Part 2

“Here, take off my pack, and I’ll take off yours.” We help one another to lift the heavy, water-soaked packs off. “Hurry up, there,” says our sergeant. “Fix bayonets.” Click! and the bayonets are fixed. “Forward!” And away we scramble up the hills in our front. Up, up we go, stumbling in holes and ruts. With a ringing cheer we charge the steep hill, pulling ourselves up by roots and branches of trees; at times digging our bayonets into the ground, and pushing ourselves up to a foothold, until, topping the hill, we found the enemy had made themselves very scarce. What had caused them to fly from a position from which they should have driven us back into the sea every time? A few scattered Turks showing in the distance we instantly fired on. Some fell to rise no more; others fell wounded and, crawling into the low bushes, sniped our lads as they went past. There were snipers in plenty, cunningly hidden in the hearts of low green shrubs. They accounted for a lot of our boys in the first few days, but gradually were rooted out. Over the hill we dashed, and down into what is now called “Shrapnel Gully,” and up the other hillside, until, on reaching the top, we found that some of the lads of the 3rd Brigade had commenced to dig in. We skirted round to the plateau at the head of the gully, and took up our line of defence.

As soon as it was light enough to see, the guns on Gaba Tepe, on our right, and two batteries away on our left opened up a murderous hail of shrapnel on our landing parties. The battleships and cruisers were continuously covering the landing of troops, broadsides going into the batteries situated in tunnels in the distant hillside. All this while the seamen from the different ships were gallantly rowing and managing the boats carrying the landing parties. Not one man that is left of the original brigade will hear a word against our gallant seamen. England may well be proud of them, and all true Australians are proud to call them comrades.

Se-ee-e-e ... bang ... swish! The front firing line was now being baptised by its first shrapnel. Zir-zir ... zip-zip! Machine-guns, situated on each front, flank and centre, opened on our front line. Thousands of bullets began to fly round and over us, sometimes barely missing. Now and then one heard a low gurgling moan, and, turning, one saw near at hand some chum, who only a few seconds before had been laughing and joking, now lying gasping, with his life blood soaking down into the red clay and sand. “Five rounds rapid at the scrub in front,” comes the command of our subaltern. Then an order down the line: “Fix bayonets!” Fatal order—was it not, perhaps, some officer of the enemy who shouted it? (for they say such things were done). Out flash a thousand bayonets, scintillating in the sunlight like a thousand mirrors, signalling our position to the batteries away on our left and front. We put in another five rounds rapid at the scrub in front. Then, bang-swish! bang-swish! bang-swish! and over our line, and front, and rear, such a hellish fire of lyddite and shrapnel that one wonders how anyone could live amidst such a hail of death-dealing lead and shell. “Ah, got me!” says one lad on my left, and he shakes his arms. A bullet had passed through the biceps of his left arm, missed his chest by an inch, passed through the right forearm, and finally struck the lad between him and me a bruising blow on the wrist. The man next him—a man from the 9th Battalion—started to bind up his wounds, as he was bleeding freely. All the time shrapnel was hailing down on us. “Oh-h!” comes from directly behind me, and, looking around, I see poor little Lieutenant B——, of C Company, has been badly wounded. From both hips to his ankles blood is oozing through pants and puttees, and he painfully drags himself to the rear. With every pull he moans cruelly. I raise him to his feet, and at a very slow pace start to help him to shelter. But, alas! I have only got him about fifty yards from the firing line when again, bang-swish! and we were both peppered by shrapnel and shell. My rifle-butt was broken off to the trigger-guard, and I received a smashing blow that laid my cheek on my shoulder. The last I remembered was poor Lieutenant B—— groaning again as we both sank to the ground.

