by Alan Bardos
Williams cut a neat gap in the wire with irritating ease. That got Johnny’s back up. He wasn’t going to be outdone and snatched the cutters back as they dived through the gap to the next line of wire.
Johnny felt a bullet suck the air as it passed his cheek and he heard a sickening thud. A Fusilier who’d followed them was clutching his face, blood spilling through his fingers as he fell. Johnny looked up and saw a sniper in the foliage on the cliff, pointing a rifle at him, and ducked. The bullet grazed the wire cutters and knocked them out of his hands in a stinging spray of sand and metal.
Johnny tried to put the cutters back on the wire but they’d been jammed. Exasperated, Williams grabbed them and swore. ‘Now look what you’ve bloody well done – sir.’
Chapter 46
Johnny could see the relative safety of a grassy sand dune a few yards away. ‘Come on, we’ll have to dig. You’re practically a miner, should be second nature to you.’
He began to tunnel under the wire, feeling it rip into his back as he clawed his way through the wet sand and had a brief flash of Lady Smyth in the throes of ecstasy. Spurred on by the pinging of bullets, he scrambled out and ran at a crouch to protect his essentials and dived under the green sand dune. Williams crashed down beside him, still cradling his rucksack.
‘Just like the dunes on Port Talbot beach, hey, Williams?’ Johnny said, remembering his swimming lessons at the Welsh seaside.
‘I wouldn’t know, I’m a Turk.’ Williams said.
‘You’re a what?’ Johnny spun round.
‘Ironically that’s what they call people from Llanelli, no one knows why. As it happens, the last time I was at the seaside I was in Blackpool. Won the prettiest little mill girl you ever saw a bag of sweets on the shooting range. Ever so grateful she was, when we took a stroll along the beach. Still taste the peppermint I can,’ Williams smiled wistfully. ‘Wish I was there now.’
Johnny smiled his agreement. He could have been summering at the Venice Lido, with a honey blonde clawing at him.
Boil, the signaller, and a handful of men came through the wire, and joined Johnny under the sand dune.
More of the Fusiliers were finding a way through the wire, prying out the stakes, or climbing over dead men hanging on the wire. Johnny saw Sergeant Richards, his leg shot to bits, dragging himself out of the wire spurring his platoon to follow him.
Enfilade fire from the cliffs was taking a terrible toll on the attackers. A hidden machine gun knocked down scores of men every time it traversed along the side of the beach. With their rifles jammed it was impossible to return fire, let alone bring overwhelming fire to bear on the enemy, as the manual directed.
Johnny watched in awe as Fusiliers pinned down all across the beach, disassembled their jammed rifles, cleaning the bolts with toothbrushes and re-oiling them.
A figure caught Johnny’s eye crawling out from under the wire and came pelting towards him. He realised it was Winterbottom the earnest young subaltern. The men under the sand dunes cheered him on. Johnny screamed as Winterbottom’s chest exploded and looked up at the cliff. He caught sight of the sniper dropping down behind a rock, his dull brown uniform blending in with the surroundings.
Incensed, Johnny took a rifle from one of the fallen men and using the heel of his boot forced the bolt down, to cock the weapon and drew a bead on where he’d seen the sniper hide. The next time he popped up Johnny took the top of his head off in a satisfying mist of blood and brains. He was actually fighting back. Using his boot to cock the rifle again, he switched his aim to the trench that ran along the cliff and picked off another Turk.
Williams tapped Johnny on the shoulder and pointed out the next wave of boats coming in. Brigadier General Hare was standing up in the lead boat, signalling for them to go round the side of the cliff, to land in front of Tekke Burnu. On a spit of land next to the beach, away from enemy fire.
‘What the hell are you doing skulking down there, Swift?’ The broad figure of Captain Cuthbert Bromley was glaring down at him, ignoring the enemy fire.
‘I’m er trying to establish …’ Johnny began but was cut short by Bromley.
