The Anzac

by Tony Roberts

  A few days later the artillery began pounding the Turkish lines, softening them up. The soldiers in the trenches nodded in satisfaction, believing that would sort the enemy out. The Eternal Mercenary knew better; shelling only made the ground harder to get through and usually left the enemy positions untouched.

  The word was passed round that afternoon. They would attack the following day at about 5.30 in the afternoon. Their objective was to capture as much of the enemy trench system as possible and hold onto it. There would be three waves of attack, and Casca and the others would be in the first wave. He felt his stomach tighten. Oh shit.

  He blagged a look through a periscope and looked along the open ground, marked here and there by soil thrown up by a shell burst. The enemy line was about a hundred yards distant and marked by heaps of soil thrown up in front of it. Apart from that he could see little. The corporal came along with a box of small white patches and passed out one to each of them.

  “What’s this for?” Casca demanded.

  “Sew it onto your backs so you’re not mistaken for an enemy soldier. All us Anzacs will be wearing one, so if you don’t sew it on, you’ll most likely be shot by one of your mates.” He pushed on, repeating the order to the next group.

  “No need,” Archie said. “I’ll shoot you and save you the trouble you drongo.”

  “Shush, Archie,” Jeb whispered. “He might not have a sense of humor.”

  Archie grumbled and sat down, fumbling for his sewing kit. The sun was bright and warm, and they’d have to attack in bright sunlight if the morrow brought no change to the skies. Perfect for the defenders.

  That evening they stacked their backpacks and belongings in the depots behind the trenches. It was serious. Even the jokes dried up and faces began to show the nervousness all of them felt. The artillery carried on laying down a barrage, so the Turks wouldn’t know anything was different. It had been going on for two days now and as far as anyone was concerned, it could go on for another two or more yet.

  Casca slowly sharpened his bayonet. It was a comforting and familiar ritual, something he’d done for hundreds of years. Before the age of the gun had dawned, he’d spent many an evening before a battle sharpening a blade. It took him back to the time he’d been a Roman legionary, the act a touchstone with his origins.

  “You’ve done that plenty of times before by the looks of things,” Jeb noted. “You’ve been in battle before. What are we to expect?”

  It was the first time the normally unflappable Jeb sounded nervous. Casca couldn’t blame him – it was the unknown plus the real possibility they’d be killed. “Noisy, confusing. Messy. Keep your head, no matter what’s happening around you. Stick to me and you’ll have an even chance of getting through it.”

  Archie paused in the act of sewing the patch of white on his back. “You’ll survive, I have a feeling you will. But some of us might not be that lucky. You’re a good luck charm, Sandy. Hope you don’t mind having some close company.”

  “Don’t think I’ll be able to stop you,” Casca said. “Just hope nobody with a machine gun likes the look of our little group tomorrow.”

  They slept fitfully. They were worried about the attack, and a fair few spent a sleepless night lying in their bunks or fidgeting on guard duty in the trenches. Casca slept well; he knew what was to come and it was nothing worth getting up tight about. He wouldn’t die, and the Turks didn’t look as if they had flamethrowers or anything nasty like that.

  As the afternoon arrived there came a deep rumbling roar and the earth shook. The officers reassured the men that it was only a series of mines being detonated to further prevent the Turks in getting a counter attack organized quickly. There had been a lot of digging going on recently and mines and counter-mines had been dug, so the Australian high command decided it was best to blow them all up so as to prevent sneaky infiltrations during the attack.

  The men now filed into the front trench, bayonets affixed to their rifles, officers with pistols loaded. They stood in a loose row, all lost in their thoughts. One or two looked along the line but the drawn faces, staring eyes and constantly moving fingers betrayed the inner feelings of each. Casca checked on the three others with him. Jeb was to his left and seemed steady enough. Archie and Bill were to his right, both slightly apprehensive but Casca nodded to them and uttered a few words of encouragement.

