconnoitre from Waht across the lines to Imad. The Short returned just as the seaplane carrier was coming to anchor.

Some quick work enabled Samson to present a full report of the flight, complete with photographs and maps, when he reported to General Walton. It was an impressive demonstration of the use of air power which delighted the General. With his full backing Samson embarked upon ‘as intensive a bombing as my limited resources permitted.’

I knew that our only chance of being able to fly with the Shorts was to try to get off very early in the morning or late in the afternoon, as the severe heat would inevitably not only boil all our cooling water away, but probably affect our lift. As it was, we had a terrible time getting the Shorts off the water under existing conditions, and being unable to ascend beyond 1500 feet we soon began to lose our water whilst flying. On several trips it was touch-and-go whether we could get back before the engine seized up through this cause.²

As these were almost a carbon copy of the earlier work done by Raven only a few highlights will be mentioned. The bombs carried this time were bigger. The Shorts carrying bombs up to 112-lb, the Sopwiths up to 65-lb. The intent being to carry out as many flights as possible in the time available, bombing and reconnaissance flights were made morning and evening between 8 and 12 June. During the four days of attacks, 8, 9, 11 and 12 June, a total of fifteen individual sorties were flown, 10 June was a ‘rest’ day for maintenance and to hopefully catch the Turkish force unawares the following day. Three 112-lb, three 65-lb, seventeen 20-lb, four 16-lb, 14 petrol bombs, and one carcass (saltpetre and sulphur) were dropped, plus a single box of flechettes. All flights were met with accurate rifle and machine gun fire and some anti-aircraft shrapnel was reported but, although the floatplanes were hit several times, there was no major damage or injuries.

On the morning of 8 June Samson and Wedgewood Benn were the first off, at 05.20 on Short S.2, with a single 112-lb bomb, three 16-lb bombs, and four ‘hoppers’ for Benn’s Lewis gun. Benn later wrote, ‘We took a 112 lb. bomb on the rack in the undercarriage, and I carried a few 16 lb. bombs in the back seat.’ The Short was also laden down with a W/T set and a camera, thus overladen the Short needed a two mile run to takeoff. Passing Waht they were unable to climb above 700 feet, at Lahej they were less than 400 feet above the roofs of the town.

As this was too low to drop the 112 lb bomb at the Mosque owing to risk of damage to seaplane from the explosion of the bomb. The 112 lb bomb was dropped at and hit dug-out into which men were seen to go from camp in trees just N of Lahej. Two 16 lb bombs hit camp from height of 800 feet; emptied two hoppers from Lewis gun against camp. Lahej was full of troops and Arabs and firing was observed from 4 small guns, two of which were on house tops (probably 10 pdrs); one or two shells that burst were of larger size than 10 pdrs, one star shell was observed. Machine guns and heavy rifle fire were also encountered; two rifle bullets hit seaplane.³

They returned to the ship and landed alongside at 06.19. The Mosque, and similar buildings, were widely suspected of being used as ammunition or supply dumps and considered legitimate targets. Arab agents reported that the bomb dropped on the dug-out, actually a gun pit, killed seven men.

Samson and Benn’s flight was typical of those carried out by the Shorts over the next few days, a mix of bombing and reconnaissance. The Sopwiths were mainly engaged in hit and run bombing raids. One by Flt Lt England on the first day is typical. Taking off at 05.49 he flew Baby B.5 (one 65-lb bomb, a box of flechettes and a Lewis gun with two ‘Hoppers’) inland to Waht reaching just 500 feet altitude. England was back by 06.14.

Under fire from anti-aircraft gun in South corner of town. Dropped Flechettes on gun’s crew of about 6 men. Dropped bomb which hit the South Corner of Central Mosque and Adjoining bldgs. Circled around village firing one hopper from gun. Observed few people.

Bankes-Price attempted the same flight the following morning, also flying B.5 but with four 20-lb bombs and the Lewis gun. His flight was quickly terminated.

Flew inland to Waht at a height of about 1000 feet. About one mile south-east of Waht engine stopped dead. I dropped all my bombs at once and turned back towards Sheikh Othman, endeavouring to get into our lines before the machine dropped. The engine picked up slowly, and I managed to get back to the sea, landing in about 2 ft of water. I saw no signs of the enemy.

In an attempt to overcome the difficulties of operating overloaded machines in an unforgiving climate on the afternoon of 9 June one Short was flown solo. Short S.3 piloted by FSL Paine set out at 17.40 with a single 112-lb bomb. He was still only to reach 800 feet, but dropped his bomb into the middle of Waht, returning to the ship at 18.19. This is the last recorded flight for Short S.3. Two days later it is noted that it failed to take-off owing to engine problems.⁴

Operations over Aden wrapped up on 12 June after a bombing raid on Subar by Bankes-Price on Schneider B.1. Taking off at 05.26, he flew straight to Subar carrying two 20-lb and six petrol bombs. The first three petrol bombs were not observed and assumed not to have ignited. Of the remaining three, two started a small fire at one end of the camp, but the third started a ‘large blaze, which was still burning strongly when the coast was reached 15 minutes later. The two HE bombs fell on the north-western corner of the camp amongst some tents, apparently doing some damage.’ Samson noted that the fire could still be seen from the sea when Ben-my-Chree sailed that evening. Bankes-Price returned and was hoisted in at 06.01. A useful morning’s work.

Once again the results and effects of the raids were quickly known in Aden. Again, the morale effect far outweighed the material results. Turkish stock falling even lower with the local chiefs and tribes. The Turkish command attempted to stop caravans running into Aden, a ban widely ignored by traders. All in all, as Samson noted in his report, ‘In these circumstances, the results achieved, sometimes far inland, must be regarded as satisfactory.’

But Ben-my-Chree was not yet finished with the Aden Protectorate. Although due back in Egypt Samson, having first obtained the backing and approval of General Walton, decided to take some time to descend upon Sheikh Said. The Turks here, estimated at 500 men with five guns, occupied a small fort, some redoubts, and several tented camps on the adjacent jebels. They were conducting a desultory bombardment of the small British garrison on Perim Island. Colonel Alexander, Walton’s GSO at Aden, sailed with Ben-my-Chree. No doubt the promise of additional photographic coverage was the main draw, although his local knowledge would be useful to Samson.

Ben-my-Chree arrived off Perim Island at 04.00 on 13 June. Planning to conduct a bombardment with her 12-pdrs Samson launched W/T equipped Short S.2 soon after arrival. When engine trouble prevented the Short taking off, it was replaced by Schneider B.3, with five 20-lb and two petrol bombs, piloted by Bankes-Price. Ben-my-Chree closed to within 2000 yards of the shore, in a position permitting enfilade fire on camps at Jebel Malu and Jebel Akrabi. Instead of attempting to direct fire using flares, Bankes-Price dropped the two incendiary bombs some distance apart to give the line to the camps. He then dropped five HE bombs on the camps, starting fires that gave the ship’s gunners an aiming point. He later recorded seeing four shells burst in the camp. A single Turkish gun returned fire, but its shells fell short. Seeing troops moving about the hillsides Samson next turned his guns on this target of opportunity.

England now reported the Short repaired and ready for flight, so Samson turned Ben-my-Chree away from the coast to recover the Schneider and send off the Short. Getting off successfully, England and his observer 2Lt Burd directed fire on to two guns on the slopes of Jebel Akrabi. A brief exchange of fire now ensued. The ship was straddled, hit by shrapnel and a shell passed through the forward funnel without exploding. In return her gunners silenced one of the guns. While Ben-my-Chree shifted position to bombard a different camp, the Short’s crew took a series of photographs of the Turkish positions and dropped bombs on one of the camps. The spotting continued for a while until Ben-my-Chree withdrew once again to recover the floatplane. After refuelling, topping up water, oil and rearming, with a single 112-lb and 20-lb bombs, and two incendiaries, the Short was sent off again at 08.03 with a new crew, Flt Lt Wright and Lt Wedderspoon. Its flight to the south of Jebel Malu, encompassed several camps at Jebel Barika and Khor Ghorera. The latter received the 112-lb bomb, and several more photographs were taken. They returned at 08.32, the Short quickly refuelled, and rearmed as previously, and the crew changed, FSL Paine and 2Lt Clarke taking over. The third flight commenced at 08.48, returning shortly after 09.30. The camp at Jebel Akrabi was bombed again and the observations completed.

Later reports suggested that Ben-my-Chree had literally caught the enemy napping, asleep in their tents, although reports of 40 killed is so similar to the reported casualties at Aden as to be suspicious. The bombardment had raised the ship’s morale to new heights. Throughout the action the upper deck remained crowded with stokers and other crew members, whose duties normally kept them below decks, taking brief respites from their duties to ‘see the fun.’ Samson then set course for Port Sudan,⁵ intending to take on coal, ‘transferring Colonel Alexander, who had thoroughly enjoyed his first Naval engagement, to the Senior Naval Officer, who had arrived on the scene and joined in with his 4-inch guns.⁶

Approaching Port Sudan they were ordered to immediately proceed to Jeddah where urgent developments required their attendance. Arriving on the morning 15 June, and after negotiating a tricky passage through some reefs, Ben-my-Chree joined ships of the Red Sea Patrol, Fox, Hardinge, Dufferin, and Perth.⁷ Samson immediately met with Captain W.H.D. Boyle, commanding the Red Sea Patrol, aboard Fox. The ships were attempting to provide gunfire support for the Arab Army attacking Jeddah. Having been denied permission to land observers by the still distrustful Arabs, the British ships had to fire blind with mixed results. It was decided that in the evening the floatplanes would reconnoitre and bomb the Turkish positions. Then in the morning they would spot for the guns of the squadron.

By this stage in her cruise Ben-my-Chree had only three serviceable floatplanes available, Samson decided to employ them all. With Benn as his observer, he piloted Short S.2 armed with a single 112-lb bomb, two incendiaries and a Lewis gun. Two Schneiders, B.1 and B.3, piloted by Bankes-Price and England respectively, completed the trio. The Schneiders each carried a single 65-lb bomb and a Lewis gun. England had been tasked with attempting to breach a gate in the eastern wall of the town. He decided that the gate was too close to the mosque to risk dropping the bomb, instead dropping it on a group of soldiers west of the wall. Attacking trenches to the south of the town, Bankes-Price dropped his bomb from only 100 feet, receiving a shaking from the resulting explosion. He then flew along the trenches, firing his machine gun into them until all his ammunition was exhausted.

Samson and Benn flew across the town and defences, taking several photographs, noting some bombardment damage on the southern walls and south-western tower. They dropped the 112-lb bomb on two guns to the south east of the town, missing by 50 yards. Passing along the seaward side of the defences the Short came under heavy shrapnel and rifle fire. Whilst examining a redoubt to the north the Short was hit several times, one bullet removing the heel from Samson’s right shoe, as well as nearly shattering the supports of his seat. Another hit started a severe vibration. Thinking his engine had been damaged Samson headed out to sea and put the Short down as soon as possible, immediately stopping the engine. One of the ship’s motorboats came up and towed the floatplane back alongside. When hoisted aboard and examined, the propeller was seen to be badly splintered by a bullet whilst another bullet had almost severed the elevator control wires. Thankful for their narrow escape from disaster Samson set his maintenance crew to work repairing damage for the morrow.

At dawn, as Ben-my-Chree was preparing to launch her spotters, a white flag went up over the town as Jeddah surrendered. In his signal cancelling the flight Captain Boyle added, ‘probably the seaplanes decided the matter.’ To the garrison, already battered by several days bombardment, the appearance of the aeroplanes may indeed have been the deciding factor, their final straw. Samson’s claim that ‘three inefficient rather antique seaplanes took Jeddah’ is somewhat stretching a point…

All Flight Reports employ only Samson’s Serials which will be followed in the text. Shorts, S.2/850 and S.3/8082; Schneiders, B.1/3789 and B.3/3790; and Baby B.5/8189. See Appendix 2: Samson’s Serials for EIESS Floatplanes.
C.R. Samson, Fights and Flights, p.305.
AIR 1/1707/204/123/68. Operation reports: HMS Ben-my-Chree.
Short S.3/8082 had engine problems which were not repairable on board.
Port Sudan was built between 1905 and 1909 to replace the old harbour at Suakin.
Samson, Fights and Flights, p.311. The ‘SeniorNaval Officer’ was probably Commander L.N. Turton, Royal Indian Marine Ship Northbrook (1907, six 4.7-inch guns).
HMS Fox was an old (1893) Astraea-class 2nd class protected cruiser armed with two 6-inch and eight 4.7-inch guns, she was the flagship of the Red Sea Patrol, Captain William Henry Dudley Boyle (later Admiral of the Fleet, Twelfth Earl of Cork and Orrery). RIMS (Royal Indian Marine Ship) Hardinge (1900, six 4.7-inch guns), and Dufferin (1904, six 4.7-inch guns), were armed transports specially designed and built for the RIM. HMS Perth was an armed boarding steamer (three 4.7-inch guns).

Floatplanes Over The Desert

The Adventures of French & British Naval Airmen Over Sea & Desert Sand 1914-1918

Ian Burns offers readers an unprecedented look into this overlooked chapter of aviation history, where innovation and courage combined to write some of the most extraordinary stories of the Great War.

type: entry-hyperlink id: 1EJeHuh3tdjZWvFZosKTDm is available in paperback and ebook from Amazon.

Why this Gallipoli diary beats Hamilton’s famous account

Thu, 24 Jul 2025 00:00:00 GMT

Short review: buy it. Everyone else, read on…

Inside GHQ. The Gallipoli Diary of Captain Orlo Williams Rhys Crawley, Stephen Chambers & Ashleigh Brown (Editors) Little Gully Publishing, 2025, 415 pages

On 20th August 1915, Captain John Gillam wrote,

“I wonder how many other people are keeping diaries on Gallipoli besides me. It would be interesting for me to read them, for they must all be told from far different points of view.”[1]

Gillam would have been fascinated to read this latest offering from Little Gully Publishing, the diary of the cipher officer within the Headquarters of the Mediterranean Expeditionary Force, Captain Orlando – Orlo – Williams.

A member of Sir Ian Hamilton’s Staff from very outset, Williams witnessed the workings and interrelationships of those who planned and, later, oversaw the whole campaign. He might not have been a decision-maker but almost every message sent to and from Hamilton’s headquarters passed through his hands. As such, even his casual asides can be revealing.

For instance, on 29th March 1915 Williams tells us that maps of Gallipoli were set out in the middle of the room where the landing sites were being selected. Hamilton told us that the peninsula might have been on the Moon for all the information available to him during the planning phase. Well, Williams gives us, to reference Gillam, a different point of view.

Williams’ diary offers a wealth of similar insights. One constant theme is ammunition. And that is seen from the very beginning. Williams refers to Major Oscar Striedinger’s after action report into the landing at ‘W’ Beach on 25th April 1915. The only other place I have read about that (aside from my own book) is buried within the pages of the 29th Division’s Headquarters war Diary. Striedinger noted how on that very first night barely enough made it to those fighting to maintain the beachhead only a few hundred yards inland. Had the men been where they should have been, things would’ve been very different.

In the popular telling of the story, it’s the Turks who are always short of munitions. But it was the British, as Williams makes clear, who never had enough artillery and ammunition. As early as 18th May, he’s wondering why the campaign was even sanctioned if the resources did not exist to give those tasked with it a decent chance of success. More than historians have been wondering about that ever since.

As matters began to unravel, Williams shares his take on the characters he’s working with. He does not understand Hamilton’s penchant for flowery language (and that must’ve made his job as cipher officer more difficult, leaving aside any literary merits). And states that Hamilton, himself, was weak, never came up with any plan; that it would have been fruitless asking him for suggestions about what to do next.

Williams tells us that Aspinall (later the author of the British Official History) and Braithwaite, Hamilton’s Chief of Staff, were “fundamentally stupid, however good staff officers they may be.”[2] He viewed Guy Dawnay as the leading brain within Hamilton’s team. And was a close friend of the author Compton Mackenzie, who got his job, it seems, purely on Williams’ recommendation.

Of course, these views were his own but they serve to add a different perspective to what we know already. Maurice Hankey, the Cabinet Secretary, visited the peninsula and recorded his own impressions, which we can use to compare and contrast with Williams’ own writing:

“Then there is Major Dawnay… whom I now find disagreeable and too big for his boots. Also Lt. Col Aspinall, who was at Rugby with me. There he was an ass, but he has grown into a very pleasant and capable fellow.”[3]

Perhaps the most polarising character of all was the British war correspondent, Ellis Ashmead-Bartlett. On that, Hamilton and Williams were in agreement, the latter writing, “Ashmead Bartlett is a most offensive man whom everyone hates.”[4]

Williams’ diary is gold. And nuggets are liberally strewn throughout the work. (And I can imagine Williams’ reaction on reading that.) He was a master of the literary eye-roll and the eyes were spinning by the campaign’s conclusion.

The weariness of a staff officer periodically afflicted by bouts of dysentery was, of course, very different to that of a front-line infantryman but Williams gives us an insight in what it meant to experience those times. He summed things up rather well when he wrote from Imbros on 2nd October 1915:

“Perhaps the truest indication of one’s present state of mind is that waking up to a perfectly divine morning, when the sea is a jewel and the wind ambrosial and the mountains tinted so delicately, all one thinks is ‘another bloody day!’”[5]

In Egypt on the night of the final evacuation of Helles, he attended a dance. He didn’t enjoy the experience, his mind troubled by concerns that it would be difficult for the trick to be pulled off a second time without serious loss. His worries, mixed with thoughts that everything had come to nothing, were shared by many.

The book is beautifully produced and edited deftly, with just enough commentary to set Williams’ words in context. I find reading Hamilton’s “Gallipoli Diary” hard work. Reading Williams’ is no work at all.

Congratulations to all concern. Highly recommended.

—Jim Grundy, Gallipoli, 1915 Facebook Page and author of Hell & Confusion: Gallipoli Day by Day

[1] Gillam, John Graham, Major, “Gallipoli Diary,” p. 200, George Allen & Unwin Ltd. (London) 1918.

[2] Crawley, Rhys, Chambers, Stephen & Brown, Ashleigh (Eds.), “Inside GHQ. The Gallipoli Diary of Captain Orlo Williams,” p. 149, Little Gully Publishing (Sydney) 2025.

[3] Hankey quoted in Roskill, Stephen, “Hankey. Man of Secrets. Vol. 1 1877-1918,” p. 201, Collins (London) 1970.

[4] Crawley, Chambers, Brown, “Inside GHQ,” p. 141

[5] Ibid, p. 246.

The silent menace: How submarines nearly strangled the Mediterranean in the Great War

Sun, 08 Jun 2025 00:00:00 GMT

The Mediterranean Sea, traditionally the preserve of great battle fleets and ancient maritime empires, became the unlikely theatre for one of the First World War’s most devastating campaigns. Between 1914 and 1918, German and Austro-Hungarian submarines turned this inland sea into a graveyard for Allied shipping, sinking over 1,700 vessels and bringing Britain to the brink of starvation by 1917.

A target-rich environment

When the Central Powers began their submarine campaign in earnest, they found the Mediterranean ideally suited to their purposes. Unlike the storm-lashed Atlantic, the generally calmer Mediterranean waters offered excellent visibility and operating conditions year-round. More crucially, the sea lanes were heavy with vital traffic: supplies flowing through the Suez Canal, reinforcements bound for Gallipoli and Salonika, and the essential trade between North Africa and France.

The statistics tell a stark story. Our submarine losses visualisation shows that 1,916 vessels fell victim to submarine action in these waters, with 1,727 sent to the bottom—a 90% kill rate that would have made any surface raider envious. The campaign reached its crescendo in 1917, when 805 ships were attacked—representing over 42% of all submarine victims in this theatre for the entire war.

Pioneers of underwater warfare

The submarine offensive began modestly in 1915 with Austrian boats operating from the Adriatic. The first major success came on 27 April 1915, when KuK U-5 sent the French armoured cruiser Léon Gambetta to the bottom with 684 men. But it was the arrival of German boats that transformed sporadic raiding into systematic campaign.

U-21, sailing from Germany on 25 April 1915, announced the new threat dramatically. Despite British naval intelligence intercepting German communications about her mission, the submarine successfully stalked the British pre-dreadnoughts supporting the Gallipoli landings. On 25 May, HMS Triumph became her first victim, followed two days later by HMS Majestic—both sunk while at anchor, a humiliating demonstration of the Royal Navy’s vulnerability.

The Mediterranean U-boat flotilla’s golden age

By 1916, the Mediterranean had become the scene of the most successful submarine operations of the entire war. Between July and August 1916, Kapitänleutnant Lothar von Arnauld de la Perière in U-35 achieved what can only be described as a massacre of merchant shipping. In just 25 days, he sank 54 steamers and sailing vessels totalling 90,150 tons. Combined with his previous cruise, von Arnauld de la Perière accounted for 94 ships and nearly 147,000 tons in just two months—a rate of destruction that modern naval warfare has rarely equalled.

