Kal

by Judy Nunn

  ‘Night, Jack,’ he said.

  After Jack had vomited in the bushes behind his tent, he lay in his sleeping bag and cursed his own stupidity. He’d humiliated himself in front of his mates. Why had he made such a fool of himself? He didn’t hate dagos at all. It was Enrico Gianni he hated. And his madman father, Rico, who’d smashed up Maudie’s pub that terrifying night. And that bastard uncle of his, Giovanni.

  Jack could remember the hot February afternoon as clearly as if it were yesterday. It was over ten years ago now, not very long before his ninth birthday, when he’d sat astride the old Princess and watched his father, face bloodied, squirm in the dust. He could remember sitting motionless on the old white mare and watching the Italian stride from the yard. He could still hear his parting words. ‘From this day the Giannis and the Brearleys are nemici. Nemici, you understand! We are enemies!’

  Of course he hated Enrico Gianni, it was beholden upon him to hate anyone bearing the name Gianni.

  Jack fell into a drunken sleep, hatred seething in him, his own humiliation forgotten as that of his father’s burned vividly in his brain.

  CAMP LIFE BECAME more regimented as uniforms began to arrive piecemeal. The men had originally been issued with rifles, boots and puttees only and had paraded in a variety of civilian garb. They looked a motley lot, mostly in flannels and dungarees, some in stiff white shirts. But, as the uniforms arrived, the men started to take pride in their appearance. Much as they still hated route marches and battalion drill, and much as they remained larrikins who scorned army convention, they were becoming soldiers.

  Then the restlessness crept in. They were more than ready to go to war. Where were their orders? They were straining at the leash—at this rate the war would be over before the 11th Battalion had had a taste of it.

  Towards the end of October, rumours abounded. Their orders would come through any moment now, they told each other. Why, when they’d marched through the streets of Perth, the people of the city had given them rousing ovations at every corner; surely that meant their departure was imminent. But still no word.

  Then, at four o’clock on the morning of the 31st of October, the men were paraded and informed that their embarkation orders had finally been received. They were to pack their kitbags and prepare for transportation to the port of Fremantle.

  The huge convoy of thirty-eight ships carrying approximately thirty-five thousand Australian and New Zealand troops finally formed up in the ocean off Fremantle. The majority of the 11th Battalion was aboard the SS Ascanius and, on the 2nd of November, the convoy slowly began to steam its way towards Colombo.

  From Colombo to Aden, from Aden to Suez and then, at the end of the month, the disappointed discovery that their destination was not England, as most had assumed, but Egypt.

  ‘CRIPES, HOW DO you reckon they did it?’ Tom Brereton, awe-struck, leaned on his pick and gazed up at the pyramid. It was their first day’s work and they were setting up a training camp at Mena at the foot of the great pyramid of Cheops.

  ‘One of the wonders of the world, Tom,’ Jack grinned. ‘One of the great wonders of the world.’

  Setting up camp was no mean task. There were huge stones to be broken up and moved, but even such arduous labour could not dampen the men’s spirits. Many of them had never been outside their home State and the awesome pyramid was symbolic of their great adventure. It was a constant reminder that they were indeed on the other side of the world.

  Training proved to be just as arduous. Marching in the loose desert sand was exhausting. But regular leave was granted and, only a mile away were the tramcars to Cairo where the lads had a grand time bartering at the bazaars and drinking arak in the bars and, many of them, against orders, sleeping with the girls in the excitingly sordid area of Wazir.

  Dear Maudie and Pa, Jack wrote. Tell Jim and Vicky that I bought them some presents in Cairo the other day. They’re just trinkets, I can’t fit much in my kit bag, but you won’t see the like of them in Kal.

  The trip over was bonzer although we lost our joey in Alexandria. Tom Brereton (he’s my main cobber) smuggled him aboard at Fremantle as a mascot. The locals had never seen a kangaroo before so I suppose one of them stole him. I hope he didn’t end up in an Egyptian cookpot.

  One of the men died on the trip, just two weeks out to sea. Pneumonia. Poor bloke, how’s that for luck? He didn’t even get a shot at the other side.

  Can’t wait for the action. Have a beaut Christmas. Hoo roo, Jack.

  Christmas Day saw the first Australian mail the troops had received since leaving Fremantle and, shortly afterwards, on New Year’s Eve, British commanding officers visited the camp to inspect the 1st Australian Division.

  ‘Thank God!’ Sir George Reid declared in his inspiring speech. ‘Your mission is as pure and noble as any soldiers undertook to rid the world of would-be tyrants … If any stains come on your bright new flags they must and will be stains of honour won by valour.’ And the boys from the goldfields, in Company C of the 11th Battalion—one of the four battalions of the 3rd Brigade—were as proud as any man present.

