Part 10

“Dearie, be sure to keep your hat on at all times. Egypt, I hear, is awfully hot about Christmas-time. The doctor was telling me the other day that he could hardly sit on the veranda of Shepheard’s in the middle of the day. Keep your hat on, even when at Shepheard’s. The climate is so treacherous. Doc. says he recommends this hotel. Shall we send letters to you there? Iced drinks and heavy meals are dangerous, doc. says.”

This was more than flesh and blood could stand. “Am I having my leg pulled?” he asked. He looked at the envelope, and found it had been posted in Sydney thirteen months ago. He swore roundly at the expense of the postal people, and as all the rest of the letter was hopelessly out of date, he turned his attention to the next item of his very belated mail. It was another letter from Jessie. She again rambled on about Egypt, its climatic horrors and the dangers of Cairo’s attractions.

He bit his lip and smiled sourly when he came across a passage which related to the dancing deeds of a male acquaintance of his.

“Frank, as you know, has not enlisted yet,” she wrote. “He is not sure of a commission, because chaps are called upon to pass a beastly exam. He says it’s rot to ask him to sit for an examination, and he would just hate to serve in the ranks. In his case, ‘it would be super-patriotic,’ he says, to do so. I don’t understand what he means by this, but no doubt you will.”

Hughie knew that the man referred to was big enough to push all the Turks off the Peninsula; and Jessie proved a Job’s comforter when, later on, she told him that Frank only attended dances given for patriotic purposes.

The next item was a parcel containing hair-oil, twenty-five costly cigars, a cigar-holder, a suit of pyjamas, and a booklet given away by a firm of tobacconists, explaining to would-be-recruits that “Henry Clays” would be forwarded to any part of the Australasian front free of carriage. The parcel was addressed to Gallipoli.

“Darling,” wrote Jessie, in the letter that accompanied the parcel, “keep these things in your tent.[20] It must be a fag getting the oil you liked so much. I suppose you have to walk some distance from the firing-line to the nearest shops. No doubt the cigars will be acceptable after dinner, and, later on, the pyjamas. Don’t think me forward in sending the latter. But I know fellows do wear them. I’ve seen them advertised in the _Herald_. I am sending these things for use in Turkey.

“I have read all about the charge you chaps made on the 25th of April, and hope you were allowed to get well up in the front. It would just suit you. I know it is dangerous, but Frank says if it is dangerous for the men, how much more dangerous must it be for the officers. He says he will insist upon leading his men in all charges. Between you and me though, Hughie, I don’t think he will enlist. He has several pairs of lovely socks to hand by to-day’s delivery from David Jones’s, and if they are not for the yachting that is to start next week, then I’m slow. Frank and I are going to Randwick Races on Saturday, and if we see anything in your battalion colours we will back it and buy something for you with what we collect. Frank says he is sure you would like us to do this.

“Please don’t get shot, dear. We intend to send you lots of nice things for Christmas.”

Hughie, a gay dog in the good old ante-bellum days, who occupied a cosy job and circulated his sovereigns, tramped back to his dug-out through the saps, revolving wicked thoughts about Frank. Always a philosopher, he cleaned his rifle with the hair-oil, cut up the pyjamas to make pull-throughs, and to newly arrived reinforcements distributed the cigars. He and the old hands had lost any appetite they ever had for such comforts.

A. J. BOYD, A.N.Z.A.C.

FOOTNOTES:

[20] It may be necessary to explain that every man in the Gallipoli Peninsula was within easy range of the Turkish artillery. For anything except a hospital to use a tent would have been to give an open invitation to shrapnel. “The nearest shops” were about three miles behind the Turkish lines.

ARCADIA

I’ve stayed in many a boarding-house, From good, to fair, to rotten, Seeking the comfort of a home With all its cares forgotten.

In pubs I’ve dwelt and drowned the cares Which canker life by meeting With open hand each casual friend, And moistened well each greeting.

I’ve dwelt in many a town and shire, From Cairns to Wangaratta; I’ve dropped into the Brisbane show And Bundaberg Regatta.

But now I’ve struck an ideal spot, Where pleasure never cloys. Just list’ to the advantages This choice retreat enjoys—

The rent is free, no board to pay, No land or income taxes, And on my tail no middleman Nor fat man fatter waxes.

If I should say I need some clothes, Someone will just “_take action_”; No tailors’ bills can worry me And drive me to distraction.

