Liam's Story

by Ann Victoria Roberts

  Back at Mena Camp, keyed up by the knowledge that they were going somewhere, and soon, the atmosphere was taut with anticipation. Within days their destination was known: it was to be the Dardanelles after all, their jumping-off point an island in the Aegean, Lemnos.

  The 8th Battalion was one of the first to receive marching orders. It was to be within thirty-six hours. After four long months of waiting, the news came both as a relief and a shock. Other battalions would follow by train to Alexandria, and thence aboard ships sailing singly across the Mediterranean. A convoy might have attracted too much attention.

  In a wind which stirred the atmosphere over Mena into the consistency of soup, the 8th packed their tents on the morning of 4th April, and marched the ten miles into Cairo, none of them sorry to be seeing the last of it.

  ‘And if I never see the bloody Pyramids again,’ Ned remarked bleakly, glancing over his shoulder, ‘it’ll be too bloody soon.’

  At the station, it was a different tale. On one of the platforms, surrounded by a small group of nurses, Mary Maddox was waiting to say farewell. Her kind, distressed face touched Liam’s heightened emotions, especially when she came to speak to Ned before they climbed aboard the long line of open trucks. Liam tried, tactfully, to move away, but was stayed by the light pressure of her hand and a half-whispered plea. Bemused for a moment, it suddenly dawned on him that Mary needed his presence as cover. He too belonged to the Maddox farm, sufficient reason for her saying farewell to both of them, but not to Ned alone.

  Amidst pithy comments from all sides on the standard of accommodation for their hundred-mile journey to Alexandria, Mary exchanged a few words with Ned, before turning to Liam. To his astonishment she reached up and kissed his cheek.

  ‘God be with you,’ she whispered.

  He did not catch what she said to Ned, but their lips met, and for a second he embraced her passionately; then, as though ashamed of that weakness, abruptly turned away.

  Liam glanced over his shoulder; but the men milling about were his own platoon. A couple of winks and sly grins told Liam all he needed to know. With a sigh of relief he turned to tell Mary not to worry, he would look out for Ned; but she had slipped away into the crowd.

  From the vantage point of the truck he could see her with the other nurses, all come to wish ‘their’ boys good luck. The 8th Battalion was the State of Victoria’s own, and for many of the nurses at Mena House the interest was personal. If the little group with Mary Maddox all looked stricken, so did Ned. Wanting to sympathize, Liam found it hard to say anything at all. A sudden longing for Georgina overwhelmed him, and he was envious of the scene he had just witnessed.

  Watching the nurses sheltering from the dusty wind, he wondered whether Georgina would be wearing a red cape too. According to letters from home she was no longer in York, but nursing the wounded in some unnamed military hospital in London. That knowledge made him bitter about not going to France, dulled the edge of his excitement now. The likelihood of him seeing her again was nil. Their cheerless Brigadier had told them that in a month’s time, most of them would probably be dead.

  He envied Ned the hours he had spent with Mary, even the enforced brevity of their parting. With sudden insight, he realized that outside the peculiar circumstances of Egypt and wartime, Ned might never have pursued Mary Maddox, and outside the bonds of marriage, such intimacy as they had no doubt shared would have been impossible. Was that a good thing, or was it as morally wrong as he had always been led to believe? It was an uncomfortable question, one which opened avenues he had no wish to explore. Amidst that noisy, jostling throng, Liam suddenly felt alone. He was glad of the locomotive’s shrill whistle, and the lurch which set them all scrambling and laughing. They were off, and a cheer went up immediately; hats were waved and thrown into the air, and the little band of nurses smiled bravely, handkerchiefs waving, red capes flapping like flags against the wind.

  They left Alexandria four nights later, in winds which were strengthening to gale force. The old troopship rolled and pitched its way across the Mediterranean in some of the worst weather Liam had ever experienced. It was no consolation to the seasick men that the weather was just as bad for enemy submarines. Quartered in cargo holds, packed as close and tight as sardines in a can, the sick groaned and vomited for two days and nights, and prayed for death to claim them. The stench was enough to turn the most hardened stomach, and despite the coldness of the nights, Liam spent as much time as possible on deck, huddled in a greatcoat.

