Tell your Mam thank you for the lovely fruit cake that she sent. She told me that you helped her to bake it so a big hug and thank you to you as well. There were eight of us that shared it and I told them that it was your early birthday cake. They all shouted out ‘Happy Birthday Laura.’ I shouted loudest of all.
Help your Mam with looking after everybody, won’t you.
Take care of yourself, Darling.
Love
Dad
X X X X X X X X X – kisses for your birthday
Chapter 10
Kantara, Egypt – July/August 1916
On the 22 July 1916 the 1/8 Lancashire Fusiliers found themselves on a train heading for Kantara in the north of Egypt and Edward’s carriage buzzed with excitement as the soldiers faced the prospect of a scrap with the enemy during the next few days. It had been seven months since they had returned from Gallipoli and they had worked hard to get back their fitness and enthusiasm. Their memories were still vividly with them but they felt that out here they could have a proper battle in territory that they had grown familiar with. At least this time they would be there honourably and legitimately defending this country against an invading army.
Edward and Liam gazed through the train window at the endless miles of desert sand, the distant hills transformed to shimmering brightness by the midday sun. ‘Wonder what sort of show this will be?’ Edward ruminated, ‘They reckon there’s about twenty thousand of them heading for Kantara.’
The fearsome Cyril Whitehouse, having unwittingly found himself in the same carriage as his tormentor, Liam, and then having been drawn into a discussion on the merits of Swinton’s pack, now made his contribution to this new debate. ‘That makes twenty thousand daft sods then, if they’ve spent the last two weeks marching over here in this heat.’ Cyril, pleased with his contribution to the debate, replaced the cooling, wet handkerchief over his head. He had struggled all day trying to decide whether to use his water ration to drink or to assist in this head cooling procedure. Eventually, after an offer by Liam to let him share his own water ration – a move which had enabled the profusely sweating Cyril to see a slightly more endearing side to the nature of ‘the stupid little bog bomber’ – he had finally settled on the head cooling option plus a few mouthfuls in between.
‘The CO reckons that the Turks have been told that they will be given holy protection because it’s Ramadan and they will sweep all the infidels out of Egypt,’ offered Liam, anxious to lift the debate to a plane where he thought Cyril might be slightly less willing to offer his contribution.
‘Aye, and an eternal after life in paradise if anything goes wrong,’ grunted Edward, returning his gaze to the window as he spotted a small group of trees on the approaching horizon.
‘At least it gives us chance to do something for all those poor sods who turned their toes up in Gallipoli to get no bloody where,’ rejoined Liam clenching his fist.
‘That’s it. Give ‘em a bloody good hiding. That’ll make those lads rest a bit better,’ muttered Big Charlie from the corner, succinctly summarising the feelings of all of them.
They would have the chance to do something for the memories of their mates whose bodies now lay abandoned in Turkish fields and, at the same time, they might just do their bit to move this horrific war out of the territorial stalemate that had developed.
In the middle of July, information had been received that a large Turkish army, led by German officers, was advancing across the northern desert. Once again, the Lancashire soldiers were forced to admire and respect the courage and determination of their Turkish counterparts. They had made the long march across the desert in extreme heat and with only occasional water supplies. Now the British forces were being reorganised into a mobile column to counteract this new threat.
Over the next few days, in camp at Kantara, preparations for the coming confrontation were hectic. Equipment was stripped down to a minimum and wheeled carriages, which were useless in desert conditions, were replaced with vehicles fitted with pedrails to allow them to be hauled across the sand. Additional drilling tools, troughs and pumps were brought in to sink wells and improve the water supply. The massive task of finding and organizing thousands of camels went ahead at pace. Many of the camels were equipped with fanatis – metal water tanks that were strapped on either side of the animal – whilst others were fitted out to carry the tons of other equipment.