And should my health appear to fail And appetite grow fine, My doctor hands me—not a bill, But just a Number 9.[21]

The scenery is glorious, The sunsets are cyclonic; The atmosphere’s so full of iron, It acts as quite a tonic.

And even parsons preach the Word, Nor take up a collection; While politicians don’t exist, Nor e’en a by-election.

No scandal ever hovers here To sear our simple lives; And married men are _always_ true To absent, loving wives.

But the crowning gift of all is—no- One’s happiness is marred, Finding answers to the questions On that d——d War Census Card.

And should you doubt if there can be A spot which so excels, Let me whisper—it is ANZAC! Anzac by the Dardanelles.

Bombardier H. E. SHELL, 7th Battery, Aust. F.A.

FOOTNOTES:

[21] Number 9—a particularly effective and universal remedy in the field service panier in the form of a pill.

THE CAVEMAN

I was dreaming in the trenches when thoughts and visions dim Took shape—there squatted close to me, with mien and visage grim, A dark and hairy caveman, huge of form and bare of limb; And he eyed me very strangely—and I thought I said to him:

“Oh! prehistoric caveman, did you own some rock-bound lair Where, secure from interruption, you consumed your scanty fare? Did you sally forth for hunting—or to seek some maiden fair? Did you club her on the cranium and drag her by the hair?

“She’d be mostly good when captured, cooked your grub and had her share. You were happy, Mr. Caveman, tho’ your brawny limbs _were_ bare. You were cold and hungry sometimes, but upon this point I’ll swear You were better off than we are—you’d no uniform to tear.

“Poor benighted Mr. Caveman, if you’d only _only_ known Of our glorious progression—all your arrowheads of bone Would have been replaced by rifles, and for little slings of stone You’d have had a 4.7 gun—what joys you _might_ have known!

“Things have changed, poor Mr. Caveman, since you went your simple way, But we’re living still in caves, sir, dug most carefully in clay. We call them trenches, dug-outs, saps; but, call them what we may, They are made to hide our skins in, just as in your heathen day.

“Two thousand years ago came One—taught ‘Peace on earth, goodwill’; Unceasingly we’ve preached it since, and that ‘Thou shalt not kill.’ And all these toilsome, changeful years we’ve retrograded till We are _with_ you, Mr. Caveman, for we’re simple cavemen still.”

I thought I was quite eloquent; my brain began to burn, When a hand stretched out and shook me—’twas a hand I could not spurn. I yawned and tried to dodge that grasp, but I awoke to learn ’Twas the N.C.O. on duty, saying: “Come, my lad, your turn!”

J. M. COLLINS, 9th Battalion.

AN ANZAC ALPHABET

_By J. W. S. HENDERSON, R.G.A._

_Note._—This illustration has had to be postponed pending a final statement by Mr. Hilaire Belloc as to the date of the certain exhaustion of German resources.

THE KAISER TO HIS SECRETARY

“Peace upon earth and unto men goodwill!” Such words rang true of yore. (Excuse my laughing.) Ironical they’ll ring while Huns are still A-strafing!

My Vaterland, I know, has set its back Against such old-world heresy and schism, And deems such tidings but a mere anach- ronism

Not till our Eagles twain replace the U- Nion Jack from Dover Harbour unto Calais, Proving thereby the truth of “Deutschland U- ber Alles!”

Not till all men shall hearken my decree, Not till all worlds shall tremble at my nod, Shall peace on earth be countenanced by ME— or God.

But since the time is fitting, down you sit And write—forgive the French—un petit billet- Doux with the season’s compliments to Lit- tle Willie.

Tell him how once his courage I admired, How recently—to my surprise—I’ve heard an (I trust) unfounded rumour that he’s tired of Verdun.

Bid him select a new cathedral’s spire, Bombard it! Seize it! Never mind the losses! Tell him its peal of bells will make more ir- on crosses.

To Hindenburg say—he must do his best, And if he can’t advance, then he must dig a New line, “according to our plans,” due west of Riga.

To her who knows how Bulgars’ palms are _Greeced_, Send greeting suited to a Royal Queen—oh! And bid her give her brother’s love at least To Tino.

To Enver write: “Since some of you seem lost And some of you don’t seem to know quite where ’e are. I’ve squared at—well—at never mind the cost, Bulgaria.