  With the second night the weather subsided, and they arrived off the island of Lemnos to a glorious April morning. Liam thought he had never seen anything so beautiful. Against a curving sweep of grassy, flower-strewn hillsides, the sea was a calm, pale turquoise, reflecting the simple whitewashed village of Mudros at the head of the bay. A vast array of ships lay at anchor, dreadnaughts and destroyers which had taken part in the earlier attack; among them were the flagship Queen Elizabeth with Agamemnon and Lord Nelson. Between were black-hulled cargo boats, white hospital ships and little sailing vessels. Their design must have been old, Liam thought, when the ancient Greeks were young.

  It was impossible to set up camp ashore, there being too little water to satisfy the thousands of men gathering for the coming assault on Gallipoli. Instead they lived aboard their transports in the same cramped and insanitary conditions which had been their lot from Alexandria, and waited for others to join them. For two weeks, training was continued, although much of it was novel enough to pass as fun. Every single day they practised climbing up and down rope ladders with full packs, over the ship’s side and into lifeboats. The best rowers were trained intensively, races across the bay being one of the highlights of the week, while trips to Royal Navy ships were organized for afternoons off.

  Route marches across the island were part of the agenda. Thankfully, in the rest periods, they were also allowed to bathe. After the dust and dirt and stench of Egypt, Lemnos was like a holiday camp, with warm sun, fresh breezes and shy but hospitable islanders. Curiously dressed, like characters in some eastern fairy-tale, they seemed bemused but friendly, selling food they could spare at a fair price. None of them, Liam noted ironically in a letter to his brother, had sisters for rent.

  In the warm, gently lapping sea, Liam swam and dived like a porpoise, revelling in its clean, salt taste, enjoying the fresh tingle of his skin in the sun. His body was hard and brown, his spirits elated once more by the thought of the coming action; keyed up by expectation, he had no fear of dying. His fears were reserved for the pain of serious wounds. If that should be his fate, Liam hoped he would behave with dignity and not be a whimpering burden.

  On the evening they left the safety of Mudros Bay, he was suddenly beset by doubts. As were the majority of those aboard. Everywhere men were scribbling notes, and in quiet asides asking their particular friends to be sure to pass on certain possessions if they ‘bought one on the way in’.

  ‘Bet my sister’ll be checking out the will when she reads this,’ Ned joked, showing Liam the envelope with a Melbourne address. ‘Who’re you giving the benefit?’

  ‘My people in York,’ Liam said shortly, pen poised over a blank sheet of paper. Ned carried on talking, about his sister and her family, about the broad acres they had left behind in Australia. It was a topic which had drawn them closer, a shared ambition to own land one day, to farm a spread like Ewan Maddox. Now he gave vent to hopes for a future with Mary, if she would have him once the war was over.

  ‘Course, her father might not approve, me being just a hired hand and that. But she’s not a kid. Old enough to make up her own mind, Mary is. And I think she’d have me...’

  He continued to muse aloud, while Liam wished he would be quiet.

  Taking a sealed envelope from his breast pocket, Ned nudged his friend. ‘Just make sure Mary gets this, will you? You know, if anything should happen to me. I don’t want to post it,’ he added with a surprisingly bashful smile, ‘in case I come through – I’d look a
prize dill, wouldn’t I, saying all that and not a scratch on me.’

  With a smile, Liam nodded. He thought Ned should post anyway, but part of him understood the reluctance: after all, he had already written something to Georgina that he did not intend to send through official channels. That letter, addressed via Edward, lay between the pages of his notebook, and if he should survive, it would not be sent at all.

  His pen still hovered. As Ned lapsed into reverie, Liam sighed, leaning his head wearily against his pack. Lights were dimmed to a minimum, and in the unaccustomed quietness the steady pulsing of the engines was like a heartbeat, the slight roll of the ship across calm water no more than the gentle rocking of a cradle. The faces all around him were heavy with apprehension, some still writing, many smoking as they lay propped against packs and equipment.

