Birds Without Wings

by Louis de Bernières

  Because the peninsula was so large, and the armies small, and not big enough to defend every landing place, it was decided to create a mobile reserve, and this was the 19th Division, and I was in it, and we were encamped near Bigali. This was the best place for the reserve because we could go in one direction to support the 7th Division, or in another to support the 9th. At Bigali, Mustafa Kemal was in a house. This house was a peaceful one, and it had a balcony and balustrades, and a courtyard, and heavy tiles on the roof, and in the garden were roses and mint, and for some reason there were no windows at the back of the house. Every time we saw this peaceful house, we felt better because Mustafa Kemal and Major Izzettin were in it, making plans.

  During the month before the Franks returned, five more divisions were moved in, and we spent the time in two ways, and there was not a moment’s rest. We laid barbed wire until our hands bled and our uniforms were in shreds, and we did this until the wire ran out. We dug ramparts and foxholes, and filled sandbags to make little strongpoints with them, and we cleared trees and shrubs to make better lines of fire. We made trenches covered over with planks and earth, to keep us safe from shells. Mustafa Kemal made us train continually, and he marched us at high speed all over the peninsula so that we would be strengthened and know the terrain, which twisted and turned and was very confusing. There were many deep water courses that were dry in the summer, and ravines and gullies that meandered about and went nowhere, and the land was very unsuitable for proper battles, because there were very thick thorny bushes which meant that soldiers had to go in file along tiny goat tracks rather than advance, properly spread out, and consequently it was very easy to train machine guns on to the goat tracks and get any soldiers who came along them. Also, when you advanced, you got lost almost straight away, and lost contact with the rest of your unit, and every unit lost touch with every other unit, and so every attack degenerated into chaos.

  It was a place where the land constantly changes. By the sea there are steep and stony cliffs covered with spiky shrubs, and in places there is beautiful soft farmland, and there are woods of small pine trees, full of yellow singing birds, and in places there are the deep gullies and ravines that I just mentioned, and there are hills which are rocky and also covered in spiky shrubs. There were no roads, and so we marched everywhere across country, making the tracks as we went, and everything had to be carried by animals and men, and not in carts, and sometimes the horses were so hungry that they were trying to eat the paint off the buildings. At that time of year it was spring, and it was very beautiful, with flowers growing everywhere as if they did not know there was a war. The shepherds’ dogs had rounded ears and spiked collars. There were tortoises clattering about in the stones of the forts, and little lizards that lived beneath the rims of the wells. There were beetles with tan backs, and big beetles that walked backwards dragging leaves, and tiny turquoise damselflies, and big brown whirring dragonflies. There were black ants that made their own little roads, and very big ants that carried away caterpillars. There were big snakes with golden-brown heads. Out on the jetties there were cormorants hanging out their wings to dry, and in the skies there were magpies and ravens. These are the things that a soldier notices, because he lives close to the earth, and these are his companions, and he becomes interested in them because there is often very little to do, and they make him think about what it is to live, and about the many types of life. He remembers these things long after the details of the battles have faded away. Of course, as the seasons changed, we realised more and more that the place was not for long the paradise that it was in the spring.

  Mustafa Kemal thought that the attack would come from the south, but the Frankish German general thought it would come at Bolayir, and so we were marching from one place to another, staging mock attacks and practising movement at night and by day, and we learned how to use the bayonet, because at close quarters a bayonet is less dangerous to your own comrades than a bullet, since a bullet can go straight through an enemy and strike a friend. We learned for ourselves, however, after the battles had begun, that it was best not to bayonet someone in the ribs, because the ribs are like springs, and they clamp down on the bayonet, and you can’t get it out unless you pull it out with your foot on the man’s chest, and this is not a good thing to have to do, since it is very cruel to a dying man, and he clutches at the bayonet with his hands, and you have to look in his face, and you remember this face for a long time, and his eyes, and the blood that he coughs up, and this comes up in your dreams, and so it is difficult to sleep, even when you are exhausted. Also, if a bayonet is stuck between someone’s ribs, you might be bayoneted yourself whilst trying to pull it out. The other thing is that sometimes you can fight an entire battle with bayonets, without firing a single shot. It happened when we had no ammunition, and sometimes even when we did. I often thought we would have been better off with swords, because, if you think about it, a rifle with a bayonet is just like a dagger on a stick, or maybe a short spear that you can’t throw, or like a stabbing sword, as opposed to a sabre. In my opinion we all should have had swords, and not just the officers. This opinion is made stronger by the fact that the Franks had some little men called Gurkhas. These Gurkhas were the fiercest and bravest of the soldiers, and they had heavy knives that were bent in shape, and the bottom half had a big bulge, and with these they could cut off your head or your arm with one stroke, and they were very effective in the trenches. I have one of these knives that I took from a dead Gurkha, and I keep it on the wall of my house.