“That is my part; you must now stop the gab (Why, anybody can do that much, damn it!) Of those who try to shake the faith of Ab- dul Hamid.”

Then when I’m satisfied that General Bird- Wood and his Anzacs at the Dardanelles Are busy studying the latest word In Hells,

And my supplies are safe, then right away I’ll hie to Egypt—not by ocean liner, But by a rather safer route through A- sia Minor.

These plans of mine, at which some seem surprised, Are not, as fools think, calculated solely on The out-of-date campaigns of undersized Napoleon.

For when I’ve got the British blighters beat (Here comes my cunning), what I mean to do is To exercise, on water smooth, my fleet Near Suez.

Then, finally, for Double Eagles’ head, In order to perpetuate my Kultur, By Royal Decree I’ll substitute instead— A Vulture.

H. B. C.

THE ANZAC THUNDERSTORM—FROM THE TRENCHES

Do not we know that fall of night over Anzac!

Boom-boom! Boom-boom! Boom-boom! All the afternoon the warships on our right had been engaged in the playful work of tearing pieces from the hillsides of Achi Baba, eight miles to the south of us, ruining the trenches of our friend the enemy, blowing up a supply base, a mule train, dropping shells on the forts, or indulging in some of the many small acts of friendliness to which Jack Tar is prone. As the evening wore on we could see the flash from both shell and gun.

About the time we finished our frugal evening meal lightning began to play in intermittent flashes, like a heavenly searchlight, from far across the hidden Narrows and Asia Minor, and put to shame the puny bursts of light from the handiwork of man. The boats were still at it, but their dull booming was now intermixed with the rumble of distant thunder.

The lightning becomes more vivid. There is a rattling, crashing roar from the artillery of the skies that can never be equalled by any earthly batteries. Surely the Creator is in angry mood to-night, as comes a deafening peal, followed by vivid flashes of forked lightning in fantastic shapes. One seems a long arm with hooked fingers, as though the Most High would grasp one or both of the contending armies and hurl them into the seas. The lightning plays around the steel points of the bayonets of the motionless sentries, standing ever ready under the parapets, and keeping a ceaseless watch the night through on the enemy trenches.

Trench and traverse, hill and valley, are revealed by a brighter light than that of day. The rude wooden crosses, marking the places where, alas! too many of Australasia’s best have fallen, are brought out in bold relief against the dark background of holly scrub, and the narrow strips of winding roadway on the long hillsides from the beach—the work of months—up which perspiring fatigue parties toil with rations, water, ammunition and other necessary stores the day long, are laid out as a relief map by Heaven’s electricity.

A rattling, crashing roar, such as I have never heard in any Australian thunderstorm, is followed by a deafening clap, and a huge ball of fire falls earthward at terrific speed in the direction of Constantinople, followed by a sound as of a shattering explosion, which causes the very hillsides to quake, traverse and parapet to tremble, and the roofs of dug-outs to send down a shower of stones.

The ships have long given up the unequal struggle to make their voices heard against those of the elements, and as the storm passes over, and the rumblings of the thunder become more and more distant and the lightning less vivid, the veil is drawn from the face of the moon, and the White Lady sails out into her own once more.

The storm has had its effect on those manning the trenches. The bubbling rattle of the machine-gun, the sharp crack of Turkish rifles, and the heavier report of our own arms, which usually punctuate the night, are noticeable by their absence. The turmoil of an hour ago has turned to unbelievable quiet.

I. A. SAXON, 21st Australian Battalion.

SENSE OR ——?

There’s a certain hard-hearted old censor (Which is not meaning any offence, sir) Who won’t let us tell, When we say “I’m quite well,” Where we’ve planted the water condenser.

And that same stony-hearted old censor, When we speak of the shell-smoke as dense, sir, Will rule it out straight— And the same if we state That some of our non-coms, are denser.

And yet this same rigid old censor (Whose business must now be immense, sir) Will let it go through— Tho’ he knows it’s not true— If we tell her our love grows intenser!

But though mostly this rigid old censor Is a far stiffer bar than a fence, sir, Yet he let down the rails For our Christmas mails, So three jolly good cheers for the censor.