  It took no great leap of the imagination to suspect that most, like himself, were thinking of homes and families so far away. It was months now since he had received that first letter from his mother and there had been others since, innocuous enough, as though she realized her mistake. But he had never replied. Now, with the unknown awaiting him, conscience was dictating its own terms. In truth, Liam knew that given his time over again, he would not – could not – have behaved in any markedly different way; but he did regret the pain he had caused. Ever since Robin’s letter, he had regretted that. And if he were to die with the dawn, her pain would be even greater; it would be too cruel to add silence to the burden, to let her feel that he had gone to his grave not forgiving her. He just wished that he could find true forgiveness in his heart, but even now it eluded him. There was still that hard lump of anguish whenever he thought of his mother, and to mention the reasons for his going would have brought forth a flood of recriminations. That would not do.

  In the end, he wrote only a few lines, begging her forgiveness for the grief he had caused, and telling her that she was in his thoughts. He added that she was not to worry about him, as he was not afraid of dying; and anyway, he had some good friends, and they would stand or fall together.

  Hurriedly, before he could add more, or change his mind completely, Liam folded the single page and thrust it into an envelope. Come what may, his mother would have something from him, and if it was only halfway to reconciliation, then it was better than nothing.

  Just after one o’clock, having slept fitfully for a couple of hours, Liam went up on deck. Sailors were moving silently between the troops, handing out mugs of cocoa; he accepted one thankfully. Beneath a moon which shone a path across the glassy sea, he could make out the hulking shapes of other cargo boats; the group of warships and destroyers which had passed them at sunset would be well ahead by now, poised and ready for the landing. Those warships carried men of the 3rd Brigade, those who would be first ashore; Liam envied them. They would have the advantage of surprise, while the 1st and 2nd Brigades must face a roused and implacable enemy. As far as he understood, the 8th Battalion would be one of the last to land. It was a daunting thought.

  Time passed with dragging slowness. By three o’clock they were passing the southern tip of Imbros Isle, with possibly a dozen miles to go to the Peninsula. They were to land where it was not much more than four miles wide, where the long, mountainous backbone was broken by gentle uplands. The aim was to push inland and cross the Peninsula to a high point commanding the Narrows. At the same time the British would be landing at Cape Helles on the southern-tip, and the French on the Asian shore, directly opposite. Hearing the objectives put as simply as that by their CO, Liam thought it sounded deceptively easy, but there had to be hidden snags, else why that dire warning before leaving Egypt?

  The moon was setting behind a thick veil of mist. Orders came from the bridge to extinguish all lights, and Liam reluctantly nipped out a cigarette lit only moments before. It must have been his tenth since coming on deck. As he returned the stub to its packet, he noticed his hands were trembling. In the pit of his stomach, the hot breakfast eaten too recently was churning, threatening to disgorge itself. Then a murmur distracted him from that unpleasantness. There was a light, white and hazy, behind land away and to the right of them. Someone said it was a searchlight. The light moved jerkily to left and right, then disappeared. The men around him began fidget. Liam craved another cigarette; beneath his greatcoat, despite the night’s chill, he was sweating profusely. In the first, faint, greenish light of dawn, he could see the high, broken ridge of the land, make out the shapes of three other transports around them, moving into line. In a whisper, someone asked the time: it was almost half past four. The suspense and the silence were terrible. Liam found himself longing to get there, for something to happen, anything break the tension.

  It came a few minutes later in the form of a bright yellow light way to the south. A moment later there was a peculiar sound of knocking, isolated small-arms fire which rapidly became continuous.

  They’d landed! The first wave was in there and fighting!

  Awareness rushed over and through them like a sigh. In the brightening dawn, faces were suddenly smiling, fingers clenched on rifles, all eagerness to join the fray.

  The knocking grew louder, brilliant flashes began to appear from a point on the shore; a shower of rain made the sea boil on the starboard side. Surprised, Liam realized it was too local for rain: shrapnel falling. From one of the battleships close by, a thunderous explosion rent the air. He saw the gun’s recoil, the great curl smoke which followed, and wanted to cheer. Destroyers which had been close in to the beach began to come alongside the transport, ready to collect the next wave of men.