Meanwhile, General Lawrence, the commanding officer for this newly created Brigade, was devising his strategy for tackling the approaching army. Spotter planes had been reporting on the progress of the Turkish army since the 21st July and Lawrence was deploying his troops in a pattern that would lure the Turks into a carefully laid trap.
On the morning of 4th August Edward awoke to the sounds of battle coming from the direction of Romani, to the north of where they were camped at Hill 70 in Kantara. The Turkish attack had begun. The soldiers of the 1/8 Lancashires rose quickly and prepared themselves. Carefully trained into exactly what was expected of them, they were eager for the affray and anxious to achieve a victory after the humiliating stalemate of Gallipoli.
On the train to Pelusium they settled in their seats, smoking and talking excitedly, shouting through the windows at soldiers hanging out of the windows of neighbouring carriages and joking like schoolboys off on a seaside trip.
The apprehension, that sharp edge of fear, was still there but it was more contained. This action had been carefully thought through by a man with a deep understanding of the country and a profound affinity and respect for the Arab. They also felt that in this confrontation they would have the chance to contribute to the result with personal skills, courage and judgement rather than going over the top like lemmings to an almost certain death in a hail of machine gun bullets.
Liam could barely contain himself. Every few minutes, he would jump out of his seat and clamber over the outstretched legs of his friends to get to the window. There he stared into the shimmering desert in front of him, listening attentively. ‘They’re still at it. I can hear some heavy stuff going in now so the Aussies must have pulled them into the trap. The jocks will be giving them a bloody good hiding now. Tough sods they are. Frighten the socks off a bloody donkey if one crossed ‘em. Some of the Manchesters went up last night. Wonder if they’re getting stuck in yet.’ Liam addressed his commentary to anyone who would listen but, after a while, few did. Despite this, he seemed content still to pursue this agitated, but now one sided, discussion.
The train came slowly to a halt in Pelusium in a juddering diminuendo of steam whistles, screeching brakes and clunking buffers. The station was a scene of intense activity with Arab porters working alongside British soldiers to unload the masses of equipment that had been brought up on the train. Members of the Catering Corp darted fussily about amongst their equipment, arranging and sequencing the crates whilst keeping a watchful eye on their native assistants to ensure that nothing disappeared into any of the numerous dark alleys. The excited and noisy chatter of the Arabs belied the slow and methodical pace with which they approached their tasks and blended with the gruff curses of the sweating Lancashire tommies and the more cultured, barking instructions shouted by the officers.
Edward stepped from the train and into the wall of hot, damp air inside the station. He was assaulted at once by the symphony of sounds and smells that was the hallmark of the typical Egyptian town. The noisy voices of the locals now augmented by the clattering hooves of the sweating horses as they towed away the heavy gun carriages, the trains blowing clouds of steam into the air and the combustion engines in the lorries that were being coaxed, spluttering and coughing, into life. The heady mix of spicy aromas, cooking smells and the less hygienic vapours that resulted from poor sanitation, hung like a heavy cloud over the town.
Edward half smiled. It was noisy and vibrant but it was familiar and safe. He was part of a team and he understood clearly how he fitted into it. He knew that there was a big show going on nearby and he had b
een trained and rehearsed in the part that he had to play alongside his mates.
Moments later he was struggling to contain this good humour he felt as he spotted a woeful looking Liam emerging from one of the shadowy alleys opposite the station. His friend had set off on a mission of mercy hoping to find a home for his pet rat, which he had imaginatively named ‘Ratty’, as he was reluctant to expose it to the dangers of the anticipated battle with the marauding Turks. Sadly, the first Arab that he had offered it to for safekeeping had inquisitively lifted the sliding door of its wooden box home whilst Liam was still searching for some suitable words of explanation. His surprise on seeing the emerging whiskers and beady eyes of this hated vermin had been so great that he had slammed the door back down on the head of the unfortunate Ratty. The grieving Liam, relieved by this grim mischance of his rodent responsibilities, had buried the box and its now lifeless contents under a palm tree before hurrying back to his unsympathetic mates.