The map shows the scale of German efficiency: more than 50 German U-boats operated in the Mediterranean and Black Sea, supported by at least 18 Austro-Hungarian boats. The diversity of submarine types tells its own story—from the large, long-range boats like U-35 to the smaller coastal UB boats and UC minelayers that could slip through Allied patrol lines.

Fatal divisions

What made the submarine campaign so devastatingly effective was not just German skill, but Allied disorganisation. The Mediterranean was carved up into national zones following the March 1916 Malta Conference—French, Italian, and British sectors that hampered coordinated anti-submarine efforts. Each nation jealously guarded its operational areas while submarines slipped between the boundaries at will.

The Allies compounded their problems by rejecting the convoy system until the late spring of 1917. Instead, they relied on patrolled routes—easily observed and avoided by submarine commanders—and the hopelessly inadequate practice of sailing ships independently. Only the British possessed sufficient small craft for escort duties; the French and Italian navies were unprepared for this new type of warfare.

The turning point

By early 1917, the situation had become desperate. Admiral Jellicoe, commander of the British Grand Fleet, writing in October 1916, warned that submarine losses might force Britain to accept unfavourable peace terms by summer 1917. The resumption of unrestricted submarine warfare by Germany in February 1917 brought this nightmare closer to reality.

April 1917 marked both the peak and the beginning of the end for the submarine offensive. That month saw the destruction of 254,911 tons of shipping by German Mediterranean boats alone, with Austrian submarines adding another 23,037 tons. Yet this very success forced the Allies’ hand. The introduction of convoys in late spring 1917 began to turn the tide, supported by new technologies including primitive sonar and depth charges.

A war of numbers and nations

The human and material cost of the submarine war extended far beyond simple tonnage figures. Attacked were vessels from 18 different nations, from major belligerents to neutral shipping from Norway, Sweden, and even distant Argentina. Mine warfare, accounting for 103 attacks (5.4% of the total), added another dimension of terror for merchant crews who never knew if their next voyage might end in a sudden explosion.

The geographic spread was equally vast. Submarine operations extended from the Black Sea to the Atlantic approaches, creating a web of underwater menace that stretched from Gibraltar to the Dardanelles and Russia.

Legacy of the Silent Service

The Mediterranean submarine campaign of 1914-1918 fundamentally changed naval warfare. It demonstrated that underwater boats could achieve strategic effects impossible for surface raiders, bringing great powers to their knees without winning a single fleet engagement. The lessons learned in these waters—about convoy protection, anti-submarine warfare, and the vulnerability of seaborne supply lines—would prove grimly relevant when the world went to war again just two decades later.

The interactive map of submarine losses allows us to see this campaign in detail, revealing patterns of attack, seasonal variations, and the gradual shift in the underwater war as Allied countermeasures evolved. Each plotted position represents not just a statistical entry, but a moment when the silent menace from beneath challenged the age-old supremacy of surface fleets.

In the end, the submarine campaign in the Mediterranean failed to achieve its ultimate goal of starving Britain into submission. But it came closer than many realised at the time, and in doing so, it wrote one of the most dramatic chapters in the history of naval warfare. The ghost ships that dot the Mediterranean floor remain silent testimony to a conflict that transformed not just how wars are fought at sea, but how nations think about their maritime lifelines in an age of global trade.

Explore submarine warfare in the Mediterranean at subs.littlegully.com.

References

Beesly, Patrick. Room 40: British naval intelligence 1914-18. London: Hamilton, 1982.
Halpern, Paul G. The Battle of the Otranto Straits: controlling the gateway to the Adriatic in World War I. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2004.
Halpern, Paul G. The naval war in the Mediterranean, 1914-1918. Annapolis, Md.: Naval Institute Press, 1987.
Imperial War Museums. ‘The U-boat campaign that almost broke Britain.’ Accessed June 2025. https://www.iwm.org.uk/history/the-u-boat-campaign-that-almost-broke-britain
Jellicoe, John Rushworth Jellicoe, Earl, 1859-1935. The submarine peril: the Admiralty policy in 1917. London: Cassell and Company, 1934.
Little Gully Publishing submarine losses database, compiled from multiple archival and published sources. Accessed via interactive map at https://subs.littlegully.com/
Lowery, Michael. Submarine losses database and research spreadsheet.
The U-boat Wars 1939-1945 (Kriegsmarine) and 1914-1918 (Kaiserliche Marine). Accessed June 2025. https://uboat.net/
UK Hydrographic Office Chart Y66: Mediterranean patrol zones 1917.
Wilson, Michael and Paul Kemp. Mediterranean submarines: submarine warfare in World War One. Manchester: Crecy Publishing, 1998.

Best Gallipoli books from a Turkish perspective

Fri, 25 Apr 2025 00:00:00 GMT

The Gallipoli Campaign remains one of the most studied military engagements of the First World War, yet much of the English-language literature has focused on the British and Anzac experience. Understanding both sides of this pivotal campaign is essential.

In this first instalment of our Gallipoli reading series, Little Gully recommends five essential works that give us the Ottoman view—from a firsthand account to comprehensive military analyses that challenge traditional narratives of the campaign.

Gallipoli 1915: Bloody Ridge (Lone Pine) Diary of Lt Mehmed Fasih

Author: Second-Lieutenant Mehmet Fasih (General Mehmet Fasih Kayabalı) Editor & Translator: Hasan Basri Danışman Publisher: Denizler Kitabevi

First published in 1997 and translated into English in 2003, Lieutenant Fasih’s diary stands as one of the few known Turkish personal accounts from the Gallipoli Campaign.

It offers a vivid and genuine insight into the experiences of a young Ottoman Turkish officer, giving a rare and honest look at daily life in the trenches at Anzac, particularly during the later stages of the campaign.

Buy from Amazon:

Paperback

Gallipoli: The Ottoman Campaign

Author: Edward J. Erickson Publisher: Pen and Sword

Authored by retired U.S. Army Colonel Edward Erickson, best known for his work on late Ottoman Turkish military history, Gallipoli: The Ottoman Campaign is a soldier’s critique of the Gallipoli Campaign from the Turkish perspective.

Using Turkish primary sources, including war diaries and unit histories, Erickson, with a strong understanding of the Ottoman Army, produces an easy-to-read operational history based on rare material.

Buy from Amazon:

Defending Gallipoli: The Turkish Story

Author: Harvey Broadbent Publisher: Melbourne University Press

Broadbent’s work provides a comprehensive operational narrative of the Gallipoli Campaign from the Turkish viewpoint, using Turkish official history volumes and various primary sources that are not easily accessible.

The book is particularly valuable for shedding light on lesser-known, low-ranking individuals who were involved in key moments but remain largely unrecognised, even within the Turkish audience.

Buy from Amazon:

The Defence of the Dardanelles: From Bombards to Battleships

Author: Michael Forrest Publisher: Pen and Sword

Michael Forrest presents a detailed account of the naval phase of the Dardanelles Campaign, shifting the focus away from the land battles to explore the key reasons behind the failure of the Allied fleet.

The book offers a wealth of information on the tactics and technical capabilities of the Turkish forces in the defence of the Dardanelles Strait, with particular emphasis on the artillery, supported by numerous contemporary photographs from the battlefield.

Buy from Amazon:

The Ottoman Defence against the Anzac Landing

Author: Mesut Uyar Publisher: Big Sky Publishing

Mesut Uyar, a leading Turkish military historian and retired Army colonel, provides a detailed yet accessible operational narrative of the Anzac landing, told from the perspective of the Ottoman defenders.

While the book focuses on the events of a single day, 25 April 1915, it also offers valuable context on the structure and condition of the Ottoman Army in the lead-up to the war.

Uyar combines expert analysis with rare visual and archival material from the Turkish side to present a nuanced picture of the first and fateful day of the campaign.

Buy from Amazon:

Credit

Our thanks to Emre Özmen for his recommendations.

Disclosure

This post contains affiliate links, which means we may earn a small commission if you purchase through these links—but at no extra cost to you.

‘At Gallipoli’—a Sydneysider’s story

Sat, 19 Apr 2025 00:00:00 GMT

This is written in the trenches. It is Sunday [23 May 1915], and we have been here one month to-day; but first let me tell you how we got here… When we had almost given up hope, before we could scarcely think of it, we had left Egypt, and were anchored in a quiet bay in the beautiful island of Lemnos. It was fine to go ashore there and march past the fresh green fields, or skirmish over the hills knee-deep in flowers. Yet we were always speculating as to when we would be leaving for more turbulent fields. “To-morrow,” someone would say. “Oh! You got it straight from the colonel’s horse, I suppose.” And of course we had bets on it. Some of them will never be paid or collected now.

Then one Saturday came when there seemed no doubt about it being to-morrow. We were issued three days’ rations — “Iron Rations” fitly, not Jocularly, the military call them — and told what was expected of us next day. At noon exactly we dropped out of the harbor, past troopships and warships, and steamed along the coast. All that hushed afternoon we kept on. We still joked and laughed; but I think we were all thinking and wondering about to-morrow. Our anchor dropped at dusk in a little inlet. Other ships were already there, and others were still coming in. I do not know what time we left, because I was asleep; but when we were awakened at three o’clock next morning we were steaming along in the dark very slowly. Someone said breakfast was ready, so we rushed below. Everyone was making the same noise as usual. “I’ll bet,” said Bill, “to-morrow morning Mrs. Jones’ll lean over the gate with her broom in her hand and say: ‘Well, Mrs. Smith, did you see where the Australians have been in action, fighting them Turks. I wonder how your Willie is? The papers said they made a wild charge.’ ” And Bill was in the wild charge; but he will never see Mrs. Jones leaning over the gate next door again. “I say, Bill,” said Dave, “this is like one of those picnics where you take your own tucker; you know, like that one you took the Bulgarian rock and ginger nut to.” “That’s right, Dave. Only there are no girls here, and I never went to a three days picnic before, and I think there’ll be Turkish delight at this one instead of Bulgarian rock.”

An officer came down before we had finished, and told us that we were not allowed on deck before the word came. So we stayed down there at the mess-tables, with our equipment and rifles ready, waiting and wondering. The ports were all closed, and the air soon got stifling; but we tried to be as cheerful as ever. Bill and Dave still kept on with their schoolboy reminiscences. I was going to say “never-ending reminiscences,” but they are ended now. And ’En commenced a novel. If he did bring it with him he will never read the finish of it. One morning last week, just after he had received a letter from his girl in Australia, a shell burst over him. Two romances ended in that moment. Another lad was reading his Bible. I do not know which book gave the most comfort, and I cannot ask now. Sometimes we looked in one another’s eyes. There was no fear in them; but the faces were very tense and set.

A dull sound came down to us there on that dim, stuffy deck. Most of us said it was the warships firing their guns, and a few said it was some playful private letting his rifle butt drop on the deck. But the sounds still came to us — too long for anyone there that morning to want to fool us. Who could stay down there much longer? On various pretexts, one by one, we slipped up on deck to see what was doing.

I found that we had drawn quite close in shore. Day was coming over the hills in front of us. There was just enough light to make out the various ridges. Shells from the warships were bursting in puffs of flame almost on the water’s edge, and right up to the very furthest hills. The sea already was a-bustle with long tows of ship’s boats and pontoons making for the shore with their cargoes of men. From the land there came a sharp rattle of rifle fire. The Third Brigade had already landed, and were now driving the Turks over the hills. We learned afterwards that they had disembarked at two o’clock that morning, and taking the enemy by surprise soon had a footing on the beach. The Turks resisted; but with cries of “Impshi” and “Yallah” our men drove them back, and were soon lined along the first ridge. The two strange words are not new oaths that we have picked up, but are just two innocent Arabic words that we learned in Egypt when dealing with the natives. “Impshi means “Begone,” and “Yallah” means “Get out of my way.”

It was getting lighter now, but the mist still lay in the hollows. We could see the steep, sandy hills — sugar-loaf in shape, they seemed from the sea, covered partly with scrub — which we expected soon to be climbing. Everything seemed to be working in accordance with the secret plans and orders.

Then, while we were watching the great observation balloon — golden in the first of the sun — and the long tow of boats going off and returning, a flame flashed from a bluff rising out of the sea. A shell went screaming towards a cluster of boats making for the shore. How we watched it! It fell short. That roused our ships again. Their broadsides and big guns spoke, but the fort went on defiantly firing. Not for two days was it silenced. Even now it is still occupied, though it has been bombarded several times since. Its guns would fire from the crest of the hill, and sometimes from the foot, apparently through tunnels, as nothing could have remained intact near the surface where one of our shells had burst.

The stately Queen Elizabeth came steaming past, trim and cleared for action. Not a man was to be seen on her decks. She manoeuvred, and her great voice spoke her anger as though she were prompted by no other mind than that of England affronted.

Then it was discovered that we were up on deck, and we were ordered below. While we were waiting Ginger struck up a tune on his mouth organ. The whole deck would have been singing with him had not an officer’s sergeant come along. “I’m going right there, I’ve got my fare.” The chorus had already started. “Now then, stop this. Wasn’t the order for absolute silence.” “Boo,” we said, “are you afraid of the Turks hearing us.” “Put that thing away and don’t argue,” he said aloofly. We had something to talk about when he passed on. Some of us could not resist going up on deck again to bring back breathless reports of affairs.

Then everyone was marshalled below and the roll was called. I could not help noticing the firm, clear voice in which the names were answered; and yet I knew that all of us were wondering when we would answer it again. In silence (an enforced one) we filed up into the open air and down the gangway on to the pontoons. We dropped down anywhere, and watched the others stumbling in, making a few jocular remarks.

Everyone was not off yet when we heard a dull whirr passing overhead, and a great shell splashed into the sea not far away. Another and another came, making the transports up anchor and put out to sea with us towing alongside. We were cast off at last, and making a zig-zag course to avoid the shells, made for the shore. We had been ordered to keep our heads below the gunwale, but still I think most of us were standing up before the end of the journey. The pontoon grounded, and we at once waded waist deep in the water.

Wounded men were already on the beach, and as we passed further along we caught sight of a few tragic, still figures lying on the shingle. One bluejacket, who had assisted in the landing, was lying half lapped by the waves of his old love — the sea.

We passed along still, till we came to the end of a deep, narrow gorge. Headquarters had been fixed here, and we drew up for further orders. We must have been the reinforcements, as we waited for most of the afternoon. The sound of rifles on the ridge above was steady now, scarcely even diminishing. Presently, above it, we heard that whirr again, and shrapnel shells began to burst overhead. They were terrifying things at first, but gradually we became used to them, as just there they did not seem to do much harm. One fellow was hit close by me. The bullet slipped down his back, scarcely breaking his skin. You would have thought that he was safe for that day, anyway, yet he was one of those who did not come back a few hours later.

At last the order came, and we moved off down the beach, crowded now with the waiting wounded. Some were smiling and smoking, some had agony in their faces, and some there were whose faces I could not see. “Shall we be like this, soon,” we thought. Over the first rise from the sea we went into the hell of shrapnel. Men started to fall amongst us now. We halted under cover of a dry watercourse, and there we left our packs. Up through the valley we went again, men still falling, and bullets whistling past. Our captain told us we had to attack the next hill. We rushed up that; but we could see none of the enemy, though their bullets were there to remind us of them. Down the next steep slope we slipped and fell till we reached a trickle of muddy water. For a couple of hundred yards we splashed through this, and then dashed up the next slope. Coming down this we met more wounded men being helped and carried along. Some of them urged us on, though their silent wounds were enough for that. “Give it to them for us, boys,” one of them said, “They can’t fight like us. It’s only their shrapnel. Wait till we get our artillery up.”

We were not together now. Pushing through the undergrowth, and rushing down those slopes with paths leading everywhere, we had become parted. Our officers could not keep touch with one another. Yet somehow or other, quite out of breath, parted from our sections and companies, we reached the next summit. It was not long before we were alongside our comrades. An officer whom I had never seen before came over to us as we panted just beneath the crest. What made me look at him was that he had a walking stick. Certainly he had a very warlike revolver in one hand, but the walking stick seemed out of place. ‘Who are you,” he asked. We told him. “Well, just over the ridge the enemy are entrenched. Fix your bayonets and give a good yell and over after them.” We did with a will; but there were no Turks in sight, though their bullets screamed past us. I do not know how far we ran, but we were quite exhausted when we threw ourselves down under cover of a little dip in the ground.

Orders were given to fire; but we could see nothing, though we could hear a machine gun spitting its lead out at us. I heard a man moaning. A sniper had got him. Dave was near me and came up alongside. “What do you think of being under fire? Why, I thought I’d be scared, and I’m not at all. I wish I could see something to shoot at, though.”

We stayed there about half an hour. An order came to fall back, and still under fire we retired a few hundred yards. It was growing dark now, but the bullets were still going over. The shrapnel had ceased. We lay watching until it was night, and started to entrench. In a few hours a small moon came up, and with it small detachments of the enemy sent out to annoy us, as they did not attack in earnest. We let them see by a few volleys every now and then that we were on the watch. We could hear them on the next ridge calling to one another and blowing whistles and bugles; but it only served to keep us awake. Few had any sleep that night, so perhaps they attained their purpose.

Reinforcements came up for the enemy all next morning. We could see them coming over the further hills, and about noon they opened a steady, continuous rifle and machine gun fire. But by now our trenches afforded good cover, and we were looking forward to a rest. Then, just as their machine gun got our exact range, and its bullets were singing overhead and making little spurts of dust on our parapet, the order passed along to advance. “Whose order is it?” we asked one another and hopped over. Down the slope we went, men dropping every yard; yet, as before, we could see few of the enemy. Their snipers, concealed in the bushes, fired at us as we rushed past. For almost five hundred yards we went, and tried to establish a position; but it was no good. In about an hour’s time we came straggling back, just enough breath left to drop into the trenches. Many never came back. Bill was one of them. “I’ll tell you what, mate,” he used to say, “if this war keeps on much longer, somebody’ll be getting hurt.”

Scarcely were we in than an order came for men of our battalion to charge a ridge running at right angles to our trenches. The enemy had impeded the previous advance from this ridge. It seemed madness, with night coming on and all, but there was no help for it, so out we went again. I remember dimly passing some of our men lying very still as we rushed down the gorge again. The shrapnel started once more, bursting just a few feet overhead, and men started to fall or limp back again.

Like the previous move, there was no organisation whatever. Officers had no orders, and did not know what was expected of them. We reached the top of the ridge all right, in little bunches gathered here and there. Of course we made the best of it, and tried to give them as heavy a fire as they gave us. It was no good; we had to come back, bringing what wounded we could. We stumbled into the first trench we came across, and lay there, too exhausted to move further. Even now, none of us knew much about it. All we know is that we got over the top of the ridge, and were met with a heavy fire from rifles and machine guns, and that we could see nothing of the enemy.

We now feared a counter attack by the enemy, and what officers were near us tried to get some control over the men. Do not think that we were at all in a panic; but we were disorganised. Of ten men on either side of me I knew only one. A representative of every battalion was there. Now to get men used to commands of an officer whom they do not know, and at a time like this, is a difficult thing; but it was done. When the Turks did come they received a well controlled fire. They soon had enough of it, and beyond keeping us awake all night, their cries and pretended attacks did no damage.

The next morning the warships opened fire with their big guns. Day had not yet come; but we were standing to arms. While we were watching, a great mountain across the peninsula lit up with one great flash, and a shell went roaring overhead out to sea. It was somewhere near half a minute before we heard the report of the gun. Several times the mountain spoke, and then was silent.

Next day, except for a few feints, passed quietly; but that night they made a determined attack. We now knew one another better; but as it turned out, in some cases not well enough. There were spies throughout the whole line. A message would come down, passed from man to man, not to fire as the Ghurkas were making a charge in the centre. It was not for several weeks that we found that there were no Ghurkas with us at all. Numerous orders were passed down for the artillery to cease fire, as part of the line was advancing. And one night an order came down for us to number — a very exact way of getting the strength of a position. I tell you each man began to suspect his neigbor of being a spy. Our nerves got jumpy. A man who had lost his way stumbling about in the rear of the trenches had a very good chance of stopping a bullet. We were afraid to obey bona fide orders, and much delay was caused in getting them confirmed.

Well, this night we were ready for them. We withheld our fire though they came on in great numbers, and with a terrible clamor of cries and bugle calls. They came on still; but we waited till they were fifteen yards off. “Gibit backsheesh,” we cried, and let go at them then. They soon had enough, and left for other parts. Yet they must have taken a bugle or two with them, for they kept us awake all night again. We had had no sleep for three nights now, and had been either fighting, digging or watching the whole of the time. Moreover, we had not our greatcoats with us, nor any warm clothes, our packs having been cast off that first day. It was too cold to sleep. We just dropped off into a sort of stupor at times, standing up — anyway and anywhere at all. It is a hard job to rouse your mate from this unconsciousness when the “Stand to arms” order is given. You can turn him over, pinch him, punch him, tell him that the Turks are charging, and all he will do is to look at you with wide open, unseeing eyes. He will get upon his feet still in the same state, and if left alone, his head will fall downwards with a jerk.