  At around four o’clock a ship was seen sailing closer to the shore behind them, and it suddenly opened up, shelling the enemy lines, sending up gouts of earth and stone in huge columns. To Casca it seemed the ship was trying to seek out the Turkish guns that had been barking away intermittently. Hopefully one or two might be put out of action.

  A major came walking up to the men, a cane in his left hand and a whistle in his right. “First wave, into the tunnels.”

  A series of tunnels had been dug under the front line and they opened up in front of the sandbags of the trench for surprise firing positions in case of a Turkish attack. Now they would serve as a quick route out of the front line. The second wave filed into the trenches even as Casca and his comrades shuffled into the tunnels, bent low at the waist.

  The major glanced at his watch. It was three minutes to zero hour. “Get ready.” The soldiers in the trench pulled the sandbags down around their feet and took a few deep breaths.

  Casca put an arm on the back of the man in front of him who was crouching at the exit of the tunnel, his head below the surface. “Good luck,” he said in a low voice. The man ahead grunted in response.

  The major checked his watch again and raised the whistle to his lips. He blew three times.

  And the mass of Australians rose up as one and poured out of the safety of the trenches and headed for the enemy lines.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  A hundred yards may not seem far, but it’s a long, long way when you’re running hard, hoping to hell nobody shoots you, as you jump over churned up ground already uneven and littered with rocks. At least that’s what Casca was thinking as he began his run across the exposed ground.

  He expected some kind of shout from the attackers, but eerily they kept silent, their faces grim and determined. The shelling had stopped and suddenly all seemed too quiet, unnaturally so.

  A shot rang out from the Turkish lines and one of the Anzacs collapsed as if he’d been a puppet on strings and they’d been suddenly cut. Casca made for the line ahead, his eyes fixed on the top of the parapet, waiting for movement that would signal someone taking aim at him. There was nothing.

  Shots were beginning to fill the air though. Rifle fire. Not machine gun fire, thankfully. The men left in the trenches who were the reserve began to give covering fire where they could, but it was pitifully little as they were fearful of hitting their own men. Casca jumped over a rock and pounded on. He could hear shouts coming from ahead as someone in the Turkish lines was trying to get something organized.

  Now he was only ten yards away and he couldn’t see the trench ahead of him. He slowed and came to a halt where the earth had been thrown up. There, right behind it, were neatly laid logs covered in earth.

  Archie came up and looked round, his eyes wide. “What’s the problem?”

  “Bastards have covered up the trenches!” Casca shouted, looking left and right rapidly. Men were falling and rifles were showing through a few slits in the side of the log roofs. “Bloody intelligence, they missed this!”

  “Well find a way in,” Jeb said, an edge to his voice, “or they’ll turn their guns on us!”

  There were hundreds of men milling about where the trench should have been, not knowing where to go. Shots were ringing out and four or five were already lying amongst them. Casca ran up and onto the covered trench. “Get going! Get to the second line! Forget the Turks here, get them when we find a way in!”

  The Anzacs were galvanized into action. Men followed Casca over the roof and down to where the second line was. This was uncovered and men could be seen running along it, rifles at the ready.


  Casca reached the lip and pointed his rifle down. A Turk came running along and looked up in shock. Casca’s shot took him in the chest and he was thrown backwards against the trench wall and slid to his ass, eyes wide in surprise and the vacancy of oncoming death. As Casca leaped down a shot narrowly missed his head. He crouched and turned half circle, shooting from the hip as he lined up on a second enemy soldier. He was sent staggering back, clutching his stomach, and he fell face down in a heap.

  A machine gun opened up from nearby, sending gouts of earth upwards along the trench lip, and five Australians spun in agony and fell like broken marionettes. Archie dived into the trench, the air blue with curses. Casca ignored him and moved smartly along the trench to the next corner. The gun seemed to be firing from there. Screams from the men hit were blood curdling and Casca gritted his teeth and poked his head round the corner.

  A machine gun had been set up under an officer with four men at the entrance to a dug-out. It was aimed upwards and sweeping men away from the lip of the second trench. Casca leveled his gun and blew away the face of the gunner. The machine gun went silent and the barrel dropped. The loader grabbed for the handles and Casca swung the Lee Enfield to him and drilled a hole through his upper chest. The Turk grunted and fell backwards.

