Part 3

In a land of necessarily hard fare a regimental canteen in Imbros does much to compensate. Unit representatives proceed thence weekly by trawler for stores. One feels almost in the land of the living when so near lie tinned fruit, butter, cocoa, coffee, sausages, sauces, chutneys, pipes, tobacco, and chocolate. Such a repertoire, combined with a monthly visit from the paymaster, removes one far from the commissariat hardships of the Crimea.

The visualising of unstinted civilian meals is a prevalent pastime. Men sit at the mouths of their dug-outs and relate the minutiæ of the first dinner at home. Some men excel in this. They do it with a carnal power of graphic description which makes one fairly pine. One has heard a colonel-chaplain talk for two hours of nothing but grub, and at the end convincingly exempt himself from any charge of carnal-mindedness. Truly we are a people whose god is their belly. But that we never admitted until this period of enforced deprivation.

Those comforts embraced by the use of good tobacco and deliverance from vermin at night are the most desired; both hard to procure. There is somehow a great gulf fixed between the civilian quality of any tobacco and the make-up of the same brand for the Army. Once in six months a friend in Australia dispatches a parcel of cigars. Therein lies the entrance to a fleeting paradise—fleeting indeed when one’s comrades have sniffed or ferreted out the key. After all, the pipe, given reasonably good tobacco, gives the entrée to the paradise farthest removed from that of the fool.

Of the plague of nocturnal vermin little need be said explicitly. The locomotion of the day almost dissipates the evil. But it makes night hideous.

The tendency is to retire late and thus abridge the period of persecution. One’s friends drop in for a yarn or a smoke after tea, and the dreaded hour of turning-in is postponed by reminiscent chit-chat and the late preparation of supper. One renews, here, a surprising bulk of old acquaintance. Old college chums are dug out, and one talks back and lives a couple of hours in the glory of days that have passed. Believe it not that there is no deliverance possible from the hardness of active service. The retrospect, and the prospect, and the ever-present faculty of visualisation are ministering angels sent to minister.

Mails, too, are an anodyne. Their arrival eclipses considerations of life and death—of fighting and the landing of rations. The mail-barge coming in somehow looms larger than a barge of supplies. Mails have been arriving weekly for six months, yet no one is callous to them.

Of incoming mail, letters stand inevitably first. They put a man at home for an hour.

But so does the local newspaper. Perusing that, he is back at the old matutinal habit of picking at the news over his eggs and coffee, racing against the suburban business train. Intimate associations hang about the reading of the local sheet—domestic and parochial associations almost as powerful as are brought by letters.

And what shall be said of parcels from home? The boarding-school home-hamper is at last superseded. No son, away at Grammar School, ever pursued his voyage of discovery through tarts, cakes and preserves, sweets, pies and fruit with the intensity of gloating expectation in which a man on Gallipoli discloses the contents of his “parcel.”

“’Struth! a noo pipe, Bill!—an’ some er the ole terbaccer. Blimey! Cigars, too!—’ave one, before the mob smells ’em.... D——d if there ain’t choclut! Look ’ere.... An’ ’ere’s some er the dinkum[3] coc’nut-ice the tart uster make.... Hallo! more socks! Nev’ mind: winter’s comin’. ’Ere, ’ow er yer orf fer socks, cobber?... Take these—bonzer ’and-knitted. Sling them issue-things inter the sea.... I’m d——d!—soap for the voy’ge ’ome.... ’Angkerch’fs!—orl right w’en the —— blizzards come, an’ a chap’s snifflin’ fer a —— week on end.... Writin’ paper!—well, that’s the straight —— tip, and no errer! The beggars er bin puttin’ it in me letters lately too. Well, I’ll write ter-night on the stren’th of it. Gawd! ’ere’s a shavin’ stick!—’andy, that! I wuz clean run out—usin’ carbolic soap, —— it!... Aw, that’s a dinkum —— parcel, that is!”

HECTOR DINNING,

Aust. A.S.C.

FOOTNOTES:

[3] Dinkum—Australian for “true.”