It grew quieter after those first three days; but with the cold nights, we could not get much sleep. Sometimes we snatched an hour during the day time. One thing we were very thankful for — there was always a good supply of food. Water was scanty at first. I remember how hard it was to have to pass a tin down for “Machine gun only.”

We stayed in those trenches seven days, and then we were relieved and trooped down to the beach for a rest. In no time we were splashing about, washing off the dust of the trenches. Then we thought we would look for our belongings. As we passed over the paths of the hills and valleys, we saw clothing of all sorts, letters, photographs, writing material and equipment scattered everywhere, trodden in the mud or hanging on the thorn bushes. “Are all our things like this, too,” we wondered. We found the gully where we had left them. It was just the same. You would have thought some defeated army had fled by in full retreat, shedding everything as they went, and the victors had taken just what they fancied and trodden the rest underfoot. Out of my pack I have a great coat left, and that has someone else’s name on it. I have nothing else. That is why this is written on soiled scraps of paper, with a borrowed pencil. “Ah, well, never mind!” as old Bill would have said: “Someone pinched all my things; but he must have wanted them, or he wouldn’t have taken them.” “I don’t mind losing everything,” said Dave. “What I don't like to think about is us training for all that time to carry that pack, and then as soon as we have our first scrap, getting rid of it.”

Yet, after six months or so in the army, it is delightful to know you have nothing worth stealing. We sleep in everything we have now, that is, when we do sleep.

We got back to the beach after picking up an odd pair of socks or so, and with the dusk, lay down for the long waited sleep. I was just slipping away from it all when I heard a voice saying: “Fall in everyone. Hurry up.” There was no help for it. In a few minutes we were hurrying up the dark valleys towards where the rifle fire had been very insistent all that afternoon. An English regiment had relieved some of the Australians here yesterday, and it seemed they were now being hard pressed. It was very dark, and I think our guide must have lost the way, as we were climbing up and slipping down, dragging shrubs and roots with us for half the night. At last we saw the dark summit just above us, and could hear the bullets whistling over. We were told to sit there and wait for orders. None could have come, as it was bright day when we awoke.

Next day the Tommies came out of those trenches, and we took their places. There we have been ever since. An attack is always being expected. At least, we are always in readiness. About three times a week they do come on; but not for long. We scarcely heed shrapnel now; we have become so used to it.

Regularly every morning and evening they send shell after shell over. Sometimes someone is hit, but more often not. Every second day or so they let us see what an exploding nine inch shell is like. We have not lost many with these; but they bore a large hole in the earth, and make a great noise. The air for about a minute afterwards is raining clods and bits of shell. Day and night it is never still. There is always some noise — rifles or machine guns, or one of our own big guns. Sometimes there is a lot of noise — every rifle and machine gun in the line firing. Yet it is surprising how a man’s voice can be heard above it all.

Our trenches are a maze of deep, narrow ways running in all directions. You can easily become lost in them, though signposts are at almost every turn.

Looking out over the parapet you can almost forget that there is a war. The enemy's trenches are just over there, fifty yards away; but they show no hostile thing; and just outside our own, flowers, strange to my Australian eyes, are nodding and swaying as the bees go through them. But a little further away, partly hidden by shrubs and flowers, lie more of those quiet forms: and as I raise my head to see what they once were — friend or foe — a bullet goes whistling past. It does not take many of them to make you remember that it is war.

There are still more hills to take, but we cannot help feeling proud of ourselves when we look back over the deep valleys between us and the sea. Like the steep National Park country in New South Wales it is, only there are no great trees here. We took it all that first day. We find it exhaustive walking up the paths carrying provisions and water now, but we scarcely felt it as we rushed on that Sunday. “This is a rotten place for a battle,” says Dave. “Why, I could have picked any amount of better places, where there would not have been half so much work.” And from what can be heard, another place was selected, not very far away; but easier country. A mistake was made in the dark, and we landed a mile to the north of the selected spot. We can see the place from where we now are; also the barbed wire just showing above the water, and the mined beach. That fort on the bluff at the southern end also has a very good view of the whole length of it.

We took it all the first day, and we are still holding it. But on the sides of the valleys little patches of new earth can be seen. Only a few inches of moss and mould are separating them. Each has a piece of broken packing case stuck upright at one end of it. The rain has already made the pencil writing on them run, and Time is coloring the wood. But perhaps elsewhere the names are written in letters that no rain will wash out, and on so durable a substance that Time will not touch it as he passes by.

The Turks do their best still to make life interesting for us by sending a few shells over every day, and every week or so blowing up a sap. I am sure that they must think with us that the campaign is getting monotonous. Still, we have ourselves to blame, as we gave them such a knocking about the last time they attacked us that they may have had quite enough excitement for some time. This is our eleventh Sunday [possibly 4 July 1915], and we are still holding the same position as we held the first night, so they must have long ago come to the conclusion that we are going to stay as long as we like.

Eleven weeks! Well, I suppose that we have helped to make some history in that time. I have seen aeroplanes in flight, battleships in action, shells bursting on forts, a ship torpedoed by a submarine. I have landed on a hostile beach, have been sniped at by evil disposed Turks, have been in a few scraps, and now am thinking what to say next. Let me tell you a story.

One moonlight night an observer, standing at the cross roads in the valleys, would have seen a quiet form on a stretcher carried by two men. He would not have needed to have been very observant to have noticed that the swing of the stretcher was very irregular, and were he curious enough to have watched the two but a very little way, he would have seen them place down their burden and take a long draught from a curiously-wrought vessel. He could have seen them do this several times before they reached the next turn in the road. Had he been so minded as to have stayed there an hour, he would have seen some ten or twelve of these parties go by, some swaying a little more, perhaps, and some stopping oftener and longer than others. This was the cause. That day a cask had floated ashore. Now there are a lot of casks here; but they all contain water. No one could remember one coming ashore before, and this one seemed different to the others, yet familiar for all that. Who would not assist such a cask to a firm footing on dry land? Somebody came along with an axe and there gushed out a juice. No one stopped to give it a name, but rushed off for the nearest and biggest bucket, and soon the hills were gurgling and ringing with delight. It was Burgundy. No one knows where it came from, or how it came to be floating there: and no one worried much about that, either. I did not see it come ashore, and I was not one of those mysterious stretcher parties; yet, whether I was in a position to tell whether it was good Burgundy or not, you must decide for yourselves, as the censor reads this letter.

Do you know that this is quite a poetic place? Why, at the present time l am living in Thrace, and I see the sunset behind Samothrace each evening. The ruins of Troy are not very far away. Wouldn't it be awful if I were away from home as long as Ulysses! Just above my head a bay tree grows. The bullets have snipped away some of the leaves, but it is still green. So all these things may explain the verses with this letter.

THE QUEST OF LOVE.

My sleeping comrades never stirred, For there had been no call to arms. Still round the heights the battle rang; Yet not that woke me, but a bird That somewhere sang.

To hear him sing made me forget Why I lay there and all such things. Straightway I felt the wind that blew; I saw the tattered clouds that let The stars shine through.

A flame filled all the sky, and then, As swift, died out. But I had seen The low black bushes on the hill, The men that stirred in pain, the men That lay so still.

At last the gun crashed. Then for long The night was vivid with the light, And shaken with the roar of guns; And yet I heard a bird’s clear song Ring through it once.

I saw her moving on the slope. At each form fearfully she knelt, And looked intently on the face, Then on she went again, and hope Made swift her pace.

I saw her eyes as she came near. Great Love, in that strange quivering light, Burned through them with a steady flame. Her voice was low, yet I could hear Her call his name.

She from her fears got no relief, And yet her face was dry of tears. But when she kneeled beside the dead, For pity of some others grief, She bowed her head.

She paused and eyed each sleeping one. Her lips were murmuring a prayer, Weaved round that name more audible. Was he her lover or her son, I could not tell.

And with that glance she passed us by. I turned, and watched her climb the hill. In one white burst of flame she shone. Sharp out she stood against the sky, And she was gone.

The dark was drizzling when we woke And stood to arms. “Was it a dream”? And still that question rang and rang. Nearby a bird, as daylight broke, For answer sang.

Harley Matthews, 4th Battalion AIF

This account by Harley Matthews, written ‘in the trenches’ at Gallipoli, featured in the October 1915 edition of Sydney monthly magazine, The Lone Hand. The writer was a private in the 4th Battalion of the 1st Australian Infantry Brigade. His literary ambition was as a poet (in 1912, he published a book of verse titled Under the open sky) but this account of the landing at Anzac is a fine piece of descriptive prose.

Harley Matthews was born in 1889, and raised in Fairfield, then a rural town 30 km southwest of Sydney. After completing his education at Sydney High School, Matthews became an articled law clerk and did his five years’ term, but instead of applying for admission as a solicitor, he entered public service with the Water Conservation and Irrigation Commission.

At the beginning of the war, in August 1914, Matthews joined the Australian Imperial Force as Private 1056, being assigned to ‘B’ Company of the 4th Infantry Battalion as a signaller.

On the morning of 25 April 1915, his battalion landed at Anzac Cove, but they were kept in reserve until late that afternoon, when they moved from Shrapnel Gully to 400 Plateau. The 4th Battalion dug in along Bolton’s Ridge, the southern spur that runs off 400 Plateau and Lone Pine. The next day, an ill-conceived and ill-fated advance was made across Lone Pine, which Matthews describes. The battalion suffered badly and the men had to retire to their starting positions. Later they manned frontline trenches on Second Ridge.

Matthews’ account of the landing and subsequent days was probably written in two installments. The first section was likely drafted on Sunday 23 May 1915, exactly four weeks after the April 25th landing (“It is Sunday, and we have been here one month to-day.”) The account was probably finished around Sunday 4 July 1915 (“the eleventh Sunday”), when Matthews notes that “eleven weeks” have now passed.

Also included below is a letter dated 10 July from Matthews to Bertram Stevens, the editor of The Lone Hand. Matthews forwarded Stevens his poem ‘Quest of Love’ with another valuable first-person sketch of Anzac.

Matthews was a good soldier as well as a perceptive observer, for he gained a ‘special mention’ in divisional orders for ‘acts of conspicuous gallantry or valuable service’ between 6 May and 28 June. However, his time at Gallipoli was almost up. On 3 August 1915, a Turkish bomb splinter pierced his right calf, and Matthews was evacuated to Alexandria, where he underwent an operation on 10 August. The wound caused his calf muscles to contract, forcing him to walk with a limp. Matthews was transferred to hospital in England and the recommendation was ‘home service’ until the end of the war.

After being discharged from hospital, Matthews had a stint with the Red Cross Stores in France, then was assigned to the finance section of the Australian Army Pay Corps at AIF Headquarters, London. During this period, he sat for sculptor Jacob Epstein as the model for a steel-helmeted bust. That sculpture may be ‘The Tin Hat’ (Art.IWM ART 2756), a bronze in the collections of the Imperial War Museum. According to his personnel record, his sister thought that he had been accepted, despite the ‘slight limp’, for the ‘Flying Corps.’ Perhaps he had tried to gain admission to the air service.

Matthews returned to Australia in September 1917 for discharge as medically unfit.

He is next found as an assistant legal clerk at No. 4 Australian General Hospital, in the Sydney suburb of Randwick. Matthews contributed a short story to the hospital’s souvenir book Remnants from Randwick.

In 1918, Matthews produced Saints and Soldiers, a collection of mostly humorous prose sketches and stories, which was favourably reviewed by The Sydney Mail. The illustrated weekly reckoned his stories gave ‘a better idea of the average Australian soldier, the best and worst of him, than many more pretentious descriptions.’

After the war, Matthews worked as a journalist for a few years, before abandoning both law and journalism to become a wine-grower. He continued to write although his output was limited. Four Gallipoli poems feature in a book of verse published in 1938 as Vintage. (A popular edition was published in 1940 as Vintage of war: poems of Anzac, 1914–18.)

During WWII, Matthews was suspected of being a member of the fascist Australia First Movement. The patriot and Gallipoli Anzac was wrongfully arrested as a seditionist. He spent six months in an internment camp before the error was righted.

After the war, his marriage having been dissolved, Matthews lived alone on a mixed farm where he planted a small vineyard, entertained his bohemian guests, and continued to read and write poetry. Harley Matthews — writer, soldier and vigneron — died 9 August 1968. Interested readers should search Trove (trove.nla.gov.au) for more of his writing.

‘Shooting the breakers through a hail of shrapnel’

Gallipoli Peninsula, 10/7/1915

Dear Mr Stephens,

I know that the sight of indelible pencil makes you in your official capacity very annoyed; still this is written to the man. And anyhow I have nothing else to write with.

There is not much I am afraid I can tell you about our position here, even were the censorships entirely withdrawn. It is really surprising how little we know of what happens anywhere else except before our own eyes. Of course when we go down the valley for water there is always someone with a startling rumour. I would not be at all surprised if the rumours that must be now floating around Sydney about the duration of the war and what some high authority predicted concerning it, about a battle in the North Sea, and other things, originated from that water cask.

The bank where we sit might well be one of Sydney’s lounge bars, except that the liquid dispensed is weaker and no bar-maid uses such language as the guard does. But the stories that buzz around it are just as startling, just as interesting, and just as unreliable. Did you know that the Kaiser is carrying on with a woman? And the Crown Prince gets drunk too.

Water can breed arguments as well. There are always about 20 fellows arguing whether it was a German or British aeroplane that flew over this morning. Half saw red rings on the wings and the other half saw just as distinctly the German black crosses. And there is always a group of aerial experts arguing whether it was an aeroplane or a seaplane, a monoplane or a biplane.

The size of the shells that were flying about during the day always raises the hottest discussion. You can argue on whether it was a gun or a howitzer that threw them, whether they were time or percussion shrapnel or plain or high explosive shells when you have given up trying to convince the other fellow about the size. And when he has discomfited you by the information that he knows that they were a new kind of shell only just reached Turkey yesterday, you still have the range and the whereabouts to convince him on.

So you see that though we have no scrimmage lately the Turks still do their best to make life interesting for us. We often have the chance of a swim. The Mediterranean seems to be free from sharks but you never know when a shell is coming over. During our first days a shell was a thrilling performance. The Turks used to keep a lookout for swimming parties and get their artillery and snipers to let go at the beach. I wonder what remedy Pro bono Publico would advocate in his aggrieved letter to the press if the surf bathers at Bondi or Manly had to shoot the breakers through a hail of shrapnel.

I don’t suppose that you have heard much about the Australians since the 19th May. And anyway you can be fairly certain that when the cables have nothing to report there is nothing doing. From what I can see that cable is just as ready to talk as the fellows round the water or other cask. And it magnifies some things and makes others very small, just as much as a Hawkesbury fisherman can when he compares his own catch with the other fellow’s.

The Turk as a soldier is not such a slouch as you might think after the Suez Canal foolishness. The troops sent here for their last big attack were a fine, well equipped lot and though badly led showed some courage. But they had no chance and hardly keep us awake of nights now.

They certainly have a country worth fighting for. It is the best place we have seen since we left Australia. Its scrub-clad hills and beaches and its clean blue sea are not so very unlike Australia’s either. Its summer, day and night, is glorious. I hope however that the campaign is over before the Winter as I suspect those valley roads of ours will be very much like small rivers. But I think we can look forward to having to fight it out. I have long ago lost faith in the stories about shortage of munitions and food and coffee etc ending the war. Money might, but I think the bayonet will, all the same.

Would you mind looking at the enclosed. It might be good enough for the Lone Hand, and if you don’t object, the censor shouldn’t.

Hoping a lot of things, one of which is that you are still able to hold a glass to the light, I am yours sincerely,

Harley Matthews.

References

Service record, Harley Matthews, National Archives of Australia, NAA: B2455
‘Autograph letter signed by Harley Matthews, written from the Gallipoli Peninsula, to Bertram Stevens, relating to conditions at the front, 10 July 1915, enclosing two poems’, Mitchell Library, State Library of New South Wales, DLDOC 135
Harley Mathews, ‘At Gallipoli’, The Lone Hand, vol. 4 no. 5 (new series), 1 October 1915
Harley Mathews, ‘The Music of Life’, The Lone Hand, vol. 8 no. 3 (new series), 1 February 1918
Remnants from Randwick / compiled by the Committee for the Patients of the 4th A.G. Hospital (Sydney: Tyrrells, 1919)
Harley Matthews, Vintage (Sydney: P. R. Stephensen, 1938)
‘Australian war literature / Review by Bertram Stevens’, The Sydney Mail, 12 March 1919
J. T. Laird, ‘Matthews, Harley (1889–1968)’, Australian Dictionary of Biography, National Centre of Biography, Australian National University
George Vance, Fairfield: a history of the district (Marrickville, NSW: Southwood Press, 1991)

Gallipoli through journalists’ eyes

Sun, 06 Apr 2025 00:00:00 GMT

The Gallipoli Association recently hosted a Zoom talk by Jim Grundy, author of Hell and Confusion: Gallipoli Day by Day, Vol. 1: Alive With Death (Little Gully, 2024).

In this presentation, Jim explores how contemporary journalists shaped public understanding of the Gallipoli campaign.

https://youtu.be/NMMLCo0ujgo

Key questions explored in the talk:

How were Britain’s wars reported before the Great War?
What relationships existed between politicians, military officers, and newspaper proprietors?
Were journalists “reflecting the truth—or journalism?”
Did media coverage influence the campaign's outcome?

If you’re not a member of the Gallipoli Association, please consider joining. Membership starts from only £20 per year: visit www.gallipoli-association.org for further information.

THE FULL STORY: Journalism at Gallipoli

By Jim Grundy

Whoever originated the phrase that journalism was the first rough draft of history could have been thinking of Gallipoli. After all it was quite literally true for one of the pressmen there: Charles Bean, the man tasked, not only with reporting events as they happened, but compiling material for the Australian official history.

While not forgetting the Napoleonic dictum that it was necessary, “To lie like a bulletin,” the strong influence journalism had in shaping public perceptions of what took place cannot be denied. Indeed, older histories of the campaign state — as fact — that it was the actions of individual journalists that led to the decision to evacuate the peninsula. And not just historians, General Sir Ian Hamilton, the allied commander up to October 1915, maintained ever afterwards that he had not failed militarily but had lost political support because of the actions of Ellis Ashmead-Bartlett and Keith Murdoch.

We'll consider whether Hamilton had a point later. But let's take a step back and consider how the reporting of earlier campaigns revealed attitudes towards the Turks, as well as the relationship between the military, war correspondents and the newspaper proprietors who employed them.

In 1854 William Howard Russell went to the Crimea on behalf of The Times. Operating without censorship, but whose copy would take weeks, if not months, to reach London, he created the blueprint for the modern reporting of conflict. His description of the Battle of Balaclava made a powerful and lasting impression:

“To our inexpressible disgust, we saw the Turks in redoubt No. 2 fly at their approach. They ran in scattered groups across towards redoubt No. 3, and towards Balaklava; but the horse-hoof of the Cossack was too quick for them, and sword and lance were busily plied among the retreating herd. The yells of the pursuers and pursued were plainly audible.”¹

Russell failed to mention that by the time he, and the British Army, turned up on the scene, the Turks had already been holding out for hours against overwhelming odds. He neglected to notice that many of those who had retreated, rather than running away, reformed and played their part in repelling the Russian attack. However, Russell's readership were left in no doubt: the Turks were militarily incompetent — at best. And, adding insult to injury, Robert Gibbs' famous painting of 'The Thin Red Line,' though it depicted the 93^rd Highlanders, failed to show a single Turk. This, despite the fact that there were more Ottomans there than men in red coats.

By the end of Russell's career, in which he also covered the Indian Mutiny/Rebellion, the American Civil and Franco-Prussian wars, the pace of communications had increased dramatically. Russell had been witness to that, too, sailing aboard the steamship Great Eastern when it laid the first trans-Atlantic cable in July 1866 and was present at the opening of the Suez Canal in 1869. Correspondents were then able to get to war zones more quickly and their reports from the most distant shores could be back in London sometimes within hours.