When I came to I found myself in Shrapnel Gully, with an A.M.C. man holding me down. I was still clasping my half-rifle. Dozens of men and officers, both Australians and New Zealanders (who had landed a little later in the day), were coming down wounded, some slightly, some badly, with arms in slings or shot through the leg, and using their rifles for crutches. Shrapnel Gully was still under shrapnel and snipers’ fire. Two or three platoon mates and myself slowly moved down to the beach, where we found the Australian Army Service Corps busily engaged landing stores and water amid shrapnel fire from Gaba Tepe. As soon as a load of stores was landed, the wounded were carried aboard the empty barges, and taken to hospital ships and troopships standing out offshore. After going to ten different boats, we came at last to the troopship _Seang Choon_, which had the 14th Australian Battalion aboard. They were to disembark the next morning, but owing to so many of us being wounded, they had to land straightaway.

And so, after twelve hours’ hard fighting, I was aboard a troopship again—wounded. But I would not have missed it for all the money in the world.

A. R. PERRY,

10th Battalion A.I.F.

THE REMINISCENCE OF A WRECK

[It may be necessary to explain that wood—for the roof-beams of dug-outs and the shoring up of trenches in wet weather—was priceless in Gallipoli. But whilst this book was being compiled Providence sent a storm. In the morning the beach was littered with portions of a wrecked schooner, stranded lighters, pieces of pier—all strictly the property of H.M. Government as represented by the officer commanding the Royal Engineers. “A gift from Heaven,” one Australian was heard to remark as he looked at the desolate scene next morning. Nor were his British brethren less grateful.—Eds.]

The storm had ceased, the sea was calm, the wind a trifle raw, And miles and miles of wreckage lay upon the sandy shore; And every time the waves came up they brought a little more.

The Sergeant and the Junior Sub. in contemplation stood. They wept like anything to see such quantities of wood— And then they smiled a furtive smile which boded little good.

The wood lay round in lovely heaps and smiled invitingly. “Do you suppose,” the Sergeant said, “that this is meant for me?” “I doubt it,” said the Junior Sub. “Here comes the C.R.E.[1]

“If fifty kings and fifty queens and fifty C.-in-C.’s Presented fifty indents and bowed low upon their knees, I hardly think that they would get more than a few of these.”

The Sergeant and the Junior Sub. walked on a mile or so, Until they found a shelving bank conveniently low; And there they waited sadly for the C.R.E. to go.

“Oh, timbers,” quoth the Junior Sub., who spoke with honeyed speech, “I hardly think it _safe_ for you to lie upon the beach.” And as he spoke he stroked the backs of those within his reach.

The timbers leapt beneath his touch and hurried plank by plank; They crowded round to hear him speak, and lined up rank on rank— But one old timber wagged his head and hid behind a bank.

“The time has come,” the Sergeant said, “to talk of many things— Of bully beef and dug-outs, of Kaisers and of Kings, And why the rain comes through the roof, and whether shrapnel stings.

“Some good stout planks,” the Sergeant cried, “are what we chiefly need, And four by fours and spars besides are very good indeed— So if you’re ready, sir, I think we may as well proceed.”

“Oh, C.R.E.!” remarked the Sub., “I deeply sympathise.” With sobs and tears they sorted out those of the largest size, While happy thoughts of days to come loomed large before their eyes.

Next morning came the C.R.E. to see what could be done; But when he came to count the planks he found that there was none— And this was hardly odd, because they’d collared every one.

Lieut. A. L. PEMBERTON, R.G.A.

TAYLOR’S HOLLOW, 8.12.15.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] C.R.E.—Officer commanding Royal Engineers.

AN AUSTRALIAN HOME IN 1930

When you come to an old spotted gum right on the saddle of Sandstone Ridge, after an eighteen-mile ride from Timpanundi, you’re very close to Freddy Prince’s war selection. There’s a well-made gate in the road fence on your left, and it bears the legend, “Prince’s Jolly.” Through that the track will lead you gently uphill into a wide and gradually deepening sap, until you think you’ve made some mistake. Then look to your left, and behold the front entrance to Freddie’s dug-out.