PARABLES OF ANZAC

I

FROM SHELL GREEN

_From a Correspondent in Australian Field Artillery, “Sea View,” Boltons Knoll, near Shell Green._

I was looking out from the entrance of my dug-out, thinking how peaceful everything was, when Johnny Turk opened on our trenches. Shells were bursting, and fragments scattered all about Shell Green. Just at this time some new reinforcements were eagerly collecting spent fuses and shells as mementoes. While this fusillade was on, men were walking about the Green just as usual, when one was hit by a falling fuse. Out rushed one of the reinforcement chaps, and when he saw that the man was not hurt he asked: “Want the fuse, mate?”

The other looked at him calmly.

“What do you think I stopped it for?” he asked.

II

THE TURK IN THE PERISCOPE

_The same Correspondent writes:_

I am sure that wherever the old 5th Light Horsemen, who put in such a warm spell at “Chatham’s”[4] some time ago, congregate after this war the following incident will be told and retold:

Bill Blankson was a real hard case, happy-go-lucky, regardless of danger. Bill was put on sapping for over a fortnight, and at the end of that time had a growth of stubble that would have brought a flush of pride to his dirty face if he had seen it. But he hadn’t seen it—one does not carry a looking-glass when sapping.

At the end of the fortnight he was taken off sapping and put on observing.

Anyone who has used a periscope knows that unless the periscope is held well up before the eyes, instead of the landscape, one sees only one’s own visage reflected in the lower glass.

Bill did not hold the periscope up far enough, and what he saw in it was a dark, dirty face with a wild growth of black stubble glaring straight back at him. He dropped the periscope, grabbed his rifle, and scrambled up the parapet, fully intending to finish the Turk who had dared to look down the other end of his periscope.

He had mistaken his own reflection for a Turk’s.

FOOTNOTES:

[4] Chatham’s Post at the southern end of the line was attacked by the Turks for several days in November.

THE YARNS THAT ABDUL TELLS

One of the chief pastimes of the Turks who live behind the black and white sandbags opposite (writes an officer who knows them intimately) is that of listening to stories told by the storytellers in the cafés of the Asia Minor villages. The hero of these stories is very often a certain Nastradi Hodja (who really existed at one time, and made a reputation by his wit as well as through his stupidity). Here is an example of the sort of story about Nastradi which especially pleases the Turk:

Nastradi Hodja’s wife woke up one night through hearing a noise. She got up, and going out on to the landing on the upper floor, outside her bedroom, called out:

“Nastradi, what was that noise?”

Nastradi’s voice came up from below. “Don’t pay any attention to it,” he said. “It was only my shirt that tumbled down the stairs.”

“Does a shirt make such a noise?” she asked.

“No,” was the reply; “but I was in it.”

A. P. M.

THE GRAVES OF GALLIPOLI

The herdman wandering by the lonely rills Marks where they lie on the scarred mountain’s flanks, Remembering that wild morning when the hills Shook to the roar of guns and those wild ranks Surged upward from the sea.

None tends them. Flowers will come again in spring, And the torn hills and those poor mounds be green. Some bird that sings in English woods may sing To English lads beneath—the wind will keep Its ancient lullaby.

Some flower that blooms beside the Southern foam May blossom where our dead Australians lie, And comfort them with whispers of their home; And they will dream, beneath the alien sky, Of the Pacific Sea.

“Thrice happy they who fell beneath the walls, Under their father’s eyes,” the Trojan said, “Not we who die in exile where who falls Must lie in foreign earth.” Alas! our dead Lie buried far away.

Yet where the brave man lies who fell in fight For his dear country, there his country is. And we will mourn them proudly as of right— For meaner deaths be weeping and loud cries: They died pro patria!

Oh, sweet and seemly so to die, indeed, In the high flush of youth and strength and pride. These are our martyrs, and their blood the seed Of nobler futures. ’Twas for us they died. Keep we their memory green.

This be their epitaph. “Traveller, south or west, Go, say at home we heard the trumpet call, And answered. Now beside the sea we rest. Our end was happy if our country thrives: Much was demanded. Lo! our store was small— That which we had we gave—it was our lives.” L.L.