Technology was not the only thing that was changing. Sensation sells and some were happy to meet a growing appetite for graphic depictions of battle and its aftermath. The Daily Telegraph’s Bennet Burleigh² visited the battlefield of Tel-el-Kebir in Egypt in 1882, writing:

“I was by this time in close proximity to the battlefield of Wednesday, and some of the wounded were moaning even then in a pitiful way, having lain two days on the field. Nearer the Tel-el-Kebir camp the number of wounded were less, haying evidently been attended to and taken care of by our people, but the number of dead bodies was infinitely greater. It seemed impossible to take half a dozen steps without stumbling over a corpse. The stench from the battlefield after two days' hot sun was almost unbearable. It was with feelings of the greatest relief that at last I reached camp.”³

Army officers were increasingly employed by newspapers. They lent a professional eye to what they saw, while an indulgent British command was content to grant special leave for them to gather useful intelligence from foreign wars. However, when Captain (later Colonel) Lionel James sent back his copy about the 1895 relief of Chitral, he got this cable back in response:

“Increase the detail of the fighting, give the fullest detail of all disasters.”⁴

Cold facts and the absence of disasters did not sell ‘papers. Reality could be and was expected to be improved upon for public consumption. This journalistic taste for exaggeration might have irritated the Army when things were going well. It had the potential to be a much serious complaint when circumstances were less favourable.

The Second South African or Boer War had more than its fair share of disasters for journalists to feed upon. And, with the introduction of troops from the Dominions, a new dynamic was introduced that not every British commander cared to comprehend.

At Wilmansrust on the night of 12^th June 1901 a column of the 5th Victorian Contingent was ambushed by a Boer Commando, suffering significant casualties in the process. Their commanding officer, Colonel Stuart Beatson blamed the Victorians for the fiasco, describing them as a “fat-arsed, pot-bellied, lazy lot of wasters.”⁵ Noticing an Australian officer recording his comments, Beatson added, “You can add ‘dogs’ too.”⁶

As if that was not enough, when Beatson (pictured, standing behind the King’s right shoulder) saw some of the Australians taking pigs (with permission) from a Boer farm, said, “Yes, that's just about what you men are good for. When the Dutchmen came along the other night you didn't fix bayonets and charge them, but you go for something that can't hit back.”⁷

Failing to appreciate being ranked along with swine, and having just cause to feel that their commanders were every bit as responsible for the disaster, a number of the Victorians were heard to say that they would refuse to serve under Beatson's orders or those of any other British officer. Unfortunately for them, their comments were reported and three of their number were arrested and subsequently sentenced to death for mutiny. The resulting furore in Australia saw the story generate more press coverage than the case of 'Breaker' Morant (though it is far less familiar today, but that's a consequence of its portrayal in a film. That, however, is another story).

Kitchener, who had little time and less use for war correspondents, nevertheless appreciated the impact such affairs could have upon Imperial/Dominion relations and his own conduct of operations. He at first commuted and then quashed the convictions completely; the men went home. Kitchener also noted how differently one of his proteges handled Australian and New Zealand troops, filing that away for future reference, one William Birdwood.

The outbreak of the Russo-Japanese War in 1904 saw new technology raise further fears within military circles. Lionel James, who must have taken his earlier advice to heart, added innovation to his repertoire. After hiring a ship, one equipped with wireless, he was able to relay almost real time reports back to London about the progress of events. It was not just the speed of communication which the combatants were concerned about — it was not subject to any form of censorship on their part. Aside from the potential security risks this posed, there was a real probability that news of what had happened would be available publicly long before the commanders on the spot had been able to put together a version of events that showed them in the most favourable light, especially to their own superiors. Which military could tolerate that?

But, while some saw only threats, others eventually tumbled to the opportunities available by using the media for their own purposes. Ellis Ashmead-Bartlett was one of war correspondents covering the campaign.

“When only a remnant of the original band remained, the Japanese Government suddenly awoke to the fact that they were deliberately failing to make use of this great weapon of free propaganda to advertise their cause — just when they most required the financial assistance of Europe. Then, “As if by stroke of the enchanter’s wand,” the Correspondents found themselves no longer outcasts unwanted and ignored, but honoured guests whose presence in the field was regarded as essential to the success of the Japanese cause.”⁸

Ashmead-Bartlett was also present during the Balkan Wars. His comments on the performance of the Ottoman military were to make a lasting impact.

“Whole battalions and brigades of ignorant peasants from Anatolia were sent to Constantinople, dressed up in khaki, handed a rifle, some hundreds of rounds of ammunition, kits which they hardly knew how to fit to their backs, counted at the railway station with glee by the authorities, and officially described as “our invincible infantry.”
“Thousands of these men had never had a Mauser rifle in their hands, and had to be shown how to use it under the enemy’s fire. Entire battalions, unused to this new arm, and never having been trained to shoot, would loose off all their ammunition in a short hour, and only hit the ground fifty yards in front of them, inflicting absolutely no damage on the enemy.
“I never saw a single Turkish machine-gun in action, and if they exist I do not know what became of them.”⁹

The accuracy of such reporting was not the principal concern, albeit it for very different reasons, for newspaper proprietors, political leaders or military and naval commanders. And, three days after Bennet Burleigh died, one newspaper felt this represented the end of an era, the “Passing of the War Correspondent” on 20^th June 1914.

“The death of that famous war correspondent, Bennet Burleigh, marks the close of the “war-correspondence period,” which began [with] Dr. William Howard Russell...
“The element of surprise being... vitally important... no general can be expected to look with equanimity, upon a band of war correspondents who may telegraph the movements of his troops to the leading newspapers of the world, where the enemy can read all about them next morning...
“The application of radio-telegraphy... renders it impossible for any Commander-in-chief to run the risk of tolerating war correspondents at the scene of action. Consequently it may be expected that the next war will be fought in the dark as far as the non-combatant public is concerned...
“The facilities of communication and of news transmission have increased so greatly since Dr. Russell went to the Crimea, that the survivors of the battle of the future will be the swift bearers of sure intelligence concerning it.”¹⁰

Eight days later Archduke Franz Ferdinand and his wife, Sophie, were killed in Sarajevo. The biggest 'story' of all was about to unfold. Would the Telegraph's forecast prove accurate?

On 4^th August 1914, as soon as war was declared between France and Germany, the French barred journalists from the war zones. Regular bulletins would be provided to the Press and these would provide the information the newsmen required. Needless to say, this did not go down well.

The pace of events now proved a little too quick for some newspaper proprietors. Lord Northcliffe, the owner of The Times and Daily Mail, who, at different times told his readers that France and Germany was Britain's national enemy, seemed unclear about the limits of his own influence on 5^th August 1914.

“What is this I heard about a British Expeditionary Force for France? It is nonsense. Not a single soldier shall leave this country... I will not support the sending out of this country of a single British soldier... Put that in the leader. Do you hear? Not a single soldier will go with my consent. Say so in the paper to-morrow.”¹¹

Speaking on behalf of the Admiralty and War Office in Parliament on 7^th August 1914, Winston Churchill announced the establishment of the Press Bureau, a central clearing house for war reporting.

“I should like to say there are a great many disconcerting rumours which have been spread about. These rumours arise from the fact that the Censorship of the Press at present is of a very strict kind — (cheers) — from the point of view of saying aye or no to any particular piece of military information. I think, as a consequence of that, newspapers in the absence of facts are rather inclined to fill up their columns with gossip which reaches them from irresponsible quarters along the coast, where a great deal of apprehension in the minds of individuals prevails.
“We are establishing to-day a Press bureau over which Mr. F. E. Smith will preside. From the bureau a stream of trustworthy information will be supplied by both the War Office and the Admiralty. This will be information which can be given to the Press without injury to naval or military interests, and will serve to keep the country properly and truthfully informed from day to day of what can be told and what is fair and reasonable, thus providing as much truth as possible, while excluding the growth of irresponsible information.”¹²

Unsurprisingly, newsmen chafed at the limits placed upon their profession. This did not stop all reporting, and men like Philip Gibbs and Hamilton Fyfe did manage to send reports back from France and Flanders. And the Press Bureau, referred to by some of the 'Suppress Bureau,' was not above adding the odd line to such reports to encourage readers at home to volunteer; too much reassurance could, after all, make men complacent when it came to answering their country's call.

Another measure, on 7^th September 1914, was the appointment of one of the Army's own, Colonel Ernest Swinton, to produce more controlled fare. Writing under the name of Eye Witness, his work was better-informed and more accurate than some were to give him credit for later.

“The growing resemblance of this battle to a siege warfare has already been pointed out. The fact that the late actions of the Russo-Japanese war assumed a similar character was thought by many to have been due to exceptional causes.... Nevertheless, a similar situation has been produced, owing... to the immense power of resistance possessed by an army which is amply equipped with heavy artillery and has sufficient time to fortify itself.”¹³

Unsurprisingly, this cut no ice with the likes of Ellis Ashmead-Bartlett.

“An experiment was tried of having an Official Eye Witness attached to Headquarters, a professional officer, whose duty it was to write charming stories of how our soldiers lived when they were not fighting, of their humanity towards women and children, and to relate those funny anecdotes about armies, which have changed but little since the days of Julius Caesar, Such thin fare only interested the public for a short time, and entirely failed to arouse the nation to a sense of the seriousness of the struggle in which it was engaged.”¹⁴

Though, as Maurice Hankey, the Secretary of the Committee of Imperial Defence, recorded on 20^th October 1914, Swinton was able to look further than the next newspaper headline.

“Ernie Swinton has described the beginning on October 20^th, 1914, when he came to my room at the C.I.D. and spoke of the stalemate on the western front, which he attributed to the combined effects of barbed wire and machine guns. In that account he reminds me of the Holt caterpillar tractor and suggested its adaptation to the elaboration of a military machine and I expect he is right.”¹⁵

Invited to send one official correspondent to accompany their newly-raised force, in Australia Charles Bean was appointed to the position on 26^th September 1914. His brief, as mentioned previously, went beyond providing reports of ongoing events but to gather information with a view to compiling an official history of their doings.

Matters progressed more slowly in New Zealand, the process of appointing someone to the post not beginning until the following February. The man who would become their counterpart to Bean, Malcolm Ross, accompanied the force sent to occupy Samoa. He also saw off his son, L/Cpl Noël Ross, Canterbury Battalion, when he boarded HMNZT Arawa on 14^th October 1914.

“The pater is a funny old bird, isn't he? When he had talked a bit to me about keeping my nut down when it wasn't wanted up, he said he had a lot of writing to do for to-morrow's English mail. Then he shook hands rather hurriedly and went down the gangway and along the wharf without even once looking back. His figure faded into a mist as he got near the end, and I had to take a pull on myself and talk hard to mater, who had not gone ashore.
“She only had about another ten minutes on board, and we talked of everything but war or going away. Dear old mater! She went through my kit seriatim, and gave me advice as to my wardrobe as if I was travelling like a prince. As a matter of fact my wardrobe now consists of about two shirts and four pair of socks. Neither of us felt too cheery, but mater is the bravest little woman in the world, and she kissed me and went down on to the wharf with the cheeriest of smiles on her face. She waited for a while at the barrier and waved.”¹⁶

Ross would reach Egypt in May 1915. By that time Bean was already on the peninsula. But he had made a name for himself long before then, though not quite as he would have wished. On 29^th December 1914 he had expressed concerns about the conduct of some Australians.

“The last week has been one of some anxiety to those who have the good name of Australia at heart. Cairo is one of the great pleasure resorts of the world, and a place where the soldiers in any neighboring camp can always have a reasonably enjoyable time during their hours of leave, provided they exercise the same amount of restraint as the ordinary tourist; but certain scenes have occurred and have become more common during the past few days which go a good way beyond that, and which are already affecting the reputation of Australia in the outside world. It is idle to contend that the Australian is at present making quite the impression which Australians hope he will make either on civilians or upon the great soldiers under whose eyes they come. I was speaking the other day to one of the most distinguished men in the British army. “They are as fine a body physically as I have ever seen,” he said. “But do all Australians drink quite so much?”...
“.... they are losing Australia her good name in the outside world, and those Australians who happen to be living in Cairo or in touch with the world outside the camps have the mortification of looking on while day by day the reputation of Australia slowly vanishes before the actions of a handful of rowdies who do not really represent the country.”¹⁷

Any attempt on his part to explain that his remarks were not a reflection on the entire AIF were unconvincing to some. Eventually, William Hughes, the Australian Prime Minister, made a statement on 21^st January 1915.

“I read with a great deal of concern Mr. Bean's statement as to the conduct of some of our troops in Egypt. It is no doubt a very serious matter, but I should be more concerned if I believed such conduct fairly reflected the code of the Expeditionary Force generally. I don't believe it does for a moment.”¹⁸

But a month later the anger had not dissipated. Writing on 21^st February 1915, Tpr Alexander Morrison, 4^th Australian Light Horse Regiment, said some men still wanted words with Bean.

“One of the boys from the 8^th battalion has just been in our mess room, and he says that a number of the lads from his battalion have gone to Cairo to hunt up the war reporter Bean, who wrote those letters home about the troops, and if they catch him they will duck him in every horse trough in Cairo. They will not stop until he is found.”¹⁹

Even a fellow journalist, a man serving in the ranks, failed to give Bean the benefit of the doubt, L/Cpl William Fry,²⁰ 6th Battalion, AIF, writing on 2^nd March 1915.

“All the officers are up in arms, and scarcely a good word is heard for the correspondent, who in his official capacity, felt obliged to enlighten the people of Australia upon the actions of their Force. Threats of violence to the scribe have been uttered by the more turbulent spirits, but it is the innocent individual who feels most keenly that the injustice is rankling. Some parties are in favor of asking that Captain Bean should sever all connections with the Force, because this unwarrantable course of action has caused the troops to lose confidence in the relator of news.”²¹

Bean may well have been exasperated by the reaction to his article but maintained he had reported nothing more than the truth. However, what he was told on 14^th March 1915 was of far more concern to him.

“Birdwood... has received the answer that “press correspondents are not to leave Cairo at present.” That means that the British Government or War Office is determined to treat me as any other Press Correspondent and of course it is a slight to Australia — though I don't suppose they realise it — that the man the Australian Government chose to send with their force to give some sort of account of it should be treated by the War Office as if they couldn't see any difference between him and the correspondent of any English newspaper.”²²

The explanation of what he interpreted as different treatment according to a correspondent's nationality was actually more prosaic. Bean was answerable to the War Office, to Kitchener. Kitchener treated all journalists in like manner; could not care less where they were from. British correspondents already on their way to the Dardanelles faced no similar barrier, not because of who they were but the identity of who they reported to, to the Admiralty, to Winston Churchill. A former war correspondent himself, Churchill was very keen to see them on the scene of his expected triumph, as Ashmead-Bartlett, one of first two British journalists sent to report on the campaign, later wrote.

“But the Dardanelles Expedition was the conception of an old War Correspondent of renown, and a politician of foresight and experience, Mr. Winston Churchill, He made his name on the north-west frontier of India, in the Sudan, and finally in South Africa; and no one was in a better position to appreciate the value of the Press as a weapon of propaganda... He possessed the imagination and the experience to realise that an expedition of this magnitude could only be carried through with public opinion behind it. Therefore, when it was proposed that the Press should be represented at the Dardanelles, he whole-heartedly took up the cudgels on its behalf. The “Newspaper Proprietors’ Association,” which carried on all negotiations with the authorities, was informed that two Correspondents would be allowed to accompany the Expedition, one to represent the London Newspapers, and the other from Reuter’s Agency for the Provincial Press.”²³

Bean need not have feared. He met General Sir Ian Hamilton, the Commander-in-Chief of the Mediterranean Expeditionary Force, at the end of March.

“I saw him immediately after breakfast. He told me that he believed a pressman could do the necessary press work in war better than an “Eyewitness”. There are points a pressman would notice of great interest to the public and perfectly harmless which eyewitness is apt to miss. He thought that as we had this Eastern show in English hands the Government would let the people have a little more information — or rather would give the journalist a little more scope. In France as one consequence of that “damnable question”, he said, “I don't mean a system of compulsory service like you have” — they can simply tell the people to go hang — they don't trouble whether they need news or not.”²⁴

Hamilton, who had spoken of the hypocrisy of some of his fellow officers in their attitude towards journalists, understood that they were there to be used. He had been placed in charge of a secondary theatre of operations and he was quite prepared to make use of the Press if he felt it necessary to get the kind of political backing that positive newspaper coverage could deliver for him. English, Australian, Peruvian, it was all the same to him.

While all this had been going, the Anglo-French fleet had been failing to force a passage through the Dardanelles. What journalists wrote about the attempt being made without support from a military force, about the Turks and what foreign correspondents actually present at the Dardanelles, is very revealing.

Henry Stead, a British journalist, wrote on 11^th March 1915 about the need for an army to occupy both shore of the Dardanelles.

“It is certain that a great number of soldiers will be needed before the warships force the Dardanelles and advance to Constantinople. The aeroplane and the long range gun have made the forcing of this narrow strait possible by ships alone without the assistance from land forces. But once the passage is accomplished it becomes imperative to occupy both sides of it in great force, otherwise the Turks might again win possession and cut off the ships which have ventured out into the sea of Marmora. It will not be difficult to clear the Gallipolitan peninsula of the enemy, but strong forces would be needed to hold the Asiatic shore against attack from the land side.”²⁵

Not everyone shared Stead's view. Two days later, Fred T. Jane, the founder of Jane's Naval Review, derided the opposition the fleet would face.

“We have a certain number of ships which we can spare for these operations, ships which we could lose without jeopardising our naval superiority. This — coupled with the fact that the enemy are not a brainy folk — makes the Dardanelles effort possible.”²⁶

Neither Bean nor Ashmead-Bartlett witnessed the defeat of the naval attempt to force the Dardanelles on 18^th March 1915. (George) Ward Price, of the Daily Mail, later Hitler's favourite British journalist, described the shock of seeing the Bouvet slide beneath the waves. He might have been more surprised to discover, while superficially impressive, how ineffective the bombardment of the forts had been. No allied journalist would get that perspective but the American, George Schreiner, was shown around shortly afterwards.

“The damage done by the bombardment of four days ago is hardly what I had expected. Fort Dardanos has had a miraculous escape. There is a small dent in Turret No. 1. Turret No. 3 was struck by a shell fragment near the gunport. As a result of that the gun could no longer be elevated or lowered. But a little work with a steel saw fixed that. No. 5 turret is slightly damaged near the base...
“The most remarkable thing is the Turkish list of casualties — twenty-three Turks and Germans dead, and seventy-eight wounded. Many of these are civilians.
“Considering that the Allies employed in the bombardment 276 guns larger than six inches this is not much of a showing. According to the Turks and Germans, the Allies used over 8,500 shells larger than six inches.”²⁷

Some British writers still sought refuge in the infallibility of British arms but not everyone did. Arnold White, though confident of ultimate victory, could still write on 29^th March 1915.

“In our loose national habit of not thinking things out, to be cocksure is counted as manly. It is not. Forcing the Dardanelles against modern mines and guns inspires awe in the mind of students of history... We shall get through — of that there it no doubt — but the cost of getting through may darken many British homes, and quench the light of many women’s eyes. Students of naval history are amazed at the courage of the Admiralty and the Cabinet in sanctioning the Dardanelles operations. I do not wish to be cocksure, but so far as one’s reading goes, and so far as one can gather the views of those who really know, there has never been anything like it since the world began for naval audacity, hardihood, and intrepidity in taking such immeasurable risks. The attempt to force the Dardanelles against modern guns and modern mines stands alone.”²⁸

By then some of the infantry had already left for Lemnos. The same day White was writing of his awe at the task before them, Tpr Clifford Halloran,²⁹ 6th Australian Light Horse Regiment, a former journalist, only thought of excitement.

“Just now there is a joyous rumor in the camp here to the effect that we will be on our way to the front shortly. That rumor has been circulating for three days, and has been the cause of much happiness. Egypt is interesting — that is to say, the relics of ancient civilisation are interesting, and Cairo is fascinating for a while — but when you have seen the sights the country is too dead and flat and monotonous to grip you. There is hardly a man in the camp who would not rejoice if we were to start packing at once.”³⁰

Pte Alexander McLauchlan,³¹ Wellington Battalion, formerly of the Gisborne Times, described their journey from Egypt to Lemnos.

“We passed several islands, large and small, on our way over the sea, and finally we came to our rendezvous on a picturesque and cultivated little island, off which there lay scores of transports from many ports, and great grey fighting ships, monitors guarding those who had come to fight, with destroyers and mine draggers running to and fro like many-pointed. combs clearing the sea of what might he lurking there. There were avenues of some of Britain’s best fighting ships, and one particularly big one, mounted with the new 15-inch guns. More of this place I am not permitted to say, except that we got ashore on the island on occasions and had pleasant times there.”³²

Others were less sanguine about their prospects following the failed naval assault. Howell Gwynne, the Editor of the Morning Post, wrote to Herbert Asquith, the British Prime Minister, on 22^nd April 1915.

“When I had the honour of writing to you on October 16, 1914 regarding the Antwerp expedition, I pointed out to you that I did not consider the First Lord of the Admiralty a man who should be in charge of the Fleet during this war. I considered that the Antwerp expedition thoroughly justified this opinion, and the recurrence of the same lack of study, the same desire to rush in without due preparation, and the same ignorance of strategic and tactical principles in the Dardanelles expedition confirms this opinion. What I ventured to prophesy in October has come to pass in March, and it is for the Government over which you preside to consider whether the First Lord of the Admiralty should continue to hold that office.”³³

It was not the last time a journalist would write directly to Asquith. But, for now, the die was cast.