‘Never mind that. I’ve spoken to Willis and we’re carrying on with the plan of attack. He’s going to take the trenches to the front. We’re going to take that small hill and continue the advance.’ Bromley nodded at a hill on the left hand side of the beach that sloped up from the top of the cliff and had been marked as Hill 114 on the briefing map.
‘I need you to lead these men up the cliff and take the Turkish positions.’ Bromley pointed at a narrow path that twisted its way up the side of the cliff to the precipice.
‘Yes, sir.’ Johnny was grateful to be doing something and shouted to the men next to him. ‘Right lads, fix bayonets and follow me.’
He was surprised by the stillness in his voice, as he took a bayonet from a dead Fusilier and slotted it into place on his rifle. It hadn’t been the first time he’d given that order. It wouldn’t even be the first time he’d used a bayonet. He just hoped that he’d have enough puff to take him up the cliff in one sprint. If he stopped he doubted he’d be able to carry on.
Johnny ran through the enemy fire to the bottom of the cliff. He saw that a few other stragglers had joined his group and began to lead them up. The first part of the track wasn’t particularly steep but with the rifle it was a job. He followed it through a zig zag of sandstone and grass, while bullets smash the rock around him. He heard men falling but he managed to keep pulling himself forward.
He reached the sheer face of the cliff, stopped to sling his rifle and work out what to do next. The cries of the wounded echoed off the cliff, unnerving him. He looked down and saw men crawling through the sand, leaving dark bloody trails.
He clung to the side of the cliff, ignoring the hum and zing of bullets. All he could think of was the days and nights he’d spent on the Ypres salient listening to the screams of his men.
‘Come on, over the top, lad. You’re nearly there,’ Bromley shouted from somewhere behind him. Johnny knew there was only one way he could get away from the screams. He started to fumble, finding foot and hand holds, he dragged himself up the last few yards of the precipice. He grabbed hold of a bush on the top of the cliff and rolled over the edge into the grass and flowers of the cliff’s crest.
He saw some Turks disappear into a trench about fifty yards away. Johnny looked over the side of the cliff and saw Williams struggling to find his footing.
Johnny unslung his rifle and fell into an empty foxhole. He tried to control his shaking. He could hear the enemy shouting and knew he was in a distinctly vulnerable position. He forced himself to look over the top. The Turks had regrouped and were charging towards him. He picked up his rifle and tried desperately to force the bolt down, but it wouldn’t budge no matter how hard he stamped on it.
Johnny stood up he had to meet the charge. He had to buy time for the rest of the men to climb up the cliff. They’d be sitting ducks when the Turks arrived and it would be his fault for freezing.
Johnny began to run towards the Turks then fell to the ground as two shots rang out in rapid succession from behind him, two of the Turks fell. Taking fire from an unexpected quarter broke their charge and the Turks retreated into the trench overlooking W beach.
Franklin, the Brigade Major, was standing a few yards away at the front of the cliff holding a rifle. Johnny could see a battleship behind him pointing its guns towards them, while men from the second wave climbed over the edge of the cliff, urged on by Hare. Franklin handed the rifle to one of his men and pointed towards the Turks, shouting, ‘Splendid show, after them man. We’ve got them on the run.’
The roar of naval shells sounded overhead and Johnny watched them explode around the enemy trench.
‘Are you alright, sir?’ Williams asked, kneeling down next to him. The rest of the Fusiliers in Johnny’s group were finding their way to the crest.
‘Come on,’ Johnny got up and ran towards the enemy tren
ch, more naval shells landed as they went forward, covering their advance.
He sprinted the fifty yards and jumped into the trench, landing squarely on his feet. A Turk in a conical helmet thrust his rifle at Johnny. He parried the blow and felt its force jar his shoulder. The Turk rushed him and forced Johnny back against the side of the trench, locking their rifles together. He could see the void of death in his eyes and smell raki on his breath. There was a notch on his front tooth from a pipe, which abruptly smashed as the butt of a Lee–Enfield rifle hit the man in the face.
The Turk staggered back and went down under another blow from William’s rifle. Johnny ran through the trench, quickly becoming disoriented as he followed one sharp bend after another of the traverse. His head spinning, he came round the blind side of a bend and ran into an officer directing the fire of two men.