  We in Mustafa Kemal’s division considered that we were the best troops of all after the month was over, and we also thought we had the best commander, because he was always going from one place to another, examining everything through his binoculars, and thinking seriously. He had blond hair and blue eyes, which made him strangely fascinating to us, who were not like him at all, and these blue eyes shone with light and cleverness, and when he stopped to talk to you, you felt as honoured as if it were the Sultan Padishah himself. He had a doctor with him who gave him injections from time to time, but I don’t know why, and the doctor’s name was Hussein Bey.

  When the Frankish landing happened, it was the day after we had finished all our preparations. The fields of fire were cleared, the big guns were ranged and the sights of our rifles were zeroed. It was like when a wedding is arranged, and the guests arrive just as you are putting out the food.

  CHAPTER 60

  Mustafa Kemal (13)

  Mustafa Kemal develops a curious relationship with the German commander, Otto Liman von Sanders. Von Sanders is an intelligent and determined officer who seldom makes mistakes, and has placed Germans rather than Turks in positions of command in most of the crucial places, causing much animosity among Ottoman officers. Unlike Sir Ian Hamilton, the British commander, von Sanders is always willing to sack incompetent officers. Kemal is openly anti-German, and tells the general to his face that he thinks that Germany will lose the war. Kemal is irritatingly convinced of the correctness of his own opinions in all things strategic and tactical, and he disagrees with the general about the probable site of the Allied landings. In time, von Sanders will overcome his annoyance with the obstreperous and opinionated Kemal, and will entrust him with more and more responsibility. Kemal turns out to be right about the landings, but the general has organised his divisions so that only a small number of soldiers are distributed around the coast, and the remainder are concentrated so as to be able to be deployed as soon as Allied intentions become clear, and their diversions only fool him for one day.

  Kemal is given the command of the reserves, and on the morning of the invasion, he is awakened by the distant sound of naval bombardment. He sends a cavalry squadron to reconnoitre, and is informed that a small enemy force is heading for high ground that would give them complete dominance of the peninsula. Accordingly, he takes matters into his own hands, acts without authority—something which he does very often, and always gets away with—and departs with the
entire 57th Regiment and a mountain battery. By serendipitous coincidence the 57th Regiment is kitted up and ready to go, on account of exercises that have already been scheduled. Fortunately for Kemal and the Ottoman Empire, he has read the Allied intentions correctly. If he had not, he would have led the reserves to the wrong place and the campaign would have been lost immediately.

  Kemal leaves his regiment to recover from the rapid march, and goes forward through the scrubland. He sees the enemy ships scattered about the ocean. Ottoman troops are fleeing towards him, and Kemal asks, “Why are you running?” and they reply “They’re coming! They’re coming!”

  “Who is?” demands Kemal.

  “The enemy, sir.”

  “Where?”

  “Over there!”

  Sure enough, a line of Australian troops is advancing towards Çonk Bayiri, the crucial high ground that is destined to be the objective with which the Allied commanders will become most obsessed.

  “You must not retreat,” Kemal tells them.

  “But we have no ammunition left!”

  Kemal realises that the Australians are a lot closer to him than his own troops are. He needs to buy time, and is nudged by a providential inspiration. “Fix bayonets and lie down,” he commands. They do as he says, and the Australians think they are about to be fired upon, and they too lie down, and prepare for a firefight. An officer is dispatched to fetch the 57th Regiment.

  Kemal reminds the regiment that they have the disgraceful losses of the Balkan Wars to redeem. He issues the famous statement: “I am not ordering you to attack, I am ordering you to die. By the time that we are dead, other units and other commanders will arrive to take our place.” Kemal personally helps to shoulder the batteries into position, and controls the battle from the skyline. Miraculously, he is not hit. Inspired by Kemal, inspired by jihad, the 57th Regiment manages to hold the Australian advance, and is almost completely wiped out. Within a short time, even the imam and the water boy will be dead, and the 57th Regiment will enter into Turkish myth for ever. On the following day, however, the Arab 77th Regiment flees in panic, deepening the general contempt for Arab soldiers that is increasingly taking hold in the Ottoman army, but within five days the position is stabilised, and after a catastrophic counteroffensive by the 5 th Division, the lines at Anzac are more or less permanently entrenched. Mustafa Kemal is awarded the Ottoman Order of Imtiyaz, and his divisional headquarters acquires the nickname “Kemalyeri.” Liman von Sanders sends a German officer to be Kemal’s chief of staff, and Kemal pointedly sends him away and retains the faithful Major Izzettin.

  One day Mustafa Kemal stops and speaks briefly with Karatavuk. He takes Karatavuk’s rifle and inspects it, easing the bolt and peering down the barrel, and then commends Karatavuk for his attention to it. Karatavuk will remember this proudly for the rest of his life, but will be unable to recall precisely what was said.