Other journalists told of their personal experiences of 25^th April 1915. Pte Cecil Yorke, Canterbury Battalion, approached the Gallipoli peninsula aboard HMT Lutzow early before dawn that morning.

“At one o clock in the morning we weighed anchor in the harbour and sailed... A couple of hours later we began to bear the distant booming of the guns, and knew that our destination was not far away. It was still dark, however, and there was considerable time before reveille. As day broke, we found ourselves steaming slowly across a vast expanse of smooth water with ships in sight on every side. Many glasses were turned on to the line of bombarding battleships, which extended along the coast as far as we could see.”³⁴

Pte John Kerr, 5^th Battalion, AIF, told of severe casualties, with officers and non-commissioned officers being particularly affected.

“The whole country side was strewn with scrub, and we could not tell where the fire was coming from. It was a perfect hell, and lasted all day and night. They told us our casualties (that is dead and wounded) amounted to ------- and while I think it was more, that alone tells its tale. An old soldier here — who was through the South African and South American war — said he never saw anything like it in his life, how anyone escaped was a mystery, for the gunners had the ranges accurately, and knew exactly where we were and only way which we could go. The poor old fifth suffered terribly. Almost the whole of our officers and nearly all our nomcoms were wiped out, but the men behaved magnificently. Never let anyone decry the fighting abilities of the Australian soldier. Even when their officers and section commanders were gone, and though they knew an almost certain death awaited them, they filled the gaps in the “line” and calmly awaited the end.”³⁵

It would take weeks, in some cases months, before these personal accounts appeared in the newspapers. The first to tell of the landing at what became known as Anzac Cove was that written by Ellis Ashmead-Bartlett. It was published in Australia on and after 7^th May.

“All the tows had almost reached the beach when a party of Turks, entrenched almost on the shore, opened up terrible fusillade from rifles and also from a Maxim. Fortunately, most of the bullets went high, but nevertheless many men were hit as they sat huddled together, 40 or 50 in a boat... The Turks in this first trench were bayoneted or ran away, and a Maxim gun was captured. They then found themselves facing an almost perpendicular cliff of loose sandstone.”³⁶

As Brigadier Chris Roberts has observed, “it was written in a heroic, sensational style designed to stir public sentiment and boost morale, and captured the hearts of Australians and New Zealanders alike. The inaccuracies woven through the account uncorrected to find their way into the mythology of the battle, and many have been handed down as accepted fact for the best part of a century.”³⁷

Where was Charles Bean? He had landed around 10.00 a.m., approximately 12 hours before his British colleague. But, though supported by Hamilton, Birdwood and Bridges, he was not officially sanctioned to report from Gallipoli until 2^nd May. By his own account, this delay was due to unexplained issues between the Admiralty and G.H.Q., which appears practically perverse given Churchill's and Hamilton's active encouragement for correspondents to ply their trade. Bean later wrote how,

“It was at Anzac on April 28, three days after the landing that I first heard, not without a pang of jealousy, that another war correspondent had been moving about the Anzac area. I came upon his tracks when climbing the steep, then only half-made, footpath up Walker's Ridge. My permission to write for the newspapers had not then come through from the Admiralty (or rather it had reached G.H.Q., but had not yet been sent on to me); and I been put ashore at the landing solely by the kindness and courtesy of Sir Ian Hamilton and General Bridges, with leave to go where I liked and take notes, but not to write a word for the Australian Press. And here was some outsider who would be well ahead of me with his despatches, working over the area that I was already beginning to know fairly well. He had been ashore also on the night of the 25th, but I had not heard of him.”³⁸

Bean's frustration can be imagined. However, he was unstinting with his praise for his colleague's prose, while furnishing an early example of, to paraphrase a 1980's comedy, Bean's penchant to describe every Digger as being six foot six, with biceps the size of Brisbane.

“A week or two later the incoming newspapers from Alexandria brought his first brilliant cable message describing the landing, and one's envy was at once swallowed up in admiration. It was a magnificent despatch — probably the finest of its kind ever penned by a war correspondent... Bartlett, by his own wish, watching the Australians and New Zealanders at Gaba Tepe, and [Lester] Lawrence the British at Cape Helles. Why Bartlett chose to follow the Australians I never knew — whether it was that he could not or did not wish to desert his friends in the London, which was to carry our 11^th Battalion; or whether he hoped that the Anzac battlefield would be easier to watch, being hilly and less obscured by shell smoke: or whether he saw special interest in the first performance of these untried colonial soldiers whose physique he greatly admired — I do not know. Whatever the reason, it was good luck for the Australians, though bad luck for Lawrence.”³⁹

On 26^th April, L/Cpl Noel Ross, Canterbury Battalion, described the sight of dead and wounded members of 7^th Battalion, AIF, near Fishermen's Hut.

“On our left along the beach about half a mile, a boat, sunk in the surf, rocked uneasily. With the aid of a glass I could see its freight. Sitting upright were at least eight dead men, and on the beach another twenty. A sailor, distinguishable by his white cap cover, lay in an attitude strangely lifelike, his chin resting on his hand, his face turned to our position. The next afternoon I casually turned my glasses on the pathetic group, and saw that the sailor was now lying on his back with his face to the sky. There was no mistake : he had been alive, and perhaps even now, after lying there nearly thirty-six hours, he was still alive. I was destined to get yet another thrill. In the centre of the heap on the beach there was some movement.
“And then I saw distinctly a khaki cap waving weakly, and presently a man detached himself from the group and hobbled slowly towards us along the beach. Immediately the snipers started afresh.”⁴⁰

Pte Arthur Brewer, 15^th Battalion, AIF, described his own painful experience.

“The concussion became too much for me on the Monday night (April 26), and I went stone-blind. So far as I could make out, a shell hit me fairly on the head — that was the sensation. The great flame from the shell scorched my eyes, and the shell itself, bursting just above me, killed some chaps behind me. An officer put me in a trench we had captured, but a shell blew it in — simply lifted the side of the structure, or, rather gutter, and planked it down on my back. I thought my spine was cracked.”⁴¹

A brief Press Bureau statement was released on the evening of 26^th April confirmed that the landings had been made but gave little details. The following day the Morning Post repeated the charges its editor, Howell Gwynne, made in his letter to Asquith:

“The Morning Post... refers the attempt of the Navy to force the Dardanelles without co-operation with the Army, and who is responsible for this costly blunder, costly whether the present operations succeeds or fails. We assert, the journal proceeds, that the First Lord of the Admiralty acted against the opinion of his experts. We assert, further, that he led the Cabinet to believe that he had behind him the opinion of Lord Fisher, whereas Lord Fisher's opinion was that the operation, to have a chance of success, must be conducted jointly the Army and Navy. These are serious charges. There is no question of Cabinet responsibility, because the Cabinet did not know the truth. But, in any event, these times are much too serious for Ministers to found themselves upon Constitutional conventions. The truth that Mr. Winston Churchill is a danger this country. Lord Fisher is not responsible, and Lord Kitchener is not responsible, but we warn them that they, too, unless they make timely protest, will be held to share in the discredit and responsibility. The time is for them speak out now, and have done with this appalling danger of amateur interference with the man at the wheel.”⁴²

To find out what was going on Ellis Ashmead-Bartlett spent time discussing progress with senior military and naval officers. On 29^th April 1915 he was a guest of Captain Hughes 'Tubby' Lockyer, RN, aboard HMS Implacable.

“This was my first introduction to the famous Captain “Tubby” Lockyer, one of the best-known characters in the Navy, of whom I had heard so much... He is a terrible man for sitting up late, and your only chance of ever getting to bed is to sneak out quietly without saying “Good night,” otherwise you are certain to be collared for “just one more.” This being my first evening, there was no escape, and it was 3 a.m. before I got to bed, having had far more drink than was good for me.”⁴³

There is more than a little irony involved here, as Ashmead-Bartlett was far from averse to keeping himself comfortable. Lockyer's taste for drink was to ultimately cost him his career, after being found drunk while in charge of his ship in July 1917.

Charles Bean's approach was very different. He explained to a fellow journalist back in Australia how he went about his work.

“The only way this job could be properly done was from the shore, on the scene of the events themselves. From the first, even before we left Lemnos, I knew this would mean getting in the stuff later than the other correspondents, but they did not want the same stuff as I did, which was the Australian and New Zealand stuff, and that could not be got in any other way. The goods were not really the same goods, and so I decided from the first that I would have to lump the lateness and simply go steadily ahead writing the Australasian stuff. The others had to be in the ships to do their work properly, making visits first to this place and then to that. They got right up into it, too, but I think you chaps may take it that no pressman has been more in the thick of it than your representative.”⁴⁴

Pte Cecil Yorke, Canterbury Battalion, was not at risk of a hangover. On 30^th April he contrasted the ugliness of what they were subjected to with the beauty of their surroundings.

“The country where we landed on the Gallipoli Peninsula is wild and picturesque, admirable for defence, difficult for invaders. The enemy had to be driven inland and clear of a series of high scrub-covered hills and deep gullies. The climate is pleasant. The nights, even if cold and chilly, are followed by warm days of bright sunshine, in which normally it would be a delight to live. It seems so unnatural that men should kill one another where Nature is so lovely.”⁴⁵

The East Lancashire Division began to arrive at Helles during the first week of May. It was immediately committed to the Second Battle of Krithia. Formerly a reporter for Rochdale Times, Pte Thomas Heywood, 1/6^th Bn Lancashire Fusiliers, sent home an account of their first action beginning on 6^th May 1915.

“They were in action from 11 o'clock in the morning until dusk, and during the whole of that period had to face a murderous fire.
“The enemy poured shell, machine-gun, and rifle fire upon the advancing party on a parallel with a deluge of hail.
“Our lads have the distinction of being the first Lancashire Territorials to go into action, and have received unstinted praise for the way they conducted themselves. They displayed remarkable courage and dash.
“As could only be expected there were many casualties, but of these only 12 per cent. were killed. Considering the heavy fire they had to face the losses are decidedly few.”⁴⁶

So far, so Press Bureau. But within the same piece Heywood's tone changes.

“Both officers and men are quieter than a week ago. Then they were in a high state of excitement. They had longed for the day to arrive and it was at hand. Now it has passed and more are to follow.
“War after all is not that glorious thing pictured by novelists. It is a horrible business, and the sooner it finishes the better. Don't imagine we are funking. To a man we are proud to be here. So long as our country needs us we are eager to serve her. It is the day when she does not need us that we look forward to.”⁴⁷

Ashmead-Bartlett met one man not so easily discouraged on 8^th May 1915.

“Hunter-Weston was, as usual, the embodiment of optimism and seemed absolutely certain of success. He assured me he would take Krithia this afternoon, and possibly Achi Baba, but if there was no time for both, he will take Achi Baba on the following day. I quite fail to see on what his optimism is based.”⁴⁸

Henry Nevinson, a veteran British war correspondent, described the advance of 2^nd Australian Brigade, transferred from Anzac to Helles, on 8^th May 1915.

“The ground was open, and their appearance was at once greeted by the roar of rifles, machine-guns and field-guns, which the bombardment had again utterly failed to silence. The Australians, though heavily laden with packs, shovels, picks, and entrenching tools, and exposed to intense fire, pressed on, rush after rush, their Brigadier directing and encouraging by waving a stick in front. Without a sight of their deadly enemy, they advanced over 800 yards, the support battalions joining up into the bayonet line.”⁴⁹

Charles Bean made clearer what “joining up into the bayonet line” meant.

“400 yards ahead was the British firing trench, the most advanced firing position yet reached, but not yet connected by communication trenches. That fire trench when reached was only a scrap of cover in 1200 yards, the whole plateau being covered by low growth not higher than the men's feet... The Australians may trust these facts. I write only what I have seen or know to be true.”⁵⁰

And it was during this advance, still behind the British front line, where Bean's conduct altered attitudes towards him. Lt Thomas Hastie, 5^th Battalion, AIF, who was wounded on 8^th May, wrote from hospital in Malta praising Bean.

“When the combined Australian and New Zealand troops went into action in the attempt to storm Krithia Captain Bean, although a non-combatant, and armed only with pencil and notebook, went into the trenches with the officers and men. He was in the firing line throughout the whole action, in company with the headquarters staff, and was as much exposed to danger as anyone. But, remarkably, although not a single officer on the staff escaped injury, Captain Bean was untouched. Some were killed, and all the others wounded, but the plucky — and lucky — war correspondent did not receive a scratch.”⁵¹

2/Lt George James,⁵² 8^th Battalion, AIF, also wounded at Helles, having read reports of the fighting from his hospital bed in Alexandria, praised Bean's journalism.

“As regards our doings, Captain Bean's articles are absolutely reliable. Much of what is written by other individuals appears to be full of confused ideas and of the far-too-common figure of speech — hyperbole.”⁵³

After Major-General Sir William Throsby Bridges' death from wounds on 18^th May, Bean paid his tribute.

“... he treated me throughout as one of his staff except in this, that he gave me no orders & left me to write & do what I pleased... I obtained a chance such as no journalist in this war, or probably any other, has had of going absolutely where he liked... without any restriction so long as I was with our own troops.”⁵⁴

If Bridges was praised for his openness, this was not something Ashmead-Bartlett believed to be a common characteristic, writing on 19^th May.

“I feel certain the Military Authorities out here are concealing the truth from the Authorities at home and that they will not tell them the real facts about the situation because they are afraid they will be withdrawn altogether and then goodbye to KCBs, KCMGs and all the other damned Gs and Peerages they have in mind. But this is only plaing [sic] with a great question when the whole safety of your country is at stake. But our leaders in the field are very little men. That is the trouble.”⁵⁵

The same day Ashmead-Bartlett was writing, the Turkish attack at Anzac was beaten off with the loss of around 11,000 casualties. One journalist serving in the ranks, Sgt Frederick Elworthy, 1st Australian Light Horse Regiment, did not write of the pity of war.

“The morning the Turks charged all along the line was the 'best ever,' and they left between 3000 and 4000 dead in front of our trenches. I'm not exactly callous, but I will admit I was delighted with the slaughter.”⁵⁶

Readers back in Lancashire learned that it rained heavily in more places than Manchester. Pte Thomas Heywood, 1/6th Bn Lancashire Fusiliers, described the downpour on 25^th May 1915.

“The day opened gloomily, but towards noon the sun peeped out and there was every promise of a delightful afternoon. So it proved to be until about five o'clock, when it began to rain. Most of us were having tea when the first drop fell. “A sunshine shower,” said one. “Don't bother about overcoats; it'll be over in a minute.” Two minutes later there was a stampede for oil sheets and overcoats, as drops of rain the size of florins, and plenty of them, began to fall. The sun had disappeared and the sky had darkened, and in five minutes our trenches were ankle deep in water and we were all soaked to the skin.
“Still the downpour continued. Inch by inch the water in the trenches rose, until at last we were obliged to leave them and take shelter behind bushes or any other cover. What a chance the enemy missed! But I suppose they were in a similar predicament. In spite of the uncongenial conditions we had to smile, and plenty of banter passed from one to the other. The land all around us was covered with water; the ground immediately in front of our line was like a miniature lake. The storm lasted about a couple of hours, and the depth of water in our trenches was about a couple of feet.”⁵⁷

There were other ways of getting wet. Ashmead-Bartlett discovered this on 27^th May when Kapitänleutnant Otto Hersing, commanding U-21, attacked HMS Majestic.

“The hit must have been very low down, as there was no shock from it felt on deck. The old Majestic immediately gave a jerk towards port, and remained with a heavy list; then there came a sound as if the contents of every pantry in the world had fallen at the same moment, a clattering such as I had never heard, as everything loose in her tumbled about. I could tell at once that she had been mortally wounded somewhere in her vitals, and felt instinctively she would not long stay afloat...
“I made no long stay on the net-shelf, but at once rebounded into the sea and went under, I came up at once still holding my useless belt, and, having got some of the water out of my eyes, took a look round. The sea was crowded with men swimming about and calling for assistance. I think that many of these old reservists, who formed the majority of the crew, had forgotten how to swim, or else had lost all faith in their own powers. A few yards from me I saw a boat, towards which everyone in the water seemed to be making. She was already packed with men while others were hanging on to her gunwale. I swam towards her, mixed up with a struggling crowd, and managed to get both hands firmly on her, but found it impossible to drag myself on board. I looked round at the Majestic, which was lying only a few yards away at an acute angle, and I remember thinking that, if she turned right over, our boat would probably be dragged under her. It is very tiring work hanging on with both hands with your feet trailing in the water in a strong current, and I was beginning to think whether it would be wiser to let go and swim away, when my right foot caught in what is known as a “man-grip”. This is a small slit in the keel which enables you to hold on in the event of the boat turning over. This gave me a lot of additional support, and I felt much more comfortable. A minute later, or even less, a sailor leaned over the side, seized me by the shoulders and dragged me inside.”⁵⁸

U-21 was not the only submarine in the area. But news of the British E11 took more time to reach the press. On 24^th May one American journalist, Frederick Swing, was sailing down the Marmora aboard the Turkish vessel Nagara when he saw E11 appear alongside.

“I thought we were about to be blown up, and I was terribly frightened. The suspense was insupportable. I could now see the submarine bearing down on us. A man was bent over a large wheel, which he was cranking. Beside him was a man in a white sweater with a rifle. That explained the “pings” we had heard. He had been firing to bring us to a halt. And in this he succeeded, for the engine bells sounded, we slowed stopped...
“I tried to make out what he was saying... I put my hands to my mouth and shouted:... “Will you give us time to get into the boats?”... “Yes, and be... quick about it!”... I shouted to the submarine... “Can you give us a minute?”... By now the submarine was not twenty yards away, and the commander did not have to shout his reply. “Yes,” he said quietly, “I will give you time.” Then he asked me: “Who are you?”... “I am Raymond Swing of the Chicago Daily News.”... I told the commander the name of the ship was the Nagara. “Where bound?” he asked. “Chanak Kalessi,” I replied. “What is your cargo?”... “I am a newspaper correspondent...and I don't ask about such things...
“Your boat is launched. Better get in.” I saluted the submarine commander and thanked him. He returned the salute. I had one last look around. I was not unaware that I was the last person to be leaving the ship... I slid down the rope and dropped into the lifeboat.”⁵⁹

The Nagara being found to be carrying military supplies, it was sent to the bottom by demolition charges. Swing, along with all the passengers and crew, made their way to the shore. At the same time another American correspondent, Arthur Ruhl was making his way to the battlefield. He described meeting Turkish officers on 28^th May.

“We breakfasted with the colonel in his arbor on bread and ripe olives and tea, and walked with him round the camp, through a hospital and into an old farmhouse yard, where the gunsmiths were going over stacks of captured guns and the damaged rifles of the wounded... There were English Enfields and French rifles of the early nineties, and a mitrailleuse to which the Turks had fitted a new wooden base. There were rifles with smashed barrels, with stocks bored through by bullets, clean-cut holes that must have gone on through the men who held them — live men like ourselves; quick choking instants of terror the ghosts of which we were poking and peering into there in the warm sunshine!”⁶⁰

The campaign intended to bypass the deadlock on the Western Front was by now itself deadlocked. On 29^th May Sir George Riddell, the owner of the News of the World, discussed things David Lloyd George.

“We talked of the Dardanelles Expedition. L. G. [Lloyd George] said that the calculations had gone hopelessly astray. The Cabinet had been told that the peninsula was a table-land, which could be swept by the guns of the Fleet, whereas it had proved that the configuration of the ground is such that the Turkish troops can easily take cover.”⁶¹

In his war memoirs, Lloyd George claimed to know no more about world events than the average newspaper reader.⁶² That, of course, cannot be true. Maps showing the terrain of the Gallipoli peninsula had been published before any soldier set foot there in the British press.⁶³ Such a senior member of the British Government, who would lead it 18 months later, clearly knew less than anyone who ever read a newspaper. We cannot be surprised by this, of course, as he was sleepwalking while voting for war in August 1914.

By this time, Malcolm Ross, the official New Zealand war correspondent, had arrived in Egypt. He visited sick and wounded men in hospital and asked about their experiences. It seems this is the origin of the myth of Turkish women acting as snipers on the peninsula.

