of the later movements. Moreover, a lengthy embarkation put us terribly at the mercy of the winter weather. Even a mild wind from the south or south-west raised a swell that made communication with the beaches precarious.
The plan was to move the war material, including the heavy guns, by instalments during a period of ten days, working only at night. A large portion of the troops would also be got off during these days, certain picked battalions being left to the last. Everything was to be kept normal during the daylight, and every morning before daybreak the results of the night's work must be hidden. Success depended upon two things mainly—fine weather and secrecy.
From the 8th December onward the troops, night after night, watched the shrinkage of their numbers. There was a generous rivalry as to who should stay till the last—a proof of spirit, when we remember that every man believed that the rearguard was doomed to death or capture. Soon only those in the prime of health and strength were left; all the weak and sickly had gone aboard the transports, which nightly stole in and out of the moonlit bays. Soon the heavy batteries had gone. Then the field guns began to disappear, leaving only enough to keep up the daily pretence of bombardment. It was an eerie business for the last battalions as they heard their protecting guns rumbling shoreward in the darkness. Then the horses and motor-cars were also shipped, and by Friday, the 17th December, very few guns were left. To the Turkish observers the piles of boxes on the beaches looked as if fresh supplies had been landed and we were preparing to hold the place indefinitely.
The weather was warm and clement, with light moist winds and a low-hanging screen of cloud. Coming in the midst of an Ægean winter it seemed to our men a direct interposition of Providence. It was like the land beyond the North Wind, which Elizabethan mariners believed in, where he who pierced the outer crust of the Polar snows found a country of roses and eternal summer. No fisherman ever studied the weather signs more anxiously than did the British commanders during these days. Hearts sank when the wind looked like moving to the west. But the weather held, and when the days fixed for the final embarkation arrived, the wind was still favourable, skies were clear, and the moon was approaching its full. Nature had joined the daring conspiracy.
On Saturday, the 18th December, only a few picked battalions held the Suvla front. The final embarkation had been fixed for the two succeeding nights. The evening fell in a perfect calm. The sea was still as a mill-pond, and scarcely a breath of wind blew in the sky. Moreover, a light blue mist clothed all the plain of Suvla, and a haze shrouded the moon. At 6 p.m. the crews of the warships went to action stations, and in the darkness the transports stole into the bay. Not a shot was fired. In dead quiet, showing no lights, the transports moved in and out. Every unit found its proper place. By 1 a.m. on the morning of Sunday, the 19th, the bay lay empty in the moonlight.
That Sunday was one of the most curious in the war. Our lines looked exactly as they had done during the past four months. We kept up our usual fire and received the Turkish answer, but had any body of the enemy chosen to attack they would have found the trenches held by a mere handful. There were 20,000 Turks on the Suvla and Anzac fronts, and 60,000 in immediate reserve. Had they known it, they had before them the grand opportunity of the campaign. Night again fell with the same halcyon weather. The transports—destroyers, trawlers, picket boats, every kind of craft—slipped once again into the bay, and before midnight the last guns had been got on board. By 3.30 a.m. the last of the troops were on the beach, and long before the dawn broke all were aboard. One man had been hit in the thigh by a bullet, but that was the only casualty.
Evacuation of the Gallipoli Peninsula.
The operations at Anzac were conducted on the same lines. The beaches at Suvla were 5 miles from the enemy and open to observation; at Anzac, in places they were less than 2 miles distant, but were concealed from view under the steep seaward bluffs. Some of our gun positions there were on dizzy heights, down which a gun could only be brought part by part. The work was brilliantly performed. On the Saturday night three-fifths of the entire force were got on board the transports. On Sunday night the rest were embarked, with two men wounded as the total casualties. By 5.30 a.m. on Monday morning the last transports moved away from the coast, leaving the warships to follow.
Then on the 12 miles of beach, from Suvla Burnu to Gaba Tepe, there was seen one of the strangest spectacles of the campaign. The useless stores left behind had been piled in great heaps on the shores and drenched with petrol. Before the last men left parties of Royal Engineers set time fuses. About 4 a.m. on the Monday morning the fires were alight, blazing most fiercely near Suvla Point. As the beach fires flared up, the enemy, thinking some disaster had befallen us, shelled the place to prevent us extinguishing the flames. The warships shelled back, and all along that broken coast great pillars of fire flared to heaven like giant beacons in some strife of the Immortals. Up to 8 o'clock picket boats were still collecting stragglers; by 9 a.m. all was over, and the last warship steamed away from the coast which had been the grave of so many high hopes and so many gallant men.
We were just in time. That night the weather broke, and a furious gale blew from the south which would have made embarkation impossible. Rain fell in sheets and quenched the fires, and soon every trench at Suvla and Anzac was a torrent. Great seas washed away the landing stages. The puzzled enemy sat still and waited. He saw that we had gone, but he distrusted the evidence of his eyes. History does not tell what fate befell the first Turks who penetrated into our empty trenches, or what heel first tried conclusions with the hidden mines.
The success—the amazing success—of the Suvla and Anzac evacuation made the position at Cape Helles more difficult. No one believed that a similar performance would be possible there after the enemy had been so fully warned; but on the 27th December it was decided to evacuate Helles, and the work went on during the last days of the month and the first week of the new year. On Friday, January 7, 1916, there was a Turkish attack, which the few men remaining managed to repel. Next day, Saturday, the 8th, was calm and fine, and all was ready for the final effort.
About 4 o'clock in the afternoon the weather changed. A strong south-westerly wind blew up; by 11 p.m. it increased to a gale of 35 miles an hour. This storm covered our movements from the enemy, but it nearly made retirement impossible. On some beaches the piers were washed away and no troops could be embarked. Nevertheless by 3.30 the last men were on board.
All night the Turks gave no sign, but when the transports had moved off the stores left behind were fired simultaneously by time fuses. Red lights instantly burned along the enemy lines, and a bombardment began which continued till sunrise. The Turks proclaimed that the retreat had been attended with desperate losses and great captures of guns. The claim was an absurd falsehood. We blew up and left behind the ruins of seventeen old worn-out pieces. Our total casualties at Helles amounted to one man wounded.
To avoid the disastrous consequences of a defeat is, as a military operation, usually more difficult than to win a victory. There is less chance of the high spirit of the attack, for such is the generosity of the human spirit that safety is less of an incentive to effort than the hope of victory. To embark so great an army secretly and without loss in mid-winter was an extraordinary achievement. It was made possible only by an almost miraculous series of favourable chances, and by the perfect organization and discipline of our men. We had failed at Gallipoli, but we had escaped the worst costs of failure. We had defeated the calculations of the enemy and upset every precedent.
Across the ribbon of the Dardanelles, on the green plain of Troy, the most famous war of the ancient world had been fought. The European shores had now become a no less classic ground of arms. If the banks of Scamander had seen men strive desperately with fate, so had the heights of Achi Baba and the loud beaches of Helles. Had the fashion continued of linking the gods with the strife of mankind, what strange myth might not have sprung from this rescue of the British troops in the teeth of winter gales and uncertain seas I It would have been rumoured, as of old at Troy, that Poseidon had done battle for his children.