An old shell-case hangs near by, and when you strike it you’ll hear an echo of children’s voices, and a small platoon of youngsters charge you at the double. First time I blew in it was just on teatime, and my first glance in at the well-lit gallery and the smell of the welcome food are worth the recollection. Fred came out and led my cuddy round to the stable sap, where he was given what had been on his mind for some hours past. I didn’t lose much time in settling down to tea—it was already too dark to look around outside. Besides, as Fred explained, there was nothing to see of the homestead bar the inside, and by the third year of excavation most of that had been dumped into the gully and pretty well all washed away.

The meal finished, we played games with the kids. Fred seldom read the papers—he said he didn’t want to strain the one eye that was left to him—so Mrs. Prince retired to absorb the news I had brought in their mail-bag, and to prepare herself to issue it to her husband later.

Long after the children went to burrow, he and I smoked and pitched away about the past. He told me how he and many others had come to adopt the underground home. It had been the case of making a penny do the work of a pound, and Fred himself had done the work of a company. It had been a hard struggle, but the missus was a treasure, and never growled except when things were going well—as some people will do. It was just a case of dig in, dig up, and dig down. Anything in the way of iron or steel was prohibitive. Timber was too expensive, and in any case the timber that stood on the selection he had been forced to sell in order to stock the farm. It had been a problem of years, but he had made a job of it; and when he showed me round the house I didn’t grudge him his little bit of pride.

The main gallery opened to the surface at the front and back, and was about forty-five paces long. It was driven through hard ground, and was well arched so that it required no timber. On one side there was a branch to the pantries and the galley, and on the other side the dining-room and the bedrooms, which were really one big chamber with solid pillars of earth left at intervals, forming a group of rooms each with a dome roof and canvas partitions. A borehole had been put through to the surface at the centre of every room for ventilation and light, a device of reflectors enabling one to bring the sunlight in at all hours of the day.

Once, as we sat and smoked, a subdued chattering came from the adjoining room. I looked up and saw the top of a periscope over the partition. Instantly it disappeared with a noise like the scattering of furniture. Then a voice: “Oh, daddy, do you know what?”

“What’s happened, Kit?” replied the father.

“Two of your biscuit photo-frames are smashed.”

“Oh, never mind, old girl,” said Fred; “it’s time they began to break up after fifteen years. Go to sleep, both of you.”

As I lay awake next morning I overheard some homely details. How the baldy steer had hopped over O’Dwyer’s parapet into his lucerne patch; and Jimmy ought to have widened the trench last week when he was told to; and the milking sap hadn’t been cleaned out the previous day because Georgie had forgotten he was pioneer; and Jerry O’Dwyer had shot two crows from the new sniper’s pozzy[2] down at the creek—and so on.

When we sat down to breakfast Mrs. Prince was primed with news. “I told Fred,” she said, “I didn’t believe we’d taken Lake Achi Baba; the latest cable says it’s still occupied by the German submarines.” Fred nodded as if he didn’t care much.

“Achi Baba used to be a hill once, wasn’t it, daddy?” chipped in one of the youngsters.

“Yes, it used to be one time,” replied his father, looking into the blue puffs that drifted away from his pipe and out past the waterproof sheet of the dug-out door. In those blue mists of the past what he saw was the bald pate of the great hill, with the howitzers tearing earth out of the crest of it by the hundredweight, while the Turkish miners ever heaped the outside of it with the spoil from their tunnels. “Yes, it was a hill once.”

Thus Freddy and his wife and family live their life as happily as if there were no war.

“SOLDIEROO,” 2nd Field Co., Aust. Engrs.

FOOTNOTES:

[2] Pozzy or Possie—Australian warrior’s short for “position,” or lair.

NON NOBIS

Not unto us, O Lord, to tell Thy purpose in the blast, When these, that towered beyond us, fell And we were overpast.