“One met with frequent stories of women snipers in the Turkish lines, but it was always difficult to get first-hand information about them. A wounded Australian gave me an instance that had come under his own notice. These particular snipers — and no doubt many others — had silencers on their Mauser rifles. The advancing party therefore heard only the ping of the bullet near them, and a sound like the crack of a whip. On this particular occasion they located a sniper close at hand, and went to look for him. There was another “ping!” and one of the men fell dead. Suddenly the party came upon two snipers, who held up their rifles as token of surrender. Their rifles were taken from them, their hands tied behind their backs, and they were marched down to the beach. They were wearing the uniforms of dead Australian soldiers, and they had about 2000 rounds of ammunition near them, and enough food to last a fortnight. A doctor who examined them at headquarters found that they were both women! On the following day these Australians had to cross a gully on their right flank, and there they found five of their dead comrades, stripped of all their clothing, even to their boots.”⁶⁴

Tales had been told about snipers from the very beginning of the campaign. Said to be painted green, with large stores of food and ammunition, the identification tags of their victims around their necks, the change of gender was just another, if enduring, twist.

Ross spoke to others about experiences which were less contested and in more luxurious surroundings. On 7^th June he met “Plevna” Ryan, who told him about the armistice to bury the dead at Anzac two weeks before.

“Colonel Ryan, of the Australian A.M.C., was through the siege of Plevna with the Turks, and his book about that campaign is well known. Now he finds himself in the Gallipoli Peninsula in the opposing lines. I happened to have a letter of introduction to him, and the other day in Shepheard's [Hotel, Cairo], seeing a short, stoutish, grey-bearded man with Australian badges and a Red Cross on his arm, I asked if by any chance he happened to know Colonel Ryan. “I am Colonel Ryan,” he replied with a merry twinkle in his Irish eyes. He had just come back from his “dug-out” at Gaba Tepe. When the armistice was granted to bury the Turkish dead facing our lines, he walked out into the Turkish trenches, and when the Turkish doctors, noticed his Plevna ribbon they greeted him warmly, but wanted to know what he was doing in the opposing lines. He told them. They were fine fellows, these young Turkish doctors, he said. One spoke English perfectly. Dr. Ryan told him he looked like an Englishman. “No,” he replied. “I am a pure Turk; but I was educated in Paris.” Colonel Ryan got on very well with those young Turks, but he had a row with two German doctors, who wanted to make out that the Australians and New Zealanders in burying the dead in advance of their own lines were really making fresh trenches. The Turkish Staff officer who came with the flag of truce was, he added, a charming man.”⁶⁵

At this time, Ross' wife, Forrestina Ross, also a journalist, described a visit to the 1^st Southern General Hospital, Birmingham.

“As a rule, the matron said, they did not care to speak about their horrible experiences. They touched too deep a tragic note, and woke too many terrible memories, but, in several cases, the New Zealanders said goodbye to me as unwillingly as I to them. Time and trains allowed no lengthy reminiscences, and to the simple vivid word pictures I could have listened for hours.”⁶⁶

Some men, after reading reports of the fighting, wrote to challenge some of the wilder stories. Others, like Pte Frank Cole, 1^st Bn Lancashire Fusiliers, who had been at “W” Beach on 25^th April 1915, wrote to correct a journalist friend from hospital on 11^th June 1915.

“Of course, you know about poor Bob.⁶⁷ It has upset me very much as we had been chums for eight years, and hardly ever parted, but I should like to point out a little error in your report that he was killed on May 11. As a matter of fact he was killed on the beach on April 25 the day of the landing. He lived two hours after being wounded, and just before he died he asked me to write and tell his mother he had done his best, which I did, but, of course, I don't know whether she got the letter or not.”⁶⁸

While it was understood that there were limits to what newspapers could report, their readers were not fools. They could and did wonder how so much apparent success could translate into so little progress on the ground at Gallipoli and elsewhere. Guy L'Estrange, a British journalist writing in Bristol on 12^th June 1915, noted how counter-productive this could be.

“To some extent the disappointment and impatience which is expressed has undoubtedly been due to an ill-informed and much-too-optimistic press at home. In a measure this has been due in turn to the military censorship, which has too frequently told us the good news and has quietly suppressed the bad news.”⁶⁹

One man who definitely believed bad news was being withheld from the public was Ashmead-Bartlett. After surviving the sinking of the Majestic, he returned to England and discussed the situation with Kitchener on 12^th June.

“I went at noon to Downing Street to await the pleasure of the Cabinet Council, and was shown into the Secretary’s room while “The choice and master spirits of the age” deliberated for an hour and a half. Lord Selborne was the first to come out and asked me some questions. He was followed by Lord Kitchener, whom I had never met before, and of whom I had heard so many awe-inspiring tales throughout the last twenty years. But in Mr. Balfour’s words, I found nothing in his attitude to inspire either fear or awe, rather a good-natured benevolence. In appearance he has grown considerably older than his published portraits show; his face also appears fuller, and his skin is red and rough. He wasted no time in non-essentials, but asked me a number of questions which apparently he had already in mind.
“Do you consider the Turks obtain the greater part of their supplies from Asia Minor via Chanak, or by sea from Constantinople, or by the Bulair lines through Thrace?”
“I replied I considered it impossible for the Turks to keep their troops in Gallipoli supplied by feeding them through Asia Minor, and that if we closed the sea route by submarines and cut off communication with Thrace by land, they would speedily be starved out.”⁷⁰

Landing at Bulair was a theme he would repeat for the rest of his days. Some got tired of hearing about it. The author Compton Mackenzie, granted a commission in the Royal Marines and attached to the headquarters staff, tired of have to filling in for Ashmead-Bartlett during his absence in England.

“I returned to G.H.Q. immediately after the battle of the Twenty-first of June in order to write my despatch for the papers, and what a relief it was to hear that Ashmead-Bartlett would be out here again within a few days. The last thing in the world I wanted to be was a war correspondent, for I knew I should never make even a moderately good one, and I dreaded being tied down to the routine such a job would involve.”⁷¹

Any relief on his part proved short-lived, replaced by frustration after the correspondent's return.

“While I was listening to Bartlett talking about his tent and gloating over the probably dissolution of G.H.Q. by the July and August heats, I could not help likening this survivor of the Majestic to the original Jonah... He rasped on and on about Bulair until I began to feel that it would almost be worth landing at Bulair merely to stop Bartlett's talking about it any more.”⁷²

Ashmead-Bartlett's activities in England had certainly created waves. Hamilton would have preferred he stayed there and took steps to control his access to the battlefield. A base for all war correspondents was established on Imbros. Charles Bean would have none of that and explained that his role was more than a reporter, writing on 27^th June:

“The Australian Government in the instructions given me during my interviews with the Minister for Defence attached importance to two points: “(a) to having with this distant force a representative who could satisfy the poignant anxiety of Australians for news of their own men — their daily life, behaviour in action, their peculiar Australia interest which could be given by an Australian, and (b) to be special instructions given to me to write after the war the history of the Australian part in the war, as a permanent record for libraries, schools, and the nation generally. In their speeches at the dinner given to me in Melbourne before I left, the Minister for Defence, and other minister laid special stress upon the latter.”⁷³

Writing that same day, General Sir Ian Hamilton commented on how useful pressmen could be. He, like Sir John French on the Western Front, was far from above using newspapers to serve his own ends. In Hamilton's case, though, it was a case of being careful of what he wished for.

“From my individual point of view a hideous mistake has been made on the correspondence side of the whole of this Dardanelles business. Had we had a dozen good newspaper correspondents here, the vital life-giving interest of these stupendous proceedings would have been brought right into the hearths and homes of the humblest people in Britain....
“Again I say the Press must win. On no subject is there more hypocrisy amongst big men in England. They pretend they do not care for the Press and sub rosa they try all they are worth to work it.”⁷⁴

Hamilton was not worried about men like Bean. He knew Bean did not see his role as in any way undermining the high command. But he did require all correspondents to sign a declaration, presumably similar to the one he later required of Keith Murdoch, reproduced below.

“I, the undersigned, do hereby solemnly undertake to follow in every particular the rules issued by the Commander-in-Chief through the Chief Field Censor, relative to correspondence concerning the forces in the Field, and bind myself not to attempt to correspond by any other route or by any other means than that officially sanctioned.
“Further, in the event of my ceasing to act as correspondent with the British Forces, I will not during the continuance of the War join the forces of any other Power in any capacity, or impart to anyone military information of a confidential nature or of a kind such that its disclosure is likely to prejudice military operations, which may have been acquired by me while with the British Forces in the Field, or publish any writing, plan, map, sketch, photograph or other picture on military subjects, the material for which has been acquired by me in a similar manner, unless first submitted by me to the Chief Field Censor for censorship and passed for publication by him.”⁷⁵

Compton Mackenzie described Ashmead-Bartlett's reaction on being presented with the document.

“I forget the exact wording of the document, but it was to the effect that they should consider themselves bound by various military rules and regulations and among other things that they should undertake not to communicate with the enemy. One after another signed his name at the foot, Nevinson with a courtliness of gesture that seemed to express his sense of the slight embarrassment I might be feeling at having to proffer such a superfluous document and at the same time his immediate acknowledgment of the fact that the position of a correspondent had somehow to be clearly set down in black and white. Ashmead-Bartlett was the last to sign, and when he came to the clause about communicating with the enemy he paused.
“I'm hardly likely to do that, am I?” he exclaimed, flinging down his pen with contemptuous petulance.
“Well, I can't help the phrasing, Bartlett,” I replied just as fretfully, for I was feeling tired that morning. “I didn't draw up this document. If you object to signing it, you'd better go and argue the matter with Sir Ian or the C. G. S. It's nothing to do with me. I'm merely carrying out orders in asking for your signature.”
“So Bartlett signed his name at the foot, murmuring something about its being on a par with the rest of the idiotic behaviour of G. H. Q.”⁷⁶

Ernest Brooks was appointed to be the official British war photographer at Gallipoli. On 12^th July, he accompanied Ashmead-Bartlett to watch the latest attack at Helles. The latter described the scene.

“I... finally found an ideal spot and apparently the safest I had seen up to date in an observation post of the 42^nd Division. But strange enough it became a focus for the Turkish artillery fire. Brooks was enchanted by the panorama of the battle, the shells bursting, and the infantry attacks and then by a strange chance was hit in a soft spot by a shrapnel bullet. I think he believes I got it done on purpose. He dropped his camera with a yell, and “the subsequent proceedings interested him no more”.”⁷⁷

Ashmead-Bartlett wrote up his piece back on Imbros.

“July 15th. At Imbros. I completed what I could put together about the latest “big victory” in front of Achi Baba. I do not know what value these accounts will be to the Press, as Sir Ian Hamilton apparently now acts as his own correspondent and sends in cables a long time ahead of ours. It is almost impossible to know what to write, but I could put together an official bulletin which would apply to all these attacks out here.
“After a concentrated bombardment our infantry advanced against the demoralised enemy and speedily captured four lines of trenches. We were on the verge of taking Achi Baba when unfortunately something (generally the French) gave way on our right, leaving us with an exposed flank. Our centre then had to retire, suffering heavy casualties. On our left something else gave way, and the enemy was unfortunately able to reoccupy his old positions. We are now back on the same line from which we started this morning. The enemy’s counter-attacks were most gallantly repulsed with enormous losses. At least ten thousand of his dead are lying in front of our lines and it is reported that thirty thousand wounded have been evacuated to Constantinople. Our troops are much elated by their success, and declare themselves ready to attack again at any time. We have made a distinct advance of at least five yards in some places.”⁷⁸

Despite, even understandable cynicism about what correspondents were allowed to write, the public craved news. Nurse Jeanne Sinclair, New Zealand Army Nursing Service, explained this from Alexandria on 17^th July 1915.

“We get absolutely no news here. I had a pile of Dominions, Posts, and an Auckland Weekly sent me, and those were just rushed by our crowd of girls. After they had finished them I brought them to the ward, where they had an equally warm reception. All the men go crazy over anything to read. One of our girls bought five magazines for them the other day; this exhausted the shops’ supplies. I had no idea we could miss news so much.”⁷⁹

L/Cpl Herbert Harris, 4^th Bn Worcestershire Regiment, a former journalist was happier with life than his more senior peer, writing from Lemnos on 18^th July 1915.

“My description of the Island may not suggest that it is the most inviting spot, but taking everything into account, I have never been more supremely happy. Living the simple life brings its own reward, and we are now “simple lifers” with a vengeance. We have cut down our trousers into shorts and strut about all day in shirt sleeves, helmet and bare knees. Our faces and clothes are brown with sand, and I daresay we look a frightful lot of scarcecrows.”⁸⁰

Harris⁸¹ was a recent arrival, a reinforcement to his battalion. Pte Cecil Yorke, Canterbury Battalion, who had been there from the start. He wrote about the Indians at Anzac on 20^th July 1915.

“The Indians, in their native garb, when not on duty, squat together on the ground and talk and smoke after the maimer of the East, or sing their pretty quaint Eastern songs. Nor are they without musical instruments, for only the other day I happened to hear an Indian playing one of the sweetest of Indian melodies on a kind of violin, and, at the same time, singing with wonderful effect the song to which the melody was evidently the accompaniment. The Indians are tall, strapping fellows, a great source of interest to our troops, with whom, because of their bright and sunny dispositions and their willingness, they are always popular. The goats they bring with them for milk are perfectly tame, and I even “shook hands” with one the other day, though it was not at all enthusiastic, nor did it seem to appreciate the honour, but simply looked towards me in a detached, philosophical way while it continued chewing its cud. The occasional bleating of the sheep the Indians bring with them is also reminiscent of other days.”⁸²

Henry Nevinson channelled Tacitus on 28^th July 1915.

“Under the blazing sun you tramp along it through what was lately a garden of wild flowers, fields, vineyards, and olive groves, but is now the wilderness which people make and call war.⁸³ It is a wilderness of mounds and pits and trenches, of heaped-up stores and rows of horses stabled in the open, of tarpaulin dressing stations behind embankments, of carts and waggons for ever on the move, of Indian muleteers for ever striving to inculcate the gleam of human reason into mules.”⁸⁴

To men like Pte Cecil Yorke, Canterbury Battalion, the desolation was the norm. This may well have been his last letter from Anzac, dated 3^rd August 1915; he was not fated to survive the coming offensive.⁸⁵

“War and life “at the front” now seem quite natural, as normal and inevitable as a state of peace used to seem to most of us. We are accustomed to having an enemy within a stone’s throw of us, and the memory of any other condition of affairs is inclined to be too dim and hazy to afford much of a contrast with the present... A man going to war learns, if he has not learnt already, a most sensational lesson, the lesson of his own utter unimportance, how easily the world can do without him and how cynically “the gods” regard the loss of a mere life, human or otherwise.”⁸⁶

Henry Nevinson, Malcolm Ross and Ellis Ashmead-Bartlett met Sir Ian Hamilton on Imbros on 3^rd August 1915. The subject was the coming offensive.

“Nevinson, Malcolm Ross and I rode over to G.H.Q. and were at once shown into Sir Ian’s private quarters, a miserable kind of hut made of reeds, which has his bell tent alongside it. The hut he uses as a mess room. This was the first occasion l had seen him since I had the row at G.H.Q., about six weeks ago, when I was accused of criticising the operations. However, he was in a very good humour and received us in the most friendly manner. Nevinson had already been deputed to act as spokesman, as the senior member of the party. He explained his fears about the curtailment of our freedom, and how impossible it would be if we were expected to go round together. I added, “Especially as one member of our party is not at all agreeable to us.” Sir Ian expressed great surprise when he heard of the arrival of Major Delmé Radcliffe, who, he said, had been appointed by the War Office over his head, without even his knowledge. He went on, “I promise you you shall have absolute freedom of movement and that nothing shall be done to curtail the privileges you have enjoyed in the past. It is the last thing in the world I desire.” He added that Radcliffe would not take over the censorship, and he considered it undesirable that he should reside in our camp. So what Radcliffe’s duties are going to consist of it is difficult to see, but probably those of a kind of liaison officer.
“He then spoke about the operations, which, he said, would commence in a few days, and promised that we should be fully informed in time to make our preparations. He added, “There will be two centres of main interest, and you must make your plans accordingly. One will be a fresh landing.”
“I already knew approximately what points would be attacked, as I had learnt them from Birdwood in June.
“I asked Sir Ian if he could give us a hint as to which would be the most important spot to go — to place himself, in fact, in the position of a War Correspondent. He said that he could not reply to my question at present but might be able to do so later. The conversation then turned on other matters, and he said he regretted very much that there had been no one present to write a descriptive account of the events of June 4th, on which his thoughts are ever harping. We left Sir Ian’s presence quite satisfied after wishing him the best of luck.”⁸⁷

Hamilton had received significant reinforcements. Those who allowed their optimism to reappear could have benefited from read what one American journalist, Granville Fortescue, had to say about their opponents.

“At first glance one may say that the advantage in numbers is of little importance, as the Turkish troops during their last war were of proved inferiority. Perhaps they were a poor lot during that last Balkan war, though from the looks of things at present I doubt even that. But today the Turkish common soldier is most formidable.”⁸⁸

Compton Mackenzie heard the opening bombardment at Helles from Imbros on the afternoon of 6^th August 1915.

“At half-past three on the afternoon of the sixth of August the thunder of the guns on Helles travelling across the clear air to Kephalo proclaimed that the general attack ordered there had begun. This was intended to occupy the Turks in the Southern Zone and prevent their moving northward to reinforce the defenders above Anzac, where the Australians and New Zealanders launched their attack at half-past five.”⁸⁹

Ashmead-Bartlett watched British troops leave Imbros bound for Suvla the same day before heading for the peninsula with his colleagues.

“To-day the 11th Division began to embark at Imbros on cruisers, trawlers, transports, and in the new motor barges known as “Beetles,” which are to convey them to a new battleground on bloodstained Gallipoli. These “Beetles” are bullet-proof and each holds about four hundred men. They have a long gangway which lets down in front to enable troops to jump ashore across deep water, the gangway acting like a drawbridge...
“There was something weird and tragic about the departure of the 11th Division. Will these rows and rows of tents ever know this mighty host again? Well, the last round of the great adventure is about to start: all we can do is to hope for the best...
“At 7 p.m., Nevinson, Radcliffe and I assembled at the quay to embark on the liner Minneapolis. For an hour we were unable to obtain a boat, but at last a friendly N.T.O. [Naval Transport Officer] sent us off in a tug. It was pitch dark by now, for once again the waning moon has been called upon to aid the new landing... From the Minneapolis it was impossible to see anything, so black was the night, except the grey outlines of the vessels nearest us. The entire fleet of warships, transports, trawlers, and motor boats conveying the landing force was swallowed up in the darkness.”⁹⁰

There was no correspondent to record the near destruction of 4^th Bn Worcestershire Regiment at Helles that day; their attempt to divert Turkish attention away from the breakout at Anzac was a disaster. But there were few of the battalion left to tell the story themselves: 16 officers and 752 men were killed, wounded or missing. It is unlikely any allied unit suffered such heavy casualties in a single day during the whole campaign.

Bean was to watch the progress of the attack on 7^th August but he would have to learn the story of what happened second hand. He explained why.

“I regret personally that I have been unable to get later details of the great attack owing to having been slightly wounded this morning whilst making my way towards the 4^th Australian Brigade. This will prevent me personally moving about for a few days, and will unfortunately delay the collection of details for the letters. These, however, will be forwarded as soon us possible.”⁹¹

He would keep that promise.

An unwounded Malcolm Ross witnessed the Turkish counter-attack at Chunuk Bair, 10^th August 1915.

“On Tuesday, in the half-light before the dawn, the Turks suddenly came pouring over the crest of Chunuk Bair, and swooped down upon our position in superior numbers. As dawn broke we could see them bravely rushing down across the fire-swept slopes of Chunuk Bair into the gully to the right of our supports on Rhododendron Ridge. Every now and then a man would stagger and fall headlong down the slope, and remain prone on a bare patch, or rise and limp away into the scrub or one of the topmost trenches for shelter. Meantime the New Zealand guns had got to work with deadly accuracy. Shrapnel bursting on the upper slopes almost completely wiped out whole groups of the enemy scattered amongst the scrub. The big guns and the secondary armament on the cruisers were also at work, and shattered the topmost Turkish trenches with the forceful lyddite. It was too much for all but the bravest Turks, and presently numbers began to climb laboriously back up the slopes they had so valiantly charged down but a few minutes before. On these, retreating Turks our shrapnel still played, and after the dust of each successive burst had cleared away there would be only two or three men where a few seconds previously there had been a dozen or a score. These continued their flight, some bending down in an endeavour to escape notice, others limping along, and still others strolling slowly hack with fatalistic unconcern. One wounded man came out of a hail of shrapnel, limped up the slopes and over the crest of the ridge into safety on the Dardanelles side, though many a shot must have fallen about him. One became absorbed in his progress, and though he was an enemy I felt almost pleased when finally his silhouette disappeared over the skyline.”⁹²

The largest attack of all was that made by 9^th Corps at Suvla on 21^st August 1915. Henry Nevinson was there.