The officer began to raise a Mauser pistol. Johnny stabbed his bayonet into the man’s chest. The blade crunched through bone, bringing the officer down. Johnny heard him groan and tried to pull his bayonet free, but it had stuck in his ribs.
Johnny put his boot on the man’s chest and felt the ribs crack as he struggled to free it. One of the Turks turned away from the beach to reload, saw Johnny and swung his rifle at him in a great arc. Johnny put his arms up to protect himself. A loud bang exploded in his ear and the man flew back, a bloody hole where his face had been. A second bang brought the other man down.
Franklin was standing behind him with his revolver in hand. Deafened by the noise Johnny nodded his thanks, that was the second time he’d saved him, and realised that he had his own Webley revolver. It was still in its holster. He'd gone through the whole action without firing it.
Johnny saw lines of Lancashires were already moving forward towards Hill 114 and turned to look for the men he’d been leading. He found Williams leaning over the side of the trench.
'Dear God, did we just do that?' Williams said as men on the far side of the beach scrambled wildly up the cliff opposite them.
'I say, you.’ Brigadier General Hare was looking down at them from the edge of the trench. ‘That was a splendid show you put up earlier. I bet you would have taken on those Turks single handed if Franklin hadn’t stepped in.’
‘Yes, sir, I think so.’ Johnny couldn’t really remember what he’d done.
‘Are you an officer?’ Hare asked, not amused by Johnny’s indecision.
‘Yes, sir.’ Johnny realised he was wearing his private’s service jacket and wondered if it had actually made any difference to the Turks. Johnny smirked. Sir George would be pretty sick if he’d been indirectly responsible for saving his life. ‘Second Lieutenant Jonathan Swift, sir, currently attached to First Battalion, Lancashire Fusiliers.’
‘Splendid, you’ll certainly be mentioned in dispatches.’ Hare pointed towards X beach, on the other side of the hill. ‘I'm going to see if we can't link up with the Royal Fusiliers. You and your servant are coming with me, you look a pretty handy pair.’
‘Very good, sir.’ Johnny felt elated. He was sure that would be sufficient to satisfy Hamilton and redeem his reputation.
Johnny and Williams climbed out of the trench and followed the Brigadier, Major Franklin and two signallers. They skirted along the cliff in front of Hill 114, Hare staggered and crumpled. Johnny saw flashes coming from a trench on the slope of the hill. Something stung the air next to him.
He grabbed Franklin, diving for cover behind the edge of the cliff, and managed to cling onto the ledge.
‘Thanks, old boy.’ Franklin patted Johnny appreciatively on the shoulder, once the bullets had stopped flying.
‘Simply returning the favour, sir,’ Johnny replied and was rewarded with a hearty laugh.
They could hear Hare swearing and found the brigadier slumped behind a bend in the cliff. He had been shot in the thigh. Williams was applying pressure bandages, but the blood kept soaking through.
Franklin had a brief conference with Hare then turned to Johnny. ‘Swift I need you to continue to X beach, find the commander of the Royal Fusiliers, Colonel Newenham. Inform him that the Brigadier is hors de combat and that he now commands the covering force.’
Chapter 47
Laszlo Breitner was surprised by the composure of General Liman von Sanders, despite the panicked reports flooding into headquarters of multiple landings on and around the Dardanelles peninsula.
Von Sanders scowled at Breitner and the other staff officers cluttered around him. ‘Why all the long faces? Is this not what had been expected?’
The commander of the 5th Army gave a self-satisfied grin. ‘The landings are in places that were predicted and have been prepared. Once it is clear where the main attack is to take place we will release our reserves and drive them into the sea. In the meantime I will go to the sector that is the most likely landing site for the main Allied assault, the Gulf of Saros.’
Breitner didn’t think that von Sanders had grasped the seriousness of the situation. He was going north when the majority of the reports suggested that the landings were in the south. Breitner felt sufficiently concerned to offer an opinion.