  Casca ran forward, screaming. He had one bullet left. The officer hastily aimed his pistol but the rushed shot passed his head and before he could fire again Casca’s bayonet plunged into his guts. The officer screamed horribly and Casca wrenched the blade free with a grimace and turned on the two remaining enemy soldiers. They took off as if the hounds of hell were on their tails.

  Now the gun had been silenced, more Australians came flooding into the trench. “Get these trenches secure,” Casca snapped, “and stop anyone coming forward! Archie, Jeb, Bill, with me.”

  “Where we going?” Bill asked breathlessly.

  “Back along there,” Casca pointed to where a connecting trench ended in a tunnel. It was where the front line was, covered over. “We’ve got to take them out if the guys here are to advance safely. No point in leaving an enemy behind us.”

  The three others, plus a group of five more, followed Casca into the tunnel. It ended soon enough in a cross trench, all covered. Shafts of light spilled through where rifle firing and observation slits had been cut, and Turks were seen in the gloom shooting through them at the exposed Australians.

  Casca quickly reloaded, slotting the bullets into the leaf springed magazine. “Jeb, take Bill and three of these guys and go right, sweep all before you. Archie, with me and you two,” he pointed at two tough looking men. “We go left.”

  He silently counted to three and jumped out, aiming at the nearest Turk. His shot crashed into the man’s ribs and he tumbled off the firing step and lay in a heap. Other Turks turned in alarm. All the Australians fired, worked the bolts on their guns, fired again and worked another round into the breech. The storm of bullets struck walls, roofs and Turks, cutting them all down.

  “Check the dugouts!” Casca yelled and ran for the first. Its opening yawned blackly and he stepped across it and then jumped back, just in case. A shot spat out from it and smashed into the wall opposite. Casca stuck the rifle into the opening and fired. Archie leaned across him and fired as well, then the other two followed suit. Casca then ducked into the room and covered it. One lone Turk was sliding down the far wall, a red stain spreading across his khaki shirt.

  “Okay, clear!” Casca snapped and led the group further down the trench. Dust was coming into the trench from the slits, kicked up by the hundreds of soldiers outside and sent into the covered trench by the wind that was blowing off the sea. It added to the gloom and the surreal environment. It was getting harder to see who was who, and even with the patches of white sewn onto the backs of the Anzacs, there was increasing difficulty in distinguishing between friend and foe.

  The group crept forward to the next corner. There was a jutting set of planks on the left and Casca pressed himself up against it and slowly peered round the corner. He took one look and quickly withdrew. He raised three fingers. Three Turks were busy shooting out of the slits, causing havoc to the troops on top. Casca nodded to his colleagues and they burst round the corner and fired rapidly. The three Turks spun and staggered as bullets ripped into them, and all collapsed into shapeless bundles, torn and bloodied. They stepped into the new section but more Turks appeared, shouting and running hard.

  “Look out!” Archie shouted and raised his Lee Enfield. His shot shattered the face of the leading man and the two others rattled shots off almost as fast. One more Turk gasped and slumped to his knees, face screwed up in agony. Three more Turks raised their Mausers and Casca managed to blast one of them backwards but the other two fired.

  Archie cursed and grabbed his arm and one of the other two grunted and struck the trench wall before falling onto his face. Casca worked the bolt furiously and shot one of the other two. The Turkish soldier dropped his rifle and sank to his knees, a stupefied look on his face. The last Turk reloaded but before he could aim properly Casca’s remaining companion blew a hole through his chest and the Turk joined the others on the trench floor.

  The smell of cordite filled the section of trench and the smoke added to the poor visibility. Casca bent to examine the two Anzacs who’d been hit. Archie was clutching a bleeding arm and was already working on getting a dressing to it. The other man was dead.