They worked tirelessly, despite the merciless heat, in transhipping the supplies and equipment over to the nearby camp.
A message had been received from the front line in the middle of the afternoon stating that the Anzac Brigade was in need of support against the Turkish attack near Mount Royston. This was south of Romani which was itself a good six miles march south east from Pelusium. Within three minutes of their detraining, the 5th, 7th and 8th Manchesters were marched off into the desert without the benefit of any transport. They didn’t have time to try the stew that had been prepared for their lunch and they didn’t even have the support supplies of water as the camel train that they were expecting had not yet arrived.
By 11.0 pm, however, the one thousand strong chain of camels had arrived and the soldiers who had remained in Pelusium set about the task of sorting them and loading them with supplies and ammunition. Despite a lack of understanding and knowledge of these big beasts, the work was performed with great enthusiasm and good humour. The convoy was soon on its way again carrying its precious load of water, blankets and ammunition and the 1/8 Lancashires prepared themselves for their own imminent departure.
They had heard that when the three Manchester battalions had arrived at the front, the sight of them, lining up with the mounted Anzac Brigade and preparing to attack, had proved sufficient to persuade the already weary Turks that perhaps this wasn’t their chosen time for glory. They turned in their thousands and fled, chased by the determined Allied troops. The sight of this retreating army, however, was almost eclipsed during the night by the vision of a thousand camels, many carrying water in fanatis on their backs, trudging out of the desert night. The Manchester men had endured a long march through the blazing desert without food or water and now these huge animals were like angels bringing deliverance from their parched agony.
The next morning, having made a start in the early hours, Edward, Liam and Big Charlie found themselves in the front line of Allied troops marching in pursuit of the fleeing Turkish army. They were in high spirits and as they marched they laughed, joked, sang songs and smoked cigarettes and pipes. As they progressed they collected souvenirs of bayonets, belts, caps and badges from the bodies of dead Turkish soldiers that lay in the slowly embracing sand.
Their respect for the Turks, who had so recently made the long distance march across this vast, open desert, grew as the day wore on. The glaring sun rose higher in the cloudless sky and the heat became stifling. As they marched through the treeless landscape the heat radiated from the sides of the low hills and turned the valleys into ovens. Their bodies ran with the sweat that poured out of them but they were told to conserve their water supplies because the support units were so far behind. The yielding sand sapped the strength from their legs as they trudged wearily through this huge desert expanse towards the blinding heat haze of the horizon.
The Lancashire soldiers became increasingly affected by this relentless, oppressive heat. They discarded the souvenirs that they had collected earlier in the day and tried to focus on dragging one weary foot after the other. Some collapsed with sunstroke and were left under a temporary shade formed by a blanket draped over a rifle until they could, hopefully, be collected later by the support units.
Edward had become increasingly concerned for the sweating Big Charlie. When he had asked him how he was coping he had replied that he ‘felt hotter than an iron-caster’s arse.’
Edward and Liam had shared their water supply with their desperately struggling friend and their efforts to keep him going had provided a temporary distraction from their own troubles. By the late afternoon, on the outer limits of their reserves of strength, they heard a shout from the front of the column. Looking up, they could see the looming bulk of Mount Meredith where they were to bivouac that night. Spurred by this welcoming sight, they drove themselves forward and, as the cooling, evening air provided welcoming relief from the heat of the day, they dragged their aching limbs up the slopes to the ridge.
The whole of the area was littered with the corpses of hundreds of dead Turkish soldiers and, as they achieved the vantage point of the ridge, they could see in the distance the cavalry pursuing the fleeing Turks. Out at sea an Allied ship was lobbing shells into the ranks of the retreating army, the explosions echoing with a dull clumping from the surrounding hills.
