s told
off for that surprise. But from lack of room on the island bases it was
considered impossible to keep them together as a division, and one
brigade, the 29th, lay so far off that it could not be brought into the
concerted movement on Suvla. It was therefore sent separately to Anzac,
and joined in with the Australians. Broken up by regiments and not
operating as a unit, it furnished useful support; but no credit for what
the men did could go to Ireland. The other two brigades, the 30th and
31st, were left under the command of their divisional general and were
to attack on the left of the bay. But owing to some defect in
exploration of the coast-line, the movement was not so carried out; six
battalions out of the eight were landed on the south of the bay and were
attached to the right-hand force. Thus, in the actual operations Sir
Bryan Mahon had under his command only two battalions of his own men.
The remaining six operated under the command of the divisional general
of the Eleventh Division, who delegated the conduct of the actual attack
to one of his brigadiers. It is sufficient to say that immediately after
the action both these officers were relieved of their commands. The same
fate befell the corps commander under whose directions this wing of the
concerted movement was placed.

In face of these facts it would be absurd to deny that the troops were
badly handled. They suffered terribly from thirst, and the suffering was
in large measure preventible. The attack was a failure. All the success
achieved was the capture of Chocolate Hill, and the Irish claim that
success. It is disputed by other regiments. This much is certain: the
Irish were part of the troops who carried the hill, and at nightfall,
when the rest were withdrawn to the beach, the Irish were left holding
it.

But they had paid dearly, and in the days which followed many more were
sacrificed in the hopeless effort to retrieve what had been lost when
the surprise attack failed. The loss fell specially on a picked
battalion, the 7th Dublins, which had grown up about a footballers'
company, the very flower of young Irish manhood. Grief and indignation
were universal when tales of what had happened began to come through.

But of all this Redmond said no word in public. He threatened disclosure
in debate at one period; yet on a strong representation from Mr.
Tennant--in whose friendliness, as in the Prime Minister's, he had
confidence--he refrained. T