  The sounds of footsteps from ahead alerted the two men and they reloaded and got ready to fire, but the first man round the corner was wearing the bowl-shaped helmet of the Anzacs and he wore two stripes of a corporal. “Steady, fellahs,” he said in an unmistakable Queensland accent. “Don’t want to be hit by one of you bloody bastards.”

  Casca relaxed. “The trench clear back that way?” he asked, helping Archie up.

  “Yeah. What about behind you?”

  “All the way to the communication trench. Some more of my group clearing it beyond.”

  The corporal nodded. “Good. Let’s get to the second trench. Most of this trench is clear now. Better get a medic to see to that arm, it looks a bad one.”

  Archie nodded. The other in Casca’s group knelt by his dead friend. “I’ll take his tags. Poor Roy, back in Sydney he was one of the best stone masons. I’ll miss the bastard.”

  Casca knew what he meant. “Come on, let’s get going. Archie, you’ll be okay with me? As soon as we find a medic we’ll get you seen to. Best tie a strip of cloth around that arm; I don’t like the way you’re bleeding.”

  Archie nodded, the arm looked bad. The bullet had gone through the upper arm and torn a hole as it ripped out the other side. They made their way back to where they’d come in. The whole place was full of shouting and shooting; it was as confused as anyone could make it. Men ran here and there and bodies lay scattered along the trenches.

  Casca led Archie out into the sunshine. More Anzacs were arriving and filling the second line of the Turkish defenses, but now the enemy was recovering and beginning to delay the advance. Casca guessed they must have caught the Turks by surprise. The men were trying to go down the communication trenches but all were now blocked by packed groups of enemy soldiers firing as soon as anyone showed themselves. Machine guns had been set up further back to spray the ground above head level so as to stop anyone climbing up to get round the defenders that way.

  “Now it’s kill or be killed,” Casca muttered. He sat an ashen-faced Archie down on an abandoned crate and checked the dressing; it was soaked in blood. He tore a strip off his shirt and tied it tight around the wounded man’s upper arm, above the wound. Archie gritted his teeth but took it without a sound. “Right,” Casca leaned back to survey his handiwork. “That should stop the blood loss. We need to get you medical attention.”

  A passing group of men included one with a red cross, so Casca seized him by the collar and practically lifted him off his feet, depositing him at Archie’s side. “Take care of him or I’ll seek you out,” he war
ned.

  The medic nodded, swallowing, and began to check the wound and dressing. Casca nodded to Archie who nodded gratefully back, and then he ran on deeper into the trench system. There would be plenty of hard fighting yet before the day was done.

  He caught up with Jeb and Bill along with the rest of the company. Bodies almost filled the trench, and blood was seeping into the earth, making it slippery. “What’s stopping us?”

  “Bastards have thrown a couple of bombs; we’ve got none and we’re stuck fast here.”

  Casca reloaded and pushed his way past ten men to get to the front. There was the inevitable corner where the trench zig-zagged and beyond was a long stretch dotted with corpses. At the far end, about fifteen yards distant, the trench turned again and a mass of Turks could be seen just beyond, waiting. Casca saw one aim at him and he ducked back, just in time. A bullet buried itself in the planking by his head and sent splinters flying up into the air.

  Casca whipped back with rifle leveled and blasted a shot into the thick knot of Turks. One cried out and fell into the arms of his comrades. Immediately three more raised their rifles. Casca ducked back and winced as bullets smashed into wood, earth and passed close by through the air. This time the bullets didn’t stop.

  “You got their attention, mate,” a square-jawed Australian noted.

  “Yeah. Need to get them out of the way.”

  “No chance of that, cobber. Bastards will get anyone who shows their face.”

  “Pity we’ve got no bombs,” someone else said.

  Casca thought for a moment. “Do their bombs look like our jam tin bombs?”

  The others looked at each other. One or two nodded. “A little.”

  “There’s a few dug-outs back there,” Casca jerked his head back the way they’d come. “What’s to bet they’ve got tins of food or stuff in there? Grab a few and bring them here. We’ll throw some at them and then charge them. They’ll think they’re real bombs and run.”