“I was up in front in the midst of a tremendous bombardment with which the fighting began. Suddenly a shell burst close above my head with a frightful crash, and I felt a blow just like an iron mallet. The officer next to said. ‘Are you hit?’ and I said ‘ Yes, I suppose so.’ I saw my brown shirt (no coat on, happily) suddenly run soaking with blood. They called for a stretcher, but I said I wanted to stay and see the fighting.
“I ran my bandage over my head and drew it tight. However, they rushed me back, walking through the trenches to a dressing station. The orderly left the bandage as it was, and we waited to see if the blood stopped. In an hour it slackened, and I went back to the same position, and stayed out up and down the front till dark, and then walked four miles back over rough country to a real ambulance. They shaved the top of my head, and showed me a ’ beautiful clean cut' sort of semicircle exposing the white skull, from which the shell must have rebounded, finding it impervious to all but reason.
“It was very painful — still is — but not serious. A queer ache at the back of the head is the worst part really. I have gone about just as usual, two days again at the same front, for fear of losing nerve. Queer how much noble blood one can lose without suffering any difference.”⁹³

The August offensive had failed. Ashmead-Bartlett had a story to sell, writing to his agent on 26^th August.

“Now if I am given time I am convinced I can produce a work which will have a far greater sale than one which would merely be more or less of a rehash of what has already appeared in the Press. The subject is too vast and too great to spoil by over haste. I will stake my opinion against the most astute publisher that the interest in this expedition will last for years and years and that its product will arouse more bitter controversies than any other event in English History for several centuries. It will be the really authoritative book which will have the big and permanent sale and not one produced red hot like the generality of war books. This is outside their pail [sic] altogether. In the first place I have been allowed to see everything and I know every detail of what has taken place and until one is allowed to make the book really interesting by the publication of all those thousand details which no censor would allow the present time it would hardly be worth publishing it at all.”⁹⁴

He needed the money, having appeared in a bankruptcy court in February, declaring no assets but liabilities of £4,314. And took the opportunity to improve the story, having returned from England with a film camera. On 2^nd September he went to Suvla with Ernest Brooks.

“I left... armed with my cinema, accompanied by [Ernest] Brooks, the official photographer, who has returned from England. I landed after a very stormy voyage, the precursor of what is to come. I found things much quieter than usual and very little shelling. Our tent has been removed, as it served as a range-finder for the enemy’s guns. We went out beyond Chocolate Hill into the front trenches, where the Turkish lines were about fifty yards away. We were out after pictures, and nearly caused a battle. Finding a trench occupied by an Irish battalion, Brooks asked them to assume positions just as if they were resisting an attack. But the men would look round at the cinema. Brooks said “ That is not realistic enough.” “Oh!” exclaimed an Irishman, “I’ll make it realistic.” Whereupon he started to shoot at the Turks, followed by all his comrades. The day being perfectly quiet, the latter imagined we were about to attack, and replied furiously. A sustained duel then began and in the excitement the Irishmen forgot all about us. Soon the Turkish artillery joined in, and it looked as if we had started a battle all along the line. They telephoned down from brigade headquarters to find out what was happening, whereupon one of the N.C.O.s replied, “Oh, nothing, sir, it is only the cinema.” But I thought the matter had gone far enough, so we crept away to avoid the wrath of the divisional headquarters.”⁹⁵

Recovered from his wound, Nevinson described conditions at Anzac on 5^th September.

“I have just returned from a few days' visit to those cliffs and gullies on which the Australians and New Zealanders have been clinging for four months without rest or pause. Anzac is not the most comfortable place even on this comfortless Peninsula. You live in a cave, like prehistoric man, and you climb like a goat to reach it. You sleep on a shelf of rocky marl. If you have head cover it crumbles down on your face at the explosion of guns or shells. If you have not, a shell or dropping bullet may prolong your sleep for ever.”⁹⁶

Another correspondent paid a brief visit to Anzac, Keith Murdoch. He met Ashmead-Bartlett in camp at Imbros on 7^th September.

“For some days past Keith Murdoch, an Australian writer, who has been allowed to visit Anzac for a short time, has been staying at our camp. He is very alarmed over the state of the Army and the prospects of a winter campaign. He tells me that the Australians dread it above all else, and that many of their positions will become quite untenable. He declares, and I think quite rightly, that unless someone lets the truth be known at home we are likely to suffer a great disaster.”⁹⁷

The following day Ashmead-Bartlett handed Murdoch a letter to take to Herbert Asquith. It seems Nevinson found out about the letter and told Hamilton. The latter's attempt to appear shocked on 17^th September may convince some.

“... a Correspondent writes in and tells us that for the honour of his profession he feels bound to let us know that Mr. Ashmead-Bartlett has secretly sent home an uncensored despatch per, of all people in the world, Mr. Murdoch!”⁹⁸

This was the end of Ashmead-Bartlett at Gallipoli. Bean reflected on his style on 26^th September.

“Ashmead Bartlett makes it a little difficult for one by his exaggerations, and yet he's a lover of the truth. He gives the spirit of the thing: but if he were asked: “Did a shout really go up from a thousand throats that the hill was ours?” he'd have to say “No, it didn't”. Or if they said “Did the New Zealanders really club their rifles and kill three men at once?” or “Did the first battle of Anzac really end with the flash of bayonets all along the line, a charge, and the rolling back of the Turkish attack” he'd have to say “Well — no, as a matter of fact that didn't occur”. Well, I can't write that it occurred if I know it did not, even if by painting it that way I could rouse the blood and make the pulse beat faster — and undoubtedly these men here deserve that people's pulses shall beat for them. But War Correspondents have so habitually exaggerated the heroism of battles that people don't realise that the real actions are heroic.”⁹⁹

Major-General Walter Braithwaite, Hamilton's Chief of Staff, considered Ashmead-Bartlett guilty of more than journalistic excess. He confronted the correspondent, who recorded their exchange on 28^th September.

“When I had a talk with you in June last you promised not to criticise the leaders of the Army, the conduct of the campaign, or to break the regulations again.” I replied that I had consented to certain things, and as far as I knew I had kept my agreement. He went on, “On September 8th you sent off an uncensored letter by Murdoch, who was leaving, addressed to Mr. Asquith.” I replied that I had done so and that I considered I had a perfect right to address the Prime Minister direct. He answered, “You know you had not, and your letter has got Murdoch into serious trouble.” I asked, “How did you find out I had sent this letter? He refused to give any answer to this.”¹⁰⁰

Murdoch had been intercepted at Marseilles and the letter taken from him. He continued his journey to London, where he met Maurice Hankey, the Cabinet Secretary on 29^th September. They did not get along.

“I lunched with Mr. Balfour to meet a horrible scab called Murdoch, an Australian journalist, who had written a poisonous letter to Fisher, the Commonwealth Premier, re the Dardanelles.”¹⁰¹

Hankey's note of the meeting of the Dardanelles Committee on 6^th October 1915 during which Murdoch's letter was discussed was couched in language more typical of a professional Civil Servant.

“It was... rather a bitter document, and it was conspicuous for the omission of any praise for anyone or anything at the Dardanelles. Colonel Hankey... had reported to him that it was full of serious misstatements of fact. Unfortunately, however, it had been sent to the Prime Minister of the Commonwealth...
“MR. BONAR LAW said that we must be careful not to overstate the other side of Mr. Murdoch's letter, as there was a substream of truth in his report.”¹⁰²

The possibility of evacuation had been aired previously but now, with the campaign stalled, with no more reinforcements being made available to Hamilton, it was clearly going nowhere. Back on the peninsula, the ranks were being thinned far more by disease than active operations. Lt Oliver Hogue, 2^nd Australian Light Horse Brigade, whose journalism appeared under the pen-name Trooper Bluegum, wrote on 5^th October 1915.

“I’m down and out, completely bushed... I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I don’t think the doctor does. But I’m so shockingly weak... I... tried to keep on, keepin’ on. Had I laid up at once I would have had a couple of weeks in the hospital ship at Lemnos, and then I’d have been fit again. But I kept on thinking I’d soon be better, and so kept on until every ounce of strength I had was drained away. Then a couple of days ago I collapsed in the trenches, and they put me to bed.”¹⁰³

All was not well elsewhere. The American journalist, John Reed, later famed for his coverage of the Russian Revolution, visited Istanbul around this time.

“Sometimes an intoxicated or excited Teuton would come over to the American table and begin an argument... or a German officer in Turkish uniform would stop them on the street and insist on being saluted. The sailors answered nothing but insults, and then they answered with their fists... Seaman Williams broke the German lieutenant's head with a stone beer-mug, and was transferred back to the United States as being 'unfit for diplomatic service'.”¹⁰⁴

On 15^th October the newspaper proprietor, Sir George Liddell recorded Ashmead-Bartlett's return from Gallipoli. News had just reached him that Hamilton was to follow.

“Ashmead Bartlett, correspondent of the London papers at the Dardanelles, has been sent home by Ian Hamilton, who charges him with serious breaches of the military regulations. The General's decision was first communicated to the War Office by cablegram. I asked for more particulars. Later I was informed that the breach consisted in Ashmead Bartlett having written a private letter to the Prime Minister, which he sent secretly by the hand of an Australian correspondent, one Murdoch, who was coming to England. According to Bartlett, no one but Murdoch and himself knew of the letter, but apparently he was wrong, as Murdoch was stopped and searched en route for an unauthorised dispatch. The letter was taken from him and forwarded to the War Office unopened. Brade told me that the Prime Minister heard that a letter had arrived for him at the War Office and sent for it. The letter was opened and Brade was informed of the contents. This was four or five days ago. On Wednesday, October 13th, Ashmead Bartlett attended the Council Meeting of the Newspaper Proprietors' Association and told his story. Harry Lawson also had a letter which he had received from Hamilton, giving his reasons for sending Bartlett home — a very sketchy sort of a letter. It was arranged that Lawson should see the Prime Minister on the subject and ascertain his views. To-day Lawson told me that the P.M. had never heard of the letter. I then telephoned to Brade, who informed me that the letter had been lost at Downing Street. I understand it contained important information and serious reflections upon the conduct of the campaign. Lawson says Ian Hamilton is to be recalled.”¹⁰⁵

Hamilton had refused to even consider the possibility of abandoning the campaign and had been recalled. General Sir Charles Monro had been despatched as Hamilton's replacement; to report on the viability of maintaining the force at Gallipoli. His recommendation to evacuate was discussed in the House of Lords. Lord Alfred Milner spoke on 14^th October.

“I hear statements that it would be a terrible thing to abandon our Dardanelles adventure because this would have so bad an effect in Egypt, in India, upon our prestige in the East, [but] I cannot help asking myself whether it will not have a worse effect if we persist in that enterprise and it ends in complete disaster.”¹⁰⁶

The complete disregard for security was in keeping with the character of the campaign. Some newspapers repeated the rumours. Others, like Howell Gwynne on 18^th October, complained to Sir John Simon, the Home Secretary, that their attempts to be responsible, to not publish the Monro's leaked conclusions, was wholly undermined by others (he meant the Northcliffe 'papers) who went unpunished.

“I feel so strongly on the subject that when Lord Milner made his speech in the House of Lords the other day about the evacuation of Gallipoli I cut out all references to this and also references to Lord Landsdowne's answer. We are doing our best, both inside and outside the Government to obtain victory. But if we allow newspapers to give away continually valuable information, we are jeopardising the interests of the country.”¹⁰⁷

Malcolm Ross, writing on 23^rd October, recorded the changes to the correspondents there.

“For some months there were five war correspondents on the Peninsula, but the number has recently been reduced to three — Mr. Ashmead Bartlett, representing the London dailies, was recalled to England, and Mr. H. V. Nevinson, representing the provincial papers, has left on a month's furlough. There remain only Mr. L. Lawrence, representing Reuter's, and the official correspondents with the Australian and New Zealand forces. Two of our number have been wounded; one was received from a torpedoed warship, and all have had their narrow escapes, both from shot and shell, Mr. Ward Price, of the “Daily Mail,” is coming out, instead of Mr. Bartlett, and a Russian correspondent may also appear on the scene, so that the corps will in a few weeks be back to its ordinary strength.”¹⁰⁸

Back in London, Keith Murdoch attended a talk given by Ashmead-Bartlett at the Queen's Hall on 27^th October. His enthusiasm seems to have clouded his recollection of the circumstances of their meeting.

“I met Ashmead Bartlett in the trenches at Anzac, under heavy shellfire; in the messroom of a monitor, where naval men had gathered round him as round a man admired by grave men; under canvas on an Aegean island, where he had been none the worse a host because of his wide experience of foraging. He is a man of supreme and serene daring, of cool wit and brave conscience — a man after Australia's own heart.
“His despatches were more valuable to Australia than probably any other writings of any other mail since Australia was discovered. But it is doubtful whether even that brilliant work by which he secured world-wide recognition for Australians' qualities as fighters, has not been bettered by the invaluable work he has done in London since his return. He has dragged out into the open, past the censorship facts about the bungling at the Dardanelles expedition in a way that has at last secured a beginning of those reforms essential to victory not only in this, but in all theatres of the war.”¹⁰⁹

Not everyone, however, shared the Australian's take the Englishman's conduct. The Dunedin Chamber of Commerce passed this resolution on 4^th November 1915.

“That this Chamber desires to enter its emphatic protest against the unpatriotic and ill-advised utterances of irresponsible war correspondents of the Ashmead Bartlett type and others, who apparently for selfish ends are doing their best to damage their country's interests and the interests of our Allies, that other Chambers be asked to make similar protest, and that the Prime Minister be asked to cable this resolution to Mr Asquith, requesting that it be given the widest publicity in Great Britain, and that failing prompt acquiescence by Mr Massey, the Chamber cable direct”.”¹¹⁰

With opinion divided about the fate of the soon to be renamed Dardanelles Army, Lord Kitchener was sent to see things for himself. Charles Bean recorded his visit to Anzac on 13^th November.

“Kitchener visited Anzac to-day. Very few even of the senior officers had any previous knowledge of the visit, but the moment he stepped ashore men “tumbled” to it and a remarkable scene occurred. How the knowledge could spread so fast I do not know, but by the time Lord Kitchener had reached the end of the pier the men were tumbling like rabbits out of every dug-out on the hillside, jumping over obstacles and making straight for the beach.
“Australians do not cheer readily, but as Kitchener, accompanied by Generals Birdwood and Maxwell and others passed the crowd along the beach the men spontaneously called for cheers and gave them again and again. It was purely a soldier's welcome.
“Lord Kitchener many times turned to the men. “His Majesty the King has asked me to tell you how splendidly he thinks you have done,” he said. “You have done excellently well. Better,” he added, “even than I thought you would.”¹¹¹

By now, the weather was beginning to change. Pte Hugh Garland,¹¹²16^th Battalion AIF, wrote to former colleagues at the Daily Herald in Adelaide on 18^th November.

“Up to the last few days the weather has been beautiful — like Australian spring — but winter is coming, and last night the gentleman who sends the snow gave warning of what a consignment from him might mean. Everything is wonderfully quiet just now. Now and then there is a casualty, but it is generally a sniper or a stray which gets the credit. We sit in our trenches — the lucky ones do — and watch the Turks. They sit in theirs and watch us.”¹¹³

While politicians in London dithered, winter intervened. Henry Nevinson described the effect of the storm and subsequent freeze beginning on 26^th November.

“Then, of a sudden, the wind swung round to the north and fell upon the wrecked and inundated scene with icy blast. For nearly two days and nights snow descended in whirling blizzards, and two days and nights of bitter frost succeeded the snow. The surface of the pools and trenches froze thick. The men's greatcoats, being soaked through with the rain, froze stiff upon them. Men staggered down from the lines numbed and bemused with the intensity of cold. They could neither hear nor speak, but stared about them like bewildered bullocks. The sentries and outposts in the advanced trenches could not pull the triggers of their rifles for cold.”¹¹⁴

As some sections of the Press used the failure at Gallipoli as another stick with which to hit an administration it didn't like, on 30^th November Sir John Simon took the unusual step of naming the newspapers he considered to be actively working against the national interest.

“We in England know the true value of these jaundiced sheets, but they are a constant source of disappointment to our Allies and distrust to the neutrals while the Germans have found them their principal consolation. The Foreign Office has constantly brought these influences under the Home Office’s notice. Several members have taunted the Government with being afraid to suppress the “Times” and “Daily Mail” because they were owned by wealthy men.”¹¹⁵

Complaints were always made about restrictions on what and how things could be reported but on 4^th December Bean explained that on this occasion there was good reason why little of substance had appeared.

“For during the long intervals in which no news of fighting in Gallipoli reaches Australia it is not the censor who is to blame. He is not suppressing cables with details of fighting — they get along as soon after a fight as the chances of sea transport can take them to Alexandria. In these long intervals the truth is that there are no battles going on.”¹¹⁶

The decision to evacuate Suvla and Anzac having been taken, for once security was tight. Nevinson's report of 14^th December contained clues about what was to come, even if he did not know it.

“Once, it is true, the order was given at Anzac not to fire either bomb or rifle or gun for three days unless the enemy should how himself. At last the Turks, wondering about the silence, began to pour over the parapets. Then a few — about a hundred — crept out. One gallantly rushed forward and spring [sic] into the front Australian trench. I saw the place where he was bayoneted. Many of the others were shot as they ran back.
“Unhappily, there can be no doubt that within the last fortnight the German connection with Gallipoli through Bulgaria has begun to tell. One hears of batteries of 12-inch howitzers, 11-inch howitzers, and 9.2-inch guns being seen upon the way, and the rumour is probably true, or something like the truth.
“About the increase of big-gun ammunition and the superior quality of the ammunition and the gunners themselves since the gate through Bulgaria was opened there can be no question. One felt the difference at once both at Suvla, Anzac, and at Helles; perhaps most at Helles, where the big guns firing across the Straits from positions on the “Asiatic side” near Troy have been particularly volcanic during the two days of my stay.”¹¹⁷

The introduction of so-called 'silent periods' was part of the strategy to accustom the Turks to allied trenches falling silent; the increase in Turkish artillery one of the reasons why the position was untenable.

After the complete success of the withdrawals from Suvla and Anzac, reports of how it was done began to appear. This excerpt from one filed under Malcolm Ross' name would have puzzled some, though.

“Three miles away, across the grey, silky sea, lies the dark shape of the land. Eight months ago, just as the first lemon grey of dawn was breaking over that long, lizard-shaped mountain, I watched such signs as were visible of the landing of the Australian troops in Gallipoli. Now, as night falls gradually, down upon the same historic hills, I am watching for the signs of their departure.”¹¹⁸

How could Ross write about his recollections of the original landing back in April when he was not even in Egypt at the time? The piece had been written by Bean, covering for Ross who was ill in bed on a hospital ship at the time. Questions were raised at the time in New Zealand about Ross' work on the peninsula, how much of his material took months to appear, which, irrespective of its merits, rendered it of little value as news.

The biggest news of all was the final evacuation of Helles on 9^th January 1916. Nevison reflected that day on what it meant.

“News has just come that Helles is evacuated. The first report said with the loss of 3,000 killed and wounded; the second says with no loss at all. In either cause, the event marks the end of a splendid and terrible episode in the war, and all who, like myself, were present for many months upon the peninsula must look back on the course of its history with mingled admiration and sorrow...
“But, indeed, the memories of Suvla are overwhelming. There are memories of tragedy and humour — of awful death, and of the general who up to the last hour continued polishing his trenches along the so-called “Boot,” and almost with tears in his voice, whispered to me, “Oh, what a pity it is to leave them.” I need say nothing about memories of that final departure. Only later I described it. I promised General Birdwood to say nothing further about it without his consent, and now I don't know where he is. Not that it would matter much now whatever I said. For the episode of the Dardanelles is over. We have reached the end of a story as truly epic as the ancient tales of battle.”¹¹⁹

Nevinson was fond of classical allusion but also looked forward to how it would all be remembered in future.

“If peace comes within the next few years to this distracted world, soldiers and students of war will go to visit those astonishing scenes; excursionists will go to gaze; mothers and lovers will go to search for some unmarked grave. Then the trenches and caverns where we lived will begin slowly to fall in and crumble away, except only such as a few shepherds may think superior to their huts, or useful as pens for sheep. Grasses and flowers will cover the desert that war has made, and the inhabitants will scarcely turn a dishonest penny by inventing the details of the conflict. But in our history the name of the Dardanelles will always remain as a characteristic memorial recording disastrous qualities, but, besides disastrous qualities, the versatility, fortitude, and endurance of our race, whether in old countries or in new.”¹²⁰

Many of the men recorded their sadness at leaving Gallipoli; their chief regret being to leave their fallen comrades behind. Had it all been for nothing?

On 11^th January, Lt-Col Charles à Court Repington, The Times correspondent at the heart of the shell scandal the previous May met Sir Ian Hamilton over lunch. He gave his verdict to a man who would disagree for the rest of his days.