  ‘Must be our turn next,’ a man beside Liam muttered, ‘the jolly jacks are here with the rum.’

  Shells were falling near the ship. The massive naval guns retorted, flash and boom, flash and boom; a whistling scream and great fountain of water rose beside the old Clan MacGillivray making her roll and sag like an old woman. Liam staggered, the sailor beside him almost lost his footing, but saved the rum, handing it out with twice his previous speed. Liam downed his tot in a second, coughing as the thick, treacly spirit hit his throat and burned its way into his chest. He felt better for it, had cause to be doubly glad when their destroyer moved in alongside.

  In the first rays of the early morning sun, her decks were like a scene from hell, littered with maimed and wounded, running with blood. Liam was aghast at the numbers, could not believe so many in so short a time. Fear clutched at his guts. Waiting while the wounded were transferred was torture. He tried not to look, tried not to hear the cries so clear against the scream of the shells. The platoons took position, the routine of scrambling over the ship’s side and down the ladders going without mishap. Tension again as the destroyer sped towards the beach, men packed like toy soldiers on her decks; then down rope ladders and into the boats, more like barges, Liam thought, wondering how the rowers would handle such large, unwieldy craft.

  They were about two hundred yards from the shore, with shrapnel bursting around them; an oarsman was hit and lost his oar, another fought to take his place, pulling out of time with the rest. ‘In, out — in, out,’ their officer yelled, for all the world like a coxswain in a boat race. Liam wanted to laugh.

  The boat grounded on shingle. ‘Right, chaps, this is as far as we go – everybody out!’

  Overboard into four feet of water, he gasped with the shock, holding his rifle up and clear, determined not to lose his footing with the heavy pack on his back. On a narrow strip of beach he saw huddled shapes like bundles of rags and wondered what they were; then bullets danced in the sand and more fell. Something sang past his ear, the sea was suddenly hissing around him; a man with two stripes turned at the water’s edge, urging his platoon on. Liam saw that it was Ned and struggled to join him as a shell burst on the rocks ahead. He had time to register the blinding flash before the shock wave knocked him flat. Deafened, half-drowned, aware of nothing more than a need to reach the shelter of those cliffs beyond the beach, he rolled, cursing the pack. A man behin
d caught his arm and dragged him clear.

  Liam looked for Ned and could not see him. From the shelter of the cliffs he scanned the beach with mounting panic. Wallowing at the water’s edge was a body; soldiers from another boat tripped over it, revealing the stripes on the sleeve. It was Ned; Liam knew it was Ned. Shedding his pack he staggered to his feet, only to be grabbed by the man beside him. What was he thinking of, the stranger wanted to know; they had to get off the beach, leave casualties to the stretcher-bearers.

  ‘There aren’t any bloody stretcher-bearers. And he’s my friend, for Christ’s sake – I can’t just leave him to drown!’

  He leapt forward, and to his credit, the other man followed. Between them they hauled Ned out of the red waves, getting in the way of the next boat-load coming ashore. Liam cursed them as he tried to cut Ned’s pack free. He was alive but only just, blood pumping from a wound in his neck. Amidst a hail of shrapnel they dragged him to shelter.

  Conscious enough to recognize Liam, Ned smiled. Minutes later, with his blood seeping through a hastily-applied field-dressing, he died in Liam’s arms.

  Wet through, with sea-water dripping from hair and clothing, Liam was not aware of the tears he shed. His companion’s urgent demand as to what they were supposed to do now, went unheeded for the moment. From the back of his numbed mind, Liam recalled instructions dinned into each of them on exercise.

  ‘Report to the nearest officer. We have to remember the dead man’s position and report.’

  ‘Sod that! We’ll be dead ourselves if we don’t get off this bloody beach. God knows what’s happened to my mob – they’ll be halfway to Constantinople by now. Come on!’ The stranger started to scramble upwards, then looked back. ‘What the hell are you doing now? Let’s get moving.’’