The bullying British officer ‘murdered’ by his own side
Never seen before, a brutally vivid memoir of Gallipoli — and a stark case of battlefield justice
dreadful sight met my eyes: all eight men were dead. A shell had burst inside the station, and my comrades were unrecognisable.
As I hurriedly reconnected the telephone, a message came through: ‘Send a signal to the flagships. Tell the fleet to stop their bombard- ment. Our ships are firing into our own men.’
I had no signalling flags, and all the equipment in the station had been destroyed, but I dashed along the clifftops to a gun battery, where I knew they would have their own flags. Once my frantic message to the fleet got through, the guns ceased. Not long after this, I was watching the ships i n the bay when an explosion hurled a huge spout of water into the air beside HMS Majestic, a pre-dreadnought battleship, and she started to list.
Soon, the huge ship turned turtle, her green underside showing, and she sank. The sailors were clambering over her sides and onto the keel before leaping into the water. Boats from other ships clustered around, trying to pick up survivors.
It transpired that a steel antitorpedo net had been lifted to allow the commander to go ashore and a German submarine, awaiting its moment, had opened fire.
The Majestic sank in 20 minutes, with the loss of 49 lives. The threat of U-boats would soon force the entire fleet to leave the bay, taking our heavy artillery cover with them.
Finally, in November 1915, more than six months after we landed, the Secretary of State for War, Lord Kitchener, came to inspect the Gallipoli battlefield.
Some naval commanders favoured a fresh attack to break the stalemate, but as soon as Kitchener saw how well fortified the Turks were, and how difficult the terrain, he decided we must evacuate.
Soon after he left, a violent storm hit the peninsula. On both sides, Turkish and British, men had to abandon their trenches to avoid being drowned. In early December, we were ordered down to V beach, after destroying our wagons and everything we could not carry.
Our few remaining horses were to be left behind.
I was devastated, but we had no choice. I gave Timbuc all the sugar I had saved from my meagre rations, petting and stroking him, until we had to say goodbye.
I could only hope the Turks would recognise what a wonderful animal he was and treat him well. Relieved as I was to escape Gallipoli, I was still desperately sad to part from my best friend. So I was overjoyed when, after sailing for days, we changed ships at Piraeus and found, aboard our new vessel, all nine of our surviving horses.
There was Timbuc. I couldn’t believe my eyes, but I was soon grooming him and making a fuss of him. For the next three years, Timbuc was my constant companion, serving in Egypt and Palestine.
I turned down the offer to become an officer because I had too much contempt for them to be one myself. By the end of the war, I was a sergeant-major on the Western Front in France, and Timbuc was with me.
But in 1919 came the saddest parting of all. With the war over, men were being sent home. I wanted to buy Timbuc for myself, but after four years on meagre Army pay I had no savings.
Nor could I abandon him in France, where he would probably be slaughtered and sold for horsemeat. With my heart breaking, I talked to the farrier. He agreed that I could not leave Timbuc to his fate, and offered to shoot him.
I turned away and walked into the wood nearby, and cried until I could cry no more. I had seen my comrades die, my f riends dead or injured, and I hadn’t cried like this. It was as though my own brother was being shot.
The farrier had led Timbuc into a trench, placed the rifle’s muzzle against the white star on his forehead, and pulled the trigger. Timbuc had died instantly, and was buried where he lay.
Every Remembrance Day, I wept f or Timbuc. My grandchildren would ask why I was crying, so I told them: I was sad, because I had lost the best friend in all the world.
I cried until I could cry no more
. . . he was dead