“Wrote an article on 'Amateur Strategy' in the morning, but it was banned by the Censor. Lunched with Sir Ian and Lady Hamilton at 1 Hyde Park Gardens. He and I at once plunged into the history of the Dardanelles expedition... I told him that I did not think, if he had captured the heights above the Narrows, that the Navy could have compelled the Turks to make peace, and that therefore the objective assigned to him was not a correct one.”¹²¹

^Endnotes

¹Russell, W. H., The British Expedition to the Crimea, p. 185, G. Routledge & Co. (New York) 1858.

²Three of Burleigh's sons died during the Great War, including Lt Bennet Burleigh, 1/7th Bn Lancashire Fusiliers, who died of wounds at Helles on 15th July 1915. He is buried in Lancashire Landing Cemetery.

³The Armidale Express and New England General Advertiser (New South Wales), 16th February 1883.

⁴Evening News (Sydney, New South Wales), 2nd May 1929.

⁵Farrimond, Richard, Birdie. More Than Soul of ANZAC, Field Marshal Lord Birdwood of Anzac and Totnes, 1865-1951, p. 63, Helion & Company (Warwick) 2023.

⁶Kruger, Rayne, Goodbye Dolly Gray. The Story of the Boer War, p. 435, Pan Books (London) 1983.

⁷Weekly Times (Melbourne, Victoria), 5th October 1901.

⁸Ashmead-Bartlett, The Uncensored Dardanelles, p. 24, Hutchinson & Co. (London) 1928.

⁹Ashmead-Bartlett, Ellis, With The Turks in Thrace, p. 180, William Heinemann (London) 1913.

¹⁰The Daily Telegraph (Sydney, New South Wales), 20th June 1914.

¹¹Northcliffe quoted in Clarke, Tom, My Northcliffe Diary, p. 65, Victor Gollancz Ltd (London) 1931.

¹²Yorkshire Evening News, 7th August 1914.

¹³Dublin Daily Express, 30th September 1914.

¹⁴Ashmead-Bartlett, Ellis, Uncensored Dardanelles, p. 25, Hutchinson & Co. (London) 1928.

¹⁵Hankey quoted in Roskill, Stephen, Hankey, Man of Secrets. Volume 1, 1877-1918, p. 147, Collins (London) 1970.

¹⁶Ross, Malcolm and Ross, Noël, Light and Shade in War, pp. 28-29, Edward Arnold (London) 1916.

¹⁷The Advertiser (Adelaide, South Australia), 22nd January 1915.

¹⁸The Adelaide Advertiser (South Australia), 22nd January 1915.

¹⁹The Horsham Times (Victoria), 9th April 1915.

²⁰Fry was wounded at Gallipoli on 3rd May 1915. Evacuated to Egypt, he died of wounds at No, 15 General Hospital, Alexandria, on 10th May 1915. Buried in Alexandria (Chatby) Military and War Memorial Cemetery, he was the 23 year-old son of John and Eliza Fry, of Mount Barker, South Australia.

²¹West Coast Recorder (Port Lincoln, South Australia), 28th April 1915.

²²Fewster, Kevin (Ed.), Gallipoli Correspondent. The Frontline Diary of C.E.W. Bean, pp. 44-45, George Allen & Unwin (Sydney) 1983.

²³Ashmead-Bartlett, The Uncensored Dardanelles, p. 25.

²⁴Charles Bean quoted in Fewster, Kevin (Ed.), Gallipoli Correspondent, p.46.

²⁵Murray Pioneer and Australian River Record (Renmark, South Australia), 18th March 1915.

²⁶Land and Water, 13th March 1915.

²⁷Schreiner, George Abel, From Berlin to Baghdad, pp. 148-149, Harper & Brothers (New York), 1918.

²⁸Oxford Times, 3rd April 1915.

²⁹Halloran died of wounds received at Gallipoli in Egypt on 7th September 1915. Buried in Alexandria (Chatby) Military and War Memorial Cemetery, he was the 23 year-old son of Horace Charles and Edith Maude Halloran, of Sydney, New South Wales.

³⁰The Sun (Sydney, New South Wales), 16th May 1915.

³¹The former reporter was killed in action on 8th August 1915. Commemorated on the Chunuk Bair (New Zealand) Memorial, he was the 23 year-old son of Hugh Murray and Elizabeth Kirk McLauchlan, of Main South Road, Dunedin.

³²Gisborne Times (New Zealand), 2nd September 1915.

³³Howell Arthur Gwynne quoted in Wilson, Keith (Ed.), The Rasp of War. The Letters of H. A. Gwynne to The Countess Bathurst 1914-1918, pp.83-85 (excerpt), Sidgwick & Jackson (London) 1988.

³⁴Lyttleton Times (New Zealand), 24th July 1915.

³⁵Camperdown Chronicle (Victoria), 15th June 1915.

³⁶Falkirk Herald, 12th May 1915.

³⁷Roberts, Chris, The Landing at Anzac, p. 3, Army History Unit (Canberra) 2013.

³⁸The Sydney Morning Herald (New South Wales), 9th May 1931.

³⁹The Sydney Morning Herald (New South Wales), 9th May 1931.

⁴⁰Noel Ross quoted in Ross, Malcolm & Ross, Noel, Light and Shade in War, p. 20, Longmans, Green & Co. (London) 1916.

⁴¹The Daily Telegraph (Sydney, New South Wales), 29th May 1915.

⁴²Dublin Daily Express, 27th April 1915.⁴³Ashmead-Bartlett, Uncensored Dardanelles, p. 59.

⁴⁴Leader (Orange, New South Wales), 15th October 1915.

⁴⁵Lyttelton Times (New Zealand), 23rd July 1915.

⁴⁶Rochdale Times, 9th June 1915.

⁴⁷Rochdale Times, 9th June 1915.⁴⁸Ashmead-Bartlett, Ellis, The Uncensored Dardanelles, p. 84.

⁴⁹Nevinson, Henry, The Dardanelles Campaign, p. 155, Henry Holt and Company (New York) 1919.

⁵⁰The Tamworth Daily Chronicle (New South Wales), 29th May 1915.

⁵¹Barrier Miner (Broken Hill, New South Wales), 6th September 1915.

⁵²Promoted Captain, the former teacher was killed at Pozieres on 24th July 1916. Buried in Becourt Military Cemetery, Becordel-Becourt, France, he was the 25 year-old son of John and Elizabeth James, of 11 Chisholm Street, Ballarat East, Victoria.

⁵³The Herald (Melbourne, Victoria), 2nd November 1915.

⁵⁴Bean quoted in Fewster (Ed.), Gallipoli Correspondent, p. 12.

⁵⁵Ashmead-Bartlett quoted in Macleod, Jenny, Reconsidering Gallipoli, p. 126, Manchester University Press (Manchester) 2004.

⁵⁶The Gundagai Times and Tumut, Adelong and Murrumbidgee District Advertiser (New South Wales), 9th November 1915.

⁵⁷Rochdale Times, 19th June 1915.

⁵⁸Ashmead-Bartlett, The Uncensored Dardanelles, pp. 113-117.

⁵⁹Swing, Raymond, Good Evening!” A Professional Memoir by Raymond Swing, pp. 96-98, Harcourt, Brace & World Inc. (New York) 1964.

⁶⁰Ruhl, Arthur Brown, From Antwerp to Gallipoli, pp. 222–223, Charles Scribner's Sons (New York), 1916.

⁶¹Riddell, Sir George, Lord Riddell's War Diary 1914-1918, p. 98, Ivor Nicholson & Watson (London), 1933.

⁶²Lloyd George, David, War Memoirs of David Lloyd George 1914-1915, p. 45, Little, Brown, and Company (Boston, Mass.) 1933.

⁶³One example, taken from an Admiralty chart, was published in The Sphere on 19th December 1914.

⁶⁴New Zealand Herald, 19th July 1915.

⁶⁵Ashburton Guardian (New Zealand), 27th July 1915.

⁶⁶The Press (New Zealand), 26th July 1915.

⁶⁷Pte Robert Cast, 1st Bn Lancashire Fusiliers, was killed in action on 25th April 1915. Commemorated on the Helles Memorial, he was the 27 year-old son of Jesse and Elizabeth Rebecca Cast, of 28 Railway Square, Brentwood, Essex. He was one of a number of men from 1st Lancashire Fusiliers who had been killed on the day of the landing at W Beach to be erroneously reported to have died on 11th May 1915.

⁶⁸Midland Counties Tribune, 25th June 1915.

⁶⁹Bristol Times and Mirror, 12th June 1915.

⁷⁰Ashmead-Bartlett, The Uncensored Dardanelles, pp. 129-130.

⁷¹Mackenzie, Compton, Gallipoli Memories, p. 176, Cassell and Company (London) 1929.

⁷²Mackenzie, Gallipoli Memories, pp. 197-199.

⁷³Bean quoted in Fewster (Ed.), Gallipoli Correspondent, p. 135.

⁷⁴Hamilton, Gallipoli Diary, Vol.1, p. 339.

⁷⁵Hamilton, Sir Ian, Gallipoli Diary, Vol. 2, pp. 269-270, Edward Arnold (London) 1920.

⁷⁶Mackenzie, Gallipoli Memories, pp. 237-238.

⁷⁷The Mercury (Hobart, Tasmania), 31st May 1927.

⁷⁸Ashmead-Bartlett, The Uncensored Dardanelles, pp. 157-158.

⁷⁹Taranaki Herald (New Zealand), 11th September 1915.

⁸⁰Oxford Times, 14th August 1915.

⁸¹Harris died of wounds at sea on 9th August 1915. Commemorated on the Helles Memorial, he was the 21 year-old son of Reuben and Mary Harriet Harris, of 44 Pembroke Street, Cowley Road, Oxford.

⁸²Lyttelton Times (New Zealand), 15th September 1915.

⁸³In the Agricola Tacitus attributed a speech to a Caledonian chief, describing how the Romans “create a desolation and call it peace.”

⁸⁴Nottingham Guardian, 9th August 1915.

⁸⁵Yorke was killed in action on 10th August 1915. Buried in Embarkation Pier Cemetery, where he is commemorated by a special memorial, the former reporter for the 'Lyttelton Times' was the 24 year-old son of Joseph Courtenay Yorke and Ella Yorke, of Gonville, Wanganui, New Zealand, originally of Manchester, England.

⁸⁶Lyttelton Times (New Zealand), 1st October 1915.

⁸⁷Ashmead-Bartlett, Uncensored Dardanelles, p. 175.

⁸⁸River Falls Journal (River Falls, Pierce County, Wisconsin), 5th August 1915.

⁸⁹Mackenzie, Gallipoli Memories, p. 366.

⁹⁰Ashmead-Bartlett, The Uncensored Dardanelles, pp. 177-179.

⁹¹The Daily Telegraph (Sydney, New South Wales), 26th August 1915.

⁹²Manawatu Standard (New Zealand), 25th October 1915.

⁹³Nottingham Evening Post, 7th September 1915.

⁹⁴Ashmead-Bartlett quoted in Macleod, Reconsidering Gallipoli, p. 108.

⁹⁵Ashmead-Bartlett, Uncensored Dardanelles, p. 235-236.

⁹⁶Manawatu Times (New Zealand), 16th November 1915.

⁹⁷Ashmead-Bartlett, Uncensored Dardanelles, pp. 235-236.

⁹⁸Hamilton, Gallipoli Diary, Vol. 2, p. 190.

⁹⁹Bean quoted in Fewster (Ed), Gallipoli Correspondent, pp. 156-157.

¹⁰⁰Ashmead-Bartlett, Uncensored Dardanelles, p. 247.

¹⁰¹Hankey quoted in Roskill, Stephen, Hankey. Man of Secrets. Volume 1 1877-1918, p. 220, Collins (London) 1970.

¹⁰²Secretary's Notes of a Meeting of the Dardanelles Committee Held at 10, Downing Street, October 6, 1915.

¹⁰³Hawke's Bay Tribune (New Zealand), 16th December 1915.

¹⁰⁴Reed, John, War in Eastern Europe. Travels Through the Balkans, p. 262, Charles Scribner's Sons (New York) 1918.

¹⁰⁵Riddell, Lord Riddell's War Diary 1914-1918, pp. 125-126.

¹⁰⁶Hansard, The Balkans, House of Lords Debate, 14th October 1915.

¹⁰⁷Gwynne to Sir John Simon quoted in Wilson, (Ed), The Rasp of War, p. 139.

¹⁰⁸Auckland Star (New Zealand), 23rd December 1915.

¹⁰⁹Maryborough Chronicle, Wide Bay and Burnett Advertiser (Queensland), 9th December 1915.

¹¹⁰Hawera & Normanby Star (New Zealand), 4th November 1915.

¹¹¹Evening Mail (London), 1st December 1915.

¹¹²Awarded the DCM and commissioned for his services on the Western Front, Lieutenant Garland was killed with 48th Battalion in France on 3rd May 1918. Buried in Adelaide Cemetery, Villers-Bretonneux, he was the son of Hugh Arbuthnot Garland and Annie Garland, originally of Alberton, South Australia.

¹¹³Daily Herald (South Australia), 13th January 1916.

¹¹⁴Nevinson, Henry, The Dardanelles Campaign, p. 384, Nisbet & Co. Ltd. (London) 1920.

¹¹⁵Gisborne Times (New Zealand), 3rd December 1915.

¹¹⁶Oxford Times, 5th February 1916.

¹¹⁷Manchester Evening News, 28th December 1915.

¹¹⁸Grey River Argus (New Zealand), 5th January 1916.

¹¹⁹Birmingham Gazette, 27th January 1916.

¹²⁰Birmingham Gazette, 27th January 1916.

¹²¹Repington, Charles à Court, The First World War 1914-1918: Personal Experiences of Charles à Court Repington, Vol. 1, pp. 104-105, Houghton Mifflin Company (Boston, New York) 1920.

Return of a naval aviation classic

Thu, 13 Mar 2025 00:00:00 GMT

Dear reader,

We’re pleased to bring back into circulation a gem of a First World War memoir—type: entry-hyperlink id: GLgNU944NGngrYnukeWAi by C.E. Hughes, originally published by Ernest Benn in 1930. This faithful reproduction presents a unique first-hand account of naval air operations in the Middle East during the First World War.

Hughes served as an intelligence officer with the East Indies and Egypt Seaplane Squadron, documenting both operational activities—mapping missions over Palestine, raids on Turkish communications, and combined naval-air attacks—and the details of squadron life that are absent from other accounts of the period.

The new edition preserves all 63 of Hughes’ original black-and-white sketches, depicting locations across the region including Alexandria, Cairo, Port Said, Gaza, Haifa, Beirut and Damascus, as well as sketches of Royal Navy seaplane carriers—HMS Anne, Raven, Ben-my-Chree, Empress, and City of Oxford—along with a Short floatplane stationed at the Royal Naval Air Service (RNAS) base in Port Said.

Aviation historian Ian M. Burns provides a new afterword with biographical details of Hughes’ career.

“Essential”

Ian Burns, a retired aerospace engineer and naval aviation historian whose works include a history of HMS Ben-my-Chree (2008) and an examination of the Royal Naval Air Service and the birth of the aircraft carrier (2014), describes Hughes’ memoir as “essential” for understanding First World War naval aviation in the eastern theatres.

Unlike other memoirs such as William Wedgwood Benn’s In The Side Shows or Charles Rumney Samson’s Fights and Flights, Hughes’ account provides those everyday details about life and operations with the East Indies and Egypt Seaplane Squadron that simply cannot be found elsewhere.

Another essential text, Hard Lying: An Intelligence Officer on the Levantine Shore, 1914-1919 by Captain L.B. Weldon (recently republished by Eland Publishing), rounds out what might be considered the core library on this subject.

Yet Above and Beyond Palestine remains, in Burns’ estimation, possibly “the most useful and interesting of the four… It includes many everyday details missing from the other books.”

In a contemporary review, The Spectator (1930) remarked how the work of the naval airmen in the Eastern Mediterranean and Red Sea had been overlooked.

“How incessant and effective it was we may see in Mr. C.E. Hughes’ clever and amusing book. Long before our troops entered Palestine, our seaplanes had been mapping the country and worrying the Turk by raids on his communications and depots, to say nothing of combined naval and air attacks on Beirut and other places… few books about the War have been so cheerful or so brightly written as this modest volume.”

The original is now scarce and copies are expensive, so Little Gully and Ian Burns have collaborated to produce a modern edition.

The publication also whets the appetite for Ian’s upcoming history of French and British naval aviators in the Middle East.

Floatplanes Over The Desert

Floatplanes Over The Desert, to be published by Little Gully in mid-2025, tells the story of how the Aéronautique maritime and Royal Naval Air Service came to operate seaplanes far behind enemy lines, over sea and desert sand, pioneering techniques that continue to define naval aviation today.

Operating along the coast of Palestine, the Red Sea, and the Gulf of Akaba, and ranging as far south as the Maldives and as far north as Gallipoli and Salonika, these seaborne squadrons played a vital yet little-known role in the conflict.

Drawing on extensive research and rare photographs, Floatplanes Over The Desert will be the definitive history of this fascinating chapter in aviation history.

About Cecil Eldred Hughes (1875–1941)

Hughes was born on 3 December 1875, in London. He was the son of architect and surveyor Eldred Augustus Hughes and Jessie Maud Hughes, and had two brothers, Augustus Edward, who became an architect and Mayor of Marylebone, and Ernest Theodore Cobbett, who became a doctor. Cecil attended Misses Thomson’s Preparatory School in Hove, Brighton, possibly at the same time as Winston Churchill.

Later, while attending University College London from June 1896, Hughes met and formed a lifelong friendship with William Wedgwood Benn, whose father, John Williams Benn, had been a London councillor and Member of Parliament (MP) since 1889. Following in his father’s footsteps, William Wedgwood Benn was also elected to Parliament in 1906.

This connection with Benn proved important in Hughes’ life, as Benn served with the East Indies and Egypt Seaplane Squadron as chief observer and intelligence officer, and it seems likely that their friendship facilitated Hughes’ assignment to the squadron. Hughes also joined Benn Brothers publishing as an editor and director.

For his service with the East Indies and Egypt Seaplane Squadron, Hughes was twice Mentioned in Despatches.

A fuller biography can be found as an afterword to this edition of Above and beyond Palestine.

How to order

Available now through Amazon and book stores worldwide:

A must-read on Gallipoli – and more to come

Mon, 10 Feb 2025 13:00:00 GMT

Six months ago, we published type: entry-hyperlink id: 481ZndYriPUM9NfbvnG4HT by Jim Grundy, the first volume in his Gallipoli Day by Day series. Covering August 1914 to April 1915, it has been widely praised, and Jim is now hard at work on Volume 2, which will continue the narrative beyond April 1915.

Gallipoli has been studied and debated for over a century—so much so that, as John Spencer asked in his review for the December journal of the Douglas Haig Fellowship:

“What is there new to say?”

The answer, he found, was surprising:

“Not much, one might think, until picking up this book.”

Spencer described type: entry-hyperlink id: 481ZndYriPUM9NfbvnG4HT as “that rare thing in military history writing—a page-turner,” where Jim “lets the actors (and actions) speak for themselves, with only well-chosen, laconic, and often amusingly sardonic introductory sentences to provide context. It is a remarkable achievement.”

He particularly valued the immediacy of the storytelling:

“Telling the story of that cataclysm, day by day, brings the catastrophe into clear relief.”
“The author has done the hard yards in the archives and amongst the library stacks, and produced a work that will save future historians many arduous days (nay weeks) of research.”

With Volume 2 already in progress, Spencer summed up the reaction of many readers:

“I'm already looking forward to Volume 2.”

And there’s more good news for military history readers—we have two must-have histories coming soon.

Inside GHQ: The Gallipoli Diary of Captain Orlo Williams brings to light an extraordinary first-hand account from the heart of command. As cipher officer at General Headquarters (GHQ) for the Mediterranean Expeditionary Force, Williams had access to some of the most sensitive intelligence of the campaign. His day-by-day diary—previously unpublished, brilliantly contextualised by Rhys Crawley, Stephen Chambers and Ashleigh Brown—reveals the inner workings of GHQ, the tensions between commanders, and the unfolding disaster from an insider’s perspective. Offering a rare blend of military analysis, personal insight, and sharp critique, Inside GHQ is a must-read for anyone interested in the realities behind the Gallipoli campaign.

Also coming in 2025 is Floatplanes Over The Desert by Ian M. Burns, a remarkable history of naval aviation. This book tells the story of how the French Aéronautique maritime and British Royal Naval Air Service came to operate floatplanes far behind enemy lines, over sea and desert sand, pioneering techniques that still define modern naval aviation today. Operating along the coast of Palestine, the Red Sea, and the Gulf of Akaba, and ranging as far south as the Maldives and as far north as Gallipoli and Salonika, these seaborne squadrons played a vital yet little-known role in the conflict. Drawing on extensive research and rare photographs, Floatplanes Over The Desert sheds new light on a fascinating chapter of aviation history.