We cannot guess how goodness springs From the black tempest’s breath, Nor scan the birth of gentle things In these red bursts of death.

We only know—from good and great Nothing save good can flow; That where the cedar crashed so straight No crooked tree shall grow;

That from _their_ ruin a taller pride— Not for these eyes to see— May clothe one day the valleyside.... Non nobis, Domine.

C. E. W. B.

THE “RIC”

THE ÆGEAN WIND

The winter winds of Lemnos, They blow exceeding fast; There’s nothing quite so stiff on earth As that persistent blast.

It ducks around the corners, Through all the hills it shoots; It blows the milk from out your tea, The laces from your boots.

Is this the soft Ægean wind Which Byron raved about, That whirls across the ridges And turns you inside out?

Or is it some invention Which Providence has made To give a breezy welcome to The Third Brigade?

H. B. K.

Wandering spirits, seeking lands unknown, Such were our fathers, stout hearts unafraid. Have we been faithless, leaving homes they made, With their life’s blood cementing every stone? Nay, when the beast-like War God did intone His horrid chant, was our first reckoning paid For years of ease. Their restless spirits bade Us fight with those whose Homeland was their own.

Rest easy in your graves, the spirit lives That brought you forth to claim of earth the best. Ours it is now, and ours it shall remain; Mere jealous greed no honest birthright gives. Shades of our fathers, hear our faith confessed, We shall defend your Empire or be slain.

Capt. JAMES SPRENT,

A.M.C. (3rd Field Amb.).

GLIMPSES OF ANZAC

It’s the monotony we revile, not—to a like degree—hard work or hard fare. To look out on the same stretch of beach or the same patch of trench wall and the same terraces of hostile black and grey sandbags day after day is to be wearied. There is the same sitting in the same trench, shelled by the same guns, manned, perhaps (though that we endeavour to avert), by the same Turks. Unhappily it is not the same men of ours that they maim and kill daily.

And if one’s dug-out lies on a seaward slope there is, every morning, the same stretch of the lovely Ægean, with the same two islands standing over in the west.

Yet neither the islands nor the sea are the same any two successive days. The temper of the Ægean at this time changes more suddenly and frequently than ever does that of the Pacific. Every morning the islands of the west take on fresh colour, and are trailed by fresh shapes of mist.

To-day Imbros stands right over against you; you see the detail of the fleet in the harbour, and the striated heights of rocky Samothrace reveal the small ravines. To-morrow, in the early morning light, Imbros lies mysteriously afar off like an Isle of the Blest, a delicate vapour-shape reposing on the placid sea.

Nor is there monotony in either weather or temperature. This is the late autumn. Yet it is a halting and irregular advance the late autumn is making. Fierce, biting, raw days alternate with the comfortableness of the mild late summer. This morning, to bathe is as much as your life is worth (shrapnel disregarded); to-morrow, in the gentle air, you may splash and gloat an hour and desire more. And you prolong the joy by washing many garments.

Here in Anzac we have suffered the tail-end of one or two autumn storms, and have had two fierce and downright gales blow up. The wind came in the night, with a suddenness that found us most unprepared. In half an hour many of us were homeless, crouching about with our bundled bedclothes, trespassing tyrannically upon the confined space of the stouter dug-outs of our friends—a sore tax upon true friendship. They lay on their backs and held down their roofs by mere weight of body until overpowered. Spectral figures in the driving atmosphere collided and wrangled and swore and blasphemed. The sea roared over the shingle with a violence that made even revilings inaudible.

The morning showed a sorry beach. There were—there had been—three piers. One stood intact; the landward half of the second was clean gone; of the third there was no trace, except in a few splintered spars ashore. A collective dogged grin overlooked the beach that morning at the time of rising. The remedying began forthwith; so did the bursting of shrapnel over the workmen. This stroke of Allah upon the unfaithful was not to go unassisted.