The stop brought only shallow relief for the British soldiers, however. As the sky darkened the night temperature plummeted. There had been very little food or water to sustain their weakened bodies and they had been told that the following day they were to march on to Qatia where the enemy had established a strong and determined defence. There was little hope of improving the situation regarding the food and water because many of the natives who were bringing the supplies had been stampeded by enemy shell fire. The prospect of a repeat of the day that they had just endured was profoundly depressing to these shattered, hungry men as they scooped out hollows in the sand and lay down, hoping to snatch a few hours sleep in the bitter cold of the Egyptian night.
At 3.00am the next morning, the tired, hungry soldiers were woken up and prepared for the agonies of another day’s march through the desert. Liam, having vowed not to pee because he wasn’t prepared to part unnecessarily with another drop of water out of his body, had gone for a walk to stretch his legs and to check on the condition of some of his mates. Edward tidied himself up the best that he could and, shivering in the bitter cold of the clear night, he wearily packed away his few belongings.
‘Eddie, Eddie.’ He could hear Liam shouting his name but couldn’t see him. He stood up to get a better view and saw Liam running over the ridge and waving frantically. ‘Come up here quick. They’re here. We’re saved. You’ll never believe it. Bloody Norah. We’re saved. Yeheeee.’
Edward struggled up towards his excited pal and followed his urgently pointing finger. Peering out into the eerily lit desert that they had so recently crossed he at first saw nothing. Then his eye caught a slight movement. He stared, trying to focus, not daring to believe what he was seeing. It couldn’t be true. He had been told about mirages that appeared before you in the desert but that was only during the day. He held his breath and stared again. He could see the movement more clearly now and he jumped into the air, threw his arms around Liam, and they danced round and round like demented clockwork dolls, whooping and shouting.
Eventually, they stopped, breathless, and, for the benefit of the crowd that had now joined them, pointed down to the plain where the long line of camels snaking slowly towards them was more clearly visible. Many of them had fantasse – the large water tanks – strapped to their backs whilst others carried food and other precious supplies. When they approached closer, the cheering soldiers saw that some of the camels were carrying the casualties that had dropped out on the previous day’s march.
Liam did a jig down the hill, hands in the air, and made a dash for the first, water-laden, camel. ‘Just look at this lovely fella,’ he shouted, pointing at the camel’s native minder who was plodding morosely along holding a
rope attached to the animals halter. ‘Did you ever see such a thing of beauty? The man is an angel sent to save us.’
He lunged forward, intending to show his gratitude with a manly, welcoming hug. The Egyptian, slightly less certain about the apparent amorous intentions of this wild looking British soldier, ducked under the camel’s head and Liam was left grasping the dusty neck of the big beast. Camels are renowned for being both bad tempered and unsociable, especially after a long trek through the desert, and Liam found himself inches away from two flaring black, cavernous, nostrils and large, thick lips furled back to reveal big, brown, slab teeth. From the depths of its body it emitted a low belching growl, accompanied by a noxious vapour, straight into Liam’s startled face. He jumped away with alacrity. ‘Bloody Hell. That smelt worse than the Grapes on a Sunday morning.’
The columns of troops eventually moved off at 4.00am. Alongside them were the cavalry and the heavy artillery guns being hauled along by large teams of horses. They were refreshed by the food and water although this was strictly limited. The ration was less than one pint of water per man and the order had been given that no one was to have a drink without the permission of a commanding officer. But as the sun rose in the sky, the day grew rapidly hotter. The conditions became as unbearable as the day before and the desperate soldiers forced themselves forward through the soft sand.
After eight hours of marching in the insufferable heat, during which many had gone down with heatstroke, they saw the green tops of the trees that heralded the approach to Qatia. Their spirits were lifted again, they pushed their weary bodies into covering the last, short distance to the beckoning oasis and their befuddled brains struggled to focus on the confrontation that awaited them.
They finally reached Qatia in the early afternoon and were almost disappointed to find that the Turkish army had already departed. The Turks, by now, had lost over half of their army and they had decided that the desert was a safer prospect than facing the formidable army that was approaching them.
Made in Myrtle Street (Prequel) Page 15