TO A LYRE-BIRD

Oh, Lyre-bird! tethered to the earth, Thou envy’st not the skylark in the sky, But pour’st a thousand mocking notes of mirth, Drowning the ravished songsters singing nigh. If wing’d—so pure thy voice—thou might’st aspire To drown indeed the whole seraphic choir!

And, listening to thee—captive in thy chains— I think me of a singer such as thou Who captured Nature’s notes for lovely swains, And echoed them behind a mountain plough; And moiled and sang, to prove to Gods above The charm of earthly singing and of love.

Leave to the soaring minstrel of the sky Her privilege of song at heaven’s gate; Leave to the nightingale the charms whereby She lights the grove and hushes strife and hate. As great a boon—oh, blessed bird!—is thine, Gyv’d to the soiling earth, yet singing still divine! H.J.A. 8th Batt., 2nd Infantry Brigade.

GRAVES AT ANZAC

THE HOPELESS DAWN

THE NEVER-ENDING CHASE

Whilst seated one day in my dug-out, Weary and ill at ease, I saw a gunner carefully Scanning his sunburnt knees;

I asked him why he was searching, And what he was looking for, But his only reply was a long-drawn sigh As he quietly killed one more.

AM. PARK.

ANZAC DIALOGUES

It was a fine day, and they were standing by waiting for instructions from the warrant officer to commence unloading and loading; and in the general murmur of voices one noted the broad tones of the British Tommy and the harsher ones of Tommy Kangaroo, the latter less careful of his grammar than the other; also the loud-voiced directions of the Indian Tommy, or rather Johnny, who condescended now and then to break into pidgin-English (with a smile).

Presently from amongst a group sitting in the shelter of a stack of bully beef came the request: “Give us a light, mate,” in the blunt style which belongs to Tommy Kangaroo.

“Aw, yes,” replies Tommy Atkins, or “Kitch,” as he is beginning to be called. “Aw, yes.” And while the other is pulling at his fag: “Have you got any baadges, choom?”

“No, I gave mine to a little nipper who used to sing on the stage at the El Dorado in Cairo.”

“Did you now! She must have a fine stack of baadges now, that ’un. You’re about the fifteenth lad that I know has given his baadges to ’er. Aw, thanks”—taking back his cigarette. “I see you’re from Austra-alia. What State did you live in?”

“Vic,” is the reply.

“I wonder if you knew my brother? He went to Victoria a couple of years ago. Got a job on the ra-ailways, he did, and wanted me to come out too. I’ll go when this is over; but ’ee’s married now, ’e is, and got a couple of pet lambs that ’e said was given to ’im by a chap named Drover; ’is name is Dobbs.”

“Never met him, matey, but he is all right, you bet. A Pommy[5] can’t go wrong out there if he isn’t too lazy to work.”

“Ah, yes, he tells me they called ’im Pommy, but that they was good lads. I could not understand them slinging off at ’im and ’im thinking they were treatin’ ’im like as ’e was one of themselves.”

“Oh, well, yer see, mate, we don’t call the like of ’im ‘Pommies’ because we dislike ’em, but just as a matter of description. Of course, sometimes one of ’em gets ’is back up and calls us sons of convicts in return for us chuckin’ off at ’im, and then he’s told lots of things—sometimes true and very often untrue; but Australia’s all right, mate. You need not be ashamed to be called a ‘Pommy’ out there.”

“Blime, there’s old ‘Beachy’[6] at it again,” breaks in another. “’Ee’s a fair cow, ’e is. Made me spill two buckets er water this mornin’, and our flamin’ cook told me I was too lazy to go down for it. I’ll give ’im ‘Beachy’ after this job is over if ’e don’t look out. Hallo, Johnny, Beachy catch-em mule, eh?”

“Beachy no good—mule good,” replies the tall spare Indian, with a smile, as he tries to bring his pair of mules under the shelter of the stack. “Mule very good,” he says, as he squats in front of his pair.