With misgiving we foresee the winter robbing us of the boon of daily bathing. This is a serious matter. The morning splash has come to be indispensable. Daily at six-thirty you have been used to see the head of General Birdwood bobbing beyond the sunken barge inshore; and a host of nudes lined the beach. The host is diminishing to a few isolated fellows, who either are fanatics or are come down from the trenches and must clear up a vermin-and-dust-infested skin at all costs.

Not infrequently “Beachy Bill” catches a mid-morning bathing squad. There is ducking and splashing shorewards, and scurrying by men clad only in the garment Nature gave them. Shrapnel bursting above the water in which you are disporting raises chiefly the question: “Will it ever stop?” By this you mean: “Will the pellets ever cease to whip the water?” The interval between the murderous lightning flash aloft and the last pellet-swish seems, to the potential victim, everlasting.

The work of enemy shell behind the actual trenches is peculiarly horrible. Men are struck down suddenly and unmercifully where there is no heat of battle. A man dies more easily in the charge. Here he is wounded mortally unloading a cart, drawing water for his unit, directing a mule convoy. He may lose a limb or his life when off duty—merely returning from a bathe or washing a shirt.

One of our number is struck by shrapnel retiring to his dug-out to read his just delivered mail. He is off duty—is, in fact, far up on the ridges overlooking the sea. The wound gapes in his back. There is no staunching it. Every thump of the aorta pumps out his life. Practically he is a dead man when struck; he lives but a few minutes—with his pipe still steaming, clenched in his teeth. They lay him aside in the hospital.

That night we stand about the grave in which he lies beneath his groundsheet. Over that wind-swept headland the moon shines fitfully through driving cloud. A monitor bombards off shore. Under her friendly screaming shell and the singing bullets of the Turks the worn, big-hearted padre intones the beautiful Catholic intercession for the soul of the dead in his cracked voice.

THE STORMS OF NOVEMBER

_Photographs by C. E. W. BEAN_

At the burial of Sir John Moore was heard the distant and random gun. Here the shells sometimes burst in the midst of the burial party. Bearers are laid low. A running for cover. The grave is hastily filled in by a couple of shovel-men; the service is over; and fresh graves are to be dug forthwith for stricken members of the party. To die violently and be laid in this shell-swept area is to die lonely indeed. The day is far off (but it will come) when splendid mausolea will be raised over these heroic dead. And one foresees the time when steamers will bear up the Ægean pilgrims come to do honour at the resting places of friends and kindred, and to move over the charred battlegrounds of Turkey.

Informal parades for Divine Service are held on Sabbath afternoons for such men as are off duty. Attendances are scanty. The late afternoons are becoming bleak; men relieved from labour seek the warmth of their dug-outs.

The chaplain stands where he can find a level area and awaits a congregation. When two or three are gathered together he announces a hymn. The voices go up in feeble unison, punctuated by the roar of artillery and the crackle of rifle fire. The prayers are offered. The address is short and shorn of cant. This is no place for canting formula. Reality is very grim all round. There is a furtive under-watchfulness against shrapnel. One almost has forgotten what it is to sit in security and listen placidly to a sermon at church.

The chaplains have come out to do their work simply and laboriously. They are direct-minded, purposeful men. One is a neighbour in a Light Horse regiment—a colonel. He flaunts it in no sandbagged palace. His dug-out is indistinguishable from those of the privates between whom he is sandwiched—mere waterproof sheet aloft and bed laid on the Turkish clay; a couple of biscuit boxes with his oddments—jam, and milk, and bread: writing materials and toilet requisites. A string line beneath the roof holds his towel and lately washed garments. He is a simple parson, hard-worked by day and night in and about the trenches, careful for such comforts as can be got for his men in this benighted land; lying down at nights listening to the forceful lingo of his neighbours, and confessedly admiring its graphic if well-garnished eloquence. He sees his duty with a direct gaze—a faithful Churchman at work in the throes of war.