‘I beg your pardon, sir, would it not be prudent to stay at HQ, where you are in constant telephone contact with your command?’
Liman von Sanders paused for a moment and Breitner wondered if the General might not be harbouring some reservations about his plan. ‘Major Breitner, the most significant report I have received states that there are enemy ships in the Gulf of Saros.’
‘Yes, sir, that is an excellent point, however we have reports of substantial landings along Cape Helles.’
‘How do we know that is not a feint, designed to lure our reserve away from the North?’ von Saunders replied.
‘I don’t sir, but there are reports of a further landing in the west of the peninsular. Which if proves to be more than a feint we risk losing the high ground in the centre of the peninsula and being cut off from the south.’
Liman von Sanders sighed. ‘Very well Breitner, I will earmark reinforcements, but I am not convinced that the landings are genuine. I want you to go to the west and report on the strength of the Allied forces. I will remain at the Golf of Soras until the situation is clear. If the other landings prove to be diversions, I will dispatch reinforcements to Helles, in the meantime we stick with our strategy.’
Chapter 48
So far as Sir George Smyth could see everything was going as well as could be expected. He’d taken up his former position within the protection of the conning tower of HMS Queen Elizabeth, with Hamilton and Braithwaite. Sir George was to stay at his chief’s side to organise his signals and take essential notes for his campaign diary. Jack Churchill and the rest of Hamilton's staff had been distributed around the ship in various turrets and compartments, but Sir George was in the nexus of power.
Hamilton beamed with excitement, ‘I trust your notes are up to date Smyth?’
‘Yes, Sir Ian, it is clearly recorded that you have achieved a cop de main, despite a lack of surprise.’
‘Excellent.’
‘We’re rounding Tekke Burnu, W beach in sight.’ A look out called and Sir George and Hamilton pressed their binoculars against an observation slit.
Sir George checked a momentary spasm of regret for young Johnny Swift when he saw the carnage strung out across W beach. He didn’t doubt that Swift had got his just deserts. It was inconceivable that the self regarding poser would have survived something like that.
Sir George began to check his notes as they steamed on to inspect the next beach. Hamilton’s elaborate plan was unfolding like clockwork. The first landings on the West of the peninsula looked to have been a great success. The sight of colonial troops swarming up the hills around the landing zone had impressed everyone greatly. As they sailed south to observe the landings at Cape Helles, signals came through that a primary landing at X beach and two secondary assaults on Y and S beaches had been successful, a charade on the Gulf of Saros and a French attack on the Asian c
oast were all proceeding as planned. Sir George was sure they would soon capture the key strategic locations on the peninsula.
‘Sir Ian shall I note that despite heavy casualties, the defence at W beach have been neutralised and a bridgehead established?’ Sir George was pleased with his grasp of military language.
‘Oh God, V beach.’ Hamilton’s good cheer had gone. Sir George pressed his face against the observation gap in the armour. Through the smoke he identified the tiny semi-circle of V beach.
At first sight he thought the beach was covered with wreckage, then, using his field glasses, he managed to catch a sob. It was men. Men lying on the beach and in the sea, cut down by relentless enemy fire that could be clearly heard in the conning tower. Many of the cutters that had carried the men were broken on the beach, the wounded trapped under the dead as the boats burnt.
A collier was run aground on the right of the beach, under an old fort. Shells were striking its dull brown hull in small pink explosions. Something had evidently gone wrong with the landing ramps. Sir George could see men in the water holding them together while troops toppled and fell as they charged down. All around bullets churned the sea to crimson.
The men that had survived the landing were huddled under a sand bank in the beach a few feet high, pinned down by a crossfire. Sir George doubted they had any chance of reaching the wire entanglements in front of them, let alone the defences beyond.
Sir George glanced at Hamilton, things were coming unstuck and with it the general’s reserve. ‘Damn it all, it’s intolerable to watch those brave men being slaughtered. I should be out there.’
‘Let’s give them some support,’ De Robeck said and ordered the Queen Elizabeth to open fire. The battleship let loose its full broadside in a continuous roar of blinding salvos.