  CHAPTER 61

  I Am Philothei (10)

  When I was about thirteen two very funny things happened. The first was that somebody thought up the idea that I should wear a veil, because my prettiness was upsetting the men in the town. It was when Ali the Snow-bringer was following me around gaping at me when he was supposed to be collecting ice. He used to appear in front of me at all times of day, rather like Ibrahim did, and he would be practically salivating. I sort of liked it but it also made me feel annoyed. It was like being persecuted. When he did it, I was annoyed, and when he didn’t do it, I was also put out a bit, and I would think, “Oh, maybe I’m not so pretty any more,” so when he reappeared I felt relieved as well as annoyed, because at least it showed that I hadn’t lost my looks.

  Don’t tell anyone, because I’d die, and I’ve never told this to anyone else, so it’s a secret and you really must keep it to yourself, but sometimes I would guess where Ali the Snowbringer was likely to be, and that’s where I’d go, and I did it just to tease him. I hope you don’t think I’m too awful, I know I’m bad without you having to tell me.

  What happened after a while was that all the other women started to veil themselves to show how pretty they were. It didn’t last long, though.

  The other thing that happened was that the bleeding came upon me quite suddenly, and I hadn’t expected it, and didn’t even know what it was, so I was very frightened and thought I must be dying of something. Fortunately I was at the aga’s konak at the time, and Leyla Hanim had been brushing my hair after I’d done hers, and Drosoula was brushing the cat Pamuk, and Pamuk was biting her because of the ecstasy.

  Anyway, I had to go to the little room outside to relieve myself, and that was when I realised that I was bleeding, and I came running back in and I was weeping and throwing myself around and wailing and acting as if the world was about to end, and finally Leyla Hanim took hold of my arms to keep me still, and then she managed to force it out of me, and I said, “Leyla Hanim, I’m bleeding,” and at first she says, “Where? Where? Have you cut yourself?” and then finally she twigged, and she put her hand to her mouth and laughed. She had a nice laugh, it was silvery, like this …

  Anyway, she called Drosoula over, who was also bleeding but on her hands because of the cat, and she asked her if she had started a woman’s bleeding yet, and Drosoula just looked puzzled, so that way Leyla Hanim knew that she hadn’t started yet.

  Leyla said, “When blood comes out from between your legs it just means that you’re old enough to have babies. It lasts a few days every month, and you’ve just got to put up with it, because there isn’t any choice, so there’s no point in complaining.” She said, “I suppose you both want babies?” and Drosoula and I both said yes, it would be a good thing, and Leyla said, “I have been sad because of not having babies,” and her eyes started to shine a bit. She showed us how to fold a cloth to keep us from leaving drips on the floor, which was how she put it, which wasn’t very nice really.

  She said, “And do you know how it’s done?” and we said, “How what’s done, Leyla Hanim?” and she said, “Making babies,” and we said no we didn’t know.

  Then Leyla tried to explain and she got very flustered and embarrassed, and she put it so poetically and she praised it so much that we didn’t really understand at all. It was another couple of years before I really understood, and until that time Drosoula and I really did think it was something to do with pomegranates and plums and cucumbers, and we’d always wondered why she thought that all that business with fruit was so much fun.

  CHAPTER 62

  The Letter to Karatavuk

  I do not know the correct manner of addressing someone such as yourself, never before having had to write to the son of a potter, and one of the infidel persuasion at that, and so I beg your indulgence for beginning this letter with no greeting at all. I suspect that, given these trying circumstances, letters such as this are unlikely to arrive at their destinations in any case, especially when one considers that often they did not arrive even in times of peace. One also has to consider whether, as in this case, a letter’s recipient will be alive to read it, since you are a soldier, and there are many mishaps in war. I have found myself in the irksome situation of becoming your parents’ amanuensis, since the other letter-writers of the town, those that have remained at any rate, customarily write in the Ottoman script, which, I understand, you are unable to read. I must say I was very surprised when I was told by your parents that you have learned to read and write Turkish in the Greek script, apparently taught by one of my own erstwhile pupils. I had become accustomed to believing that Turks are intellectually idle to the last degree, and it was salutary to discover that there is at least one among you with both brains and initiative, causing me to speculate as to whether the backwardness of your race is more explicable in terms of deficient education than natural inability. I have always thought it odd that this education consists entirely in uselessly memorising pages in Arabic that no one can understand.

  I have to tell you that it sits very ill with me, having to write to you in Turkish u
sing the Greek script, which I would prefer to remain unsullied and unadulterated, although I know that this is an ingrained habit in many places around here, presumably where the original Greeks have been degraded by mingling for too many hundreds of years with their interloping Turkish neighbours. I have not had to read such stuff before, let alone write it, and it is indeed difficult to locate myself within a discourse whose rules and grammar are unknown, since they have never hitherto been laid down by scholars. One has to invent spellings for oneself, according to a system of guesses and approximations. For me it is like having to use a golden spoon to clear out a drain, since my own language and my manner of writing are so much superior to yours in every manner of expression. I concede, however, that the letter you wrote to your parents, and which I have had to read to them, much against my initial inclination, did possess some considerable poetic force, and I was moved by it, somewhat against my will.