“’Ow long yer been ’ere, choom?” asks Kitch of Kangaroo.

“Nearly six munce now. Blime, I could do with a spell now, too. I’m beginnin’ to get a ’ump like a camel from carryin’ these flamin’ boxes.”

“Aw, yes, but it’s better than bein’ in the trenches, ain’t it?” asks Kitch.

“Blime, no,” is the reply. “A man’s got a chance to hit back there, but down ’ere it’s up to putty. It’s bad enough to be eatin’ bully beef, but carryin’ it as well is rotten. I couldn’t look a decent bullock in the face now for what I’ve said about ’im when ’e’s tinned.”

“Did yer ’ear wot was doin’ up at Narks Post larst night, Bill?”

“Yes; some d——d gobblers thought they would catch our mob nappin’ but missed the bus, and some of ’em are still runnin’ yellin’ to Aller to stick to ’em. Blast ’em! I’ll give ’em Aller when I get a chance. Keepin’ a man stuck on ’ere when ’e might be havin’ a good time somewhere else. I’ll bet——”

“Come on, Bill, ’ere comes the W.O.,”[7] says his mate.

“D—— ’im—see yer later, matey; and I’ll try to get a badge for yer.”

“Don’t forget, choom. Ah want it to send to my married sister’s little lass. She thinks youm lads be prime boys.”

“Prime boys,” mutters Bill, as he grabs his case of bully. “Yes, prime boys jugglin’ Best Prime Bully Beef.”

“D—— it—shut up, Bill,” says his mate. “You’re always growlin’—you’ll want flowers on your grave next.”

N. ASH.

FOOTNOTES:

[5] Pommy—short for pomegranate, and used as a nickname for immigrants.

[6] “Beachy”—a battery of Turkish guns, well known on Anzac Beach.

[7] W.O.—Warrant Officer.

FROM QUINN’S POST

Celestial star that crossed my path, Leaving fair visions in my soul; Oh! why did you e’er leave your realm And break my heart? With mournful dole Now restless night doth me pursue, And fiends do tempt my soul to hell. Ah! gentle maid, if you but knew My inner shrine, and it could tell My hidden love, as deep, as true, As gentle as sweet birds at play; Drift back, bright star, and comfort me In this unending, dreary day.

V. N. HOPKINS, Pte., A.M.C., att. 17th Aust. Bn.

_The Happy Warrior_

(A SOLILOQUY) SOMEWHERE IN THE ANZAC ZONE

I

In my sandy dug-out by the sea Of Saros beyond Samothrace, I’m as happy as happy can be, And I’m bent upon washing my face Before I go into my tea; But the water’s so scarce in this land That we do all our washing with sand— And we _always_ have sand in our tea.

II

In my fly-filled dug-out by the sea Near Anzac, beyond Samothrace, Both the cook and colonel agree That you _must_ have some semblance of grace At breakfast, at dinner, and tea, To prevent you from damning the eyes Of the savage and pestilent flies— For you _always_ have flies in your tea!

III

In my shell-swept dug-out by the sea Of Saros, beyond Samothrace, I’m as happy as happy can be, Tho’ the shrapnel comes flying apace Over moorland and mountain and lea— For I wish you to quite understand, Tho’ the hens have vacated the land, Yet we _always_ have shells with our tea!

HOW I SHALL DIE

I only wait the eventide, The rising of the moon— My little barque I’ll gently slide Into the still lagoon.

Here storms are fierce and nations wage Across the seas their strife, And death’s wild billows break their rage Against the rocks of life.

I only wait the last, long call— Perchance a short farewell— Then gently for the mists to fall O’er silent hill and dell.

Private CHAS. LOWRY, 9th Aust. Battalion.

BEACHY

Outside was a cold, dark, windy and cheerless night, and the world seemed cowering under the black, threatening rain-pall above, which could be felt rather than seen. Inside my host’s diggings we were lounging back in the warmth and light, smoking and yarning of other times and places, while the partner of his home brewed the warm, fragrant, comforting decoction which seemed to contribute so much to the mood and proper appreciation of such friendly comfort in the midst of the audible turmoil of unfriendly outer circumstances.