C. D. MC. (Sergt.).

OUR SAILORS—THE AMPHIBIOUS MAN

_Our special correspondent having been permitted the exceptional privilege of obtaining some insight into the work of the Navy, we are enabled to publish the following invaluable article_:

But was that really he? That stylish pair of khaki-coloured overall trousers surmounted by a serviceable-looking British warm patrol tunic of the same excellent material? At first glance it was hard to distinguish him from the dapper-looking foot-gunner, with whom he was engaged in lively conversation. Their words were inaudible to us onlookers, but from what one could gather the foot-gunner was making some interesting comments on the system of naval pinnaces.

And was this all of the representative of the greatest naval power that ever placed foot upon the land? But as the observer drew nearer, the flash of illumination came. For there, poised elegantly on the bows of the natty blue trench sou’wester was the emblem of Britain’s naval supremacy, the silver anchor in a golden hoop.

“Shiver my corrugated iron!” he was saying—using a phrase I remembered having heard so often as a young sub-midshipman (or “spotty,” as they are affectionately known by their seniors) on the old _Bellicasus_—when, noting the presence of company, he turned with a polite smile to the intruders and waved his apologies. It was then that one noted the true stamp of the man. He was a sailor every inch of him, from the drop of salt spray that dangled lazily from the tip of his nose to the purple-tinted seaweed that clung affectionately to the soles of his boots; and his speech was laden with that peculiar crispness and alertness which we associate with sailors; they imbibe it from the salt atmosphere of the gun-room and the ward-room. But what struck one most about him was his youthful appearance. “What’s What” would probably give his age as 29 (though he did not look a day more than 28½), and yet from the three bands on his cuff it was obvious to one of the writer’s experience in naval matters that he must be a subaltern-commander.

“Is it much like what you thought it would be after all your training?” I asked.

“Yes, pretty much,” was the reply, with an oddly reminiscent smile. “Iron is heavier than water, and a pinnace afloat is worth six aground.”

Here, I realised, was a man of perception—one who was fitted to guide the destinies of a great nation.

“And the landing of all these vast quantities of stores,” I urged; “is not that a great task?”

“We do not land them,” he said impressively and decisively, with the air of one closing an argument. “We unship them.”

I nodded understandingly. So that, then, was the key to the great mystery.

Lieut. A. L. PEMBERTON, H.Q. Staff, 24th Siege Bde. R.G.A.

POSSIES

“Possie!” exclaimed the inquiring General. “What is ‘Possie’?”

“That, sir,” said the C.O., “is Australian for recess, either firing or sleeping. It’s a contraction of ‘position.’”

“Now that’s where you’re wrong,” said the Chief Staff Officer, in a tone which admitted no argument. “Posse!—p-o- double s-e. Posse—a small force. Your firing recess is manned by a small force—what?”

And the C.O. was overcome by very great emotion.

“BEN TELBOW.”

MR. AEROPLANE

(_With compliments to the R.N.A.S. in the Dardanelles_)

Hurrah for Mr. Aeroplane, A-sailin’ in the blue; I’m glad to see you up again— Me compliments to you.

I’m Tommy Brown, Australian, Who’s fightin’ here on land; An’, strike me, Mr. Flyin’ Man, I’d like to shake your hand.

Sometimes I feel I’d like to streak Beside you in the sky; An’ then my nerves go all a-shake To think you’re up so high.

By jingo! how your bloomin’ grit Must make old Jacko dance; An’ don’t he fuss to make a hit, When given half a chance.

But on you go inquirin’, As if the job were fun, An’ Jacko was a-firin’ A nipper’s toy popgun.

You give the battleships the wink, They gets their guns to bear; An’ then—oh, strike me blue an’ pink— Then don’t the Turkies swear!

* * * * *

Ah, well—beyond the hills you go; We wish you best o’ luck. Remember, all the boys below Enjoy your bloomin’ pluck.

H. G. GARLAND, 16th Aust. Battalion.

ANZAC IN EGYPT

1. MAHOMED—AND AUSTRALIA

Mahomed was Mahomed. He was also a guide. The combination meant that he knew everything, and what he didn’t know he made up, and what he made up he told so often that at last he believed it.

We were on the usual Nile excursion—made by nearly the whole Australasian force at one time or another—to Memphis and Sakkara.

A boat had been arranged, and Mahomed tried to entertain us on the boat. He did. Knowing our absence from home and wives, he gave us a full account of his three wives; also some obscure, but not uninteresting, details of their feelings towards each other. Each was “a pearl,” and he didn’t know which was the pearliest. The idyllic peace of Mrs. Mahomed in triplicate was enough to make one a follower of the Prophet.