Once again from outside there came a whir and rattle past the door, and I smiled significantly and glanced in that direction.

“Oh, don’t go until after the next one,” urged my host’s companion, seeing my attention diverted to things outside of our present cheery circle.

With this my friend seemed to concur, and drew himself closer to the fire. “Yes, there’s plenty of time yet,” he said. “There’ll be a lot more of ’em. So you might as well sit tight in, safely and comfy, and try another cup.”

I didn’t need much coaxing, and thrusting the thought of the long, unpleasant journey home out of my mind, I settled down to further cheery chat and the enjoyment of stimulating internal comforts.

The conversation seemed to have progressed but a little further when above the wind outside could be heard again the warning roar and rumble, fading away and terminating in a muffled clang and clatter in the distance. “That settles it, Billo, old chap,” I said, half rising. “Pass over my coat. If I hurry off now I’ll be just in time.”

But my friend didn’t move to oblige. “Now, what’s the use of hurrying?” he urged once more. “They’ll be passing every minute now for a long time yet. So why not settle down and enjoy yourself a bit longer? ’Taint very often you come this way.”

By the time I had finished my reply to his persuasions I found, again, that my chance had gone—and I would have to wait now, anyhow.

And so the time passed. We talked and talked, while a useful youth who lived near by, and had attached himself to my friend Billo, made three reappearances with hot water for the cups that cheered as the night went on.

“I wonder where ‘Razzy’ is?” presently remarked my host; “the jug wants refilling.”

Just then the disturbing rumble passed the door again, and I rose to my feet. “Don’t bother to disturb him,” I said. “I suppose he’s retired to his digs. Besides, now’s my chance to scoot too; I’ve a long way to walk. Throw me that coat.”

Finding that all protestations were useless, my friends reluctantly allowed me to go, but not without wilily expressed forebodings as to what unpleasantness might await me outside now that I had refused to enjoy their society and comforts any longer.

They accompanied me to the door, and a cold blast of wind met us. There were ominous thunder rumbles in the murky distance.

“A boshter[8] night for a walk,” I remarked, buttoning my coat about me.

“Yes,” grinned my friend, peering out into the darkness. “And they’re running to a peculiar sort of time-table to-night—passing about every seven minutes. You’d better get a wriggle on. There’s a short cut that way,” he added, pointing to the right, “just past the corner of the cemetery. That’s where they stop. So for God’s sake shake it up; if you don’t, they won’t see you home at all. It’s an unhealthy night to be out.”

I asked them to say good night to the youth “Razzy” for me, and to thank him for his comforting ministration, then bade them farewell and moved off.

I blundered along the sloppy, unpaved footway, peering tensely into the uncanny blackness about me, and hurried uneasily in the direction of a patch of faint pale blotches that I hoped and took to be the monuments in the little burying-ground down beyond. I found that my direction was right, and presently I was hurrying past it as fast as I could manage in the wind and darkness. From somewhere behind me—it sounded miles and miles away through the noise of the wind—a faint low moaning sound reached my ear. I stepped forward uneasily, but before I had advanced a yard it had become more prolonged, and growing ever louder and closer until I seemed to feel it coming—coming with tremendous and ever-increasing speed: a horrible, nerve-shattering, deafening, wailing shriek. I stood dazed and paralysed—rooted to the spot. With a scream of hellish intensity—it was all within a second, really—it was on me. There was a flash of blinding light, then everything ended so far as I was concerned.

My next interest in life was a feeling that I had just been hurled up at the moon, over it, and had descended slowly, ever so slowly, like a feather, to earth again. In fact, I wasn’t quite sure that I was not a feather; and I opened my eyes carefully and tried to feel myself. “’Ssh-sh-sh! Don’t disturb yourself—remain quiet and comfy,” said a persuasive voice beside me. I looked around as far as I could move, and knew that I was in a hospital, but where or of what kind I could not think for the moment. I lay awhile gazing blankly and unthinkingly at a low white ceiling above me. Presently I fell to wondering.