  Still, there were two more frustrating months before orders were given to strike camp and then a further two months spent, mostly aboard ship, at Mudros Harbour on the island of Lemnos. Their days on board were taken up by arduous disembarkation training—scrambling down rope ladders carrying full gear, piling in and out of small boats—until news came of their final destination, sixty miles away. Gallipoli.

  ON APRIL 17TH orders for the attack on Gallipoli were issued. The objective of the 3rd Brigade was to seize a series of high ridges running from Gaba Tepe to Chunuk Bair and to secure them, so allowing the rest of the Australian and New Zealand Army Corps to advance to the high ground at Mal Tepe. Mal Tepe overlooked the Narrows which the troops could then free for the British Navy to proceed to the Sea of Marmara and on to Constantinople.

  The Commanding Officers of each of the four battalions had previously been taken by warship to inspect the coast and view the objective.

  The 3rd Brigade was under the command of Colonel Sinclair-MacLagan, a Scot by birth and a respected soldier who had served in India and South Africa. Sinclair-MacLagan was fully aware of the immense task before them. ‘That post is too big for a brigade,’ he commented to his fellow officers. And later, to General Bridges: ‘If we find the Turks holding these ridges in any strength, I honestly don’t think you’ll ever see the 3rd Brigade again.’

  But in the letter read out to the troops, Colonel Sinclair-MacLagan urged, ‘You have been selected by the Divisional Commander as the covering force, a high honour which we must all do our best to justify. We must be successful at any cost …’ He continued, however, with an ominous warning. ‘We are, after all, only a very small piece on the board. Some pieces have often to be sacrificed to win the game and, after all, it is to win the game that we are here.’ But, by now, the troops were too feverish with anticipation to think of anything but the impending battle.

  The landing was to take place at night and A and C Companies of the 11th Battalion were to form the first line. No rifles were to be fired and no shot to be loaded until daylight. The men were to be landed in small boats which would be towed as close as possible to the shore by steam pinnaces. The troops would then row ashore and make for land as best they could, the warships Majestic, Triumph and Bacchante shelling the Turkish positions to cover their landing.

  The men of A and C Companies loaded their transport ship, HMS London, and, on the 23rd of April, Colonel Lyon-Johnston addressed the 11th Battalion. ‘The position of honour has been assigned to us in being thus chosen as vanguard for one of the most daring enterprises in history. Boys, the General informs me that it will take several battleships and destroyers to carry our brigade to Gallipoli; a barge will be sufficient to take us home again!’

  Grim as his humour was, loud cheers greeted the colonel’s address.

  The following night, the crew of the London treated the 11th Battalion t
o an issue of rum as they rested before the attack. Sailors and troops exchanged knives and mementos. Some men spent the night yarning, others slept. And many wrote letters to their families and sweethearts back home.

  Dear Mamma …

  Enrico Gianni wrote his letter in English. He had never learnt to write in his mother tongue; but it made little difference anyway: both Teresa and Rico were illiterate. He addressed the letter to his mother, however, as a mark of respect, knowing Carmelina or Salvatore would read it out to the family. He chose his words carefully.

  After all these months we are about to engage in battle and many of the men are excited by the prospect—they want a bit of a scrap, they say. For me, I am not so sure, but it is certainly why we are here and I shall do my best.

  If I should not return, I want you and Papa to know that I love you and I am grateful to you both for the life you have given me.

  My love to Carmelina and Salvatore,

  Your son, Enrico.

  To his uncle Giovanni, Enrico was not so circumspect.

  I hope you have kept up the reading and writing lessons since I left—I’ll bet Kate has made sure of it—as you are the only person I feel I can talk to from my heart.

  Tomorrow we attack and, after the months of waiting, I suppose we are eager for the event. The odds are not in our favour, however, and I see fear in the faces of many. I am fearful myself. I do not want to die. But we all know why we are here, to take the risk and to pay the price, if such payment is necessary.

  The concertina is with me still. It has been a friend to me and a friend to all. Particularly the men from Kal. During training we would sit around the campfire each night and sing the old songs and this is why I needed to write to you. To thank you for everything you have given me. Above all the music. The music in a man’s soul makes him a brother to all men—this is what you have given me, Giovanni. I have written a song about it and I will enclose the words with this letter. It’s called ‘Kal’ and it’s about people, just simple people, but I have a good tune in my head. When I come home I’ll sing it to you. But, if I shouldn’t, please make up a fine tune for me.

  My love to Kate and the family,

  Your friend, Enrico.

  THE LANDING BEGAN shortly after three in the morning of the 25th of April, 1915.

  Out to sea, the destroyers waited silent and motionless, watching as the battleships advanced towards the shore with their small boats in tow, churning the dark waters.

  Just before dawn, the tows were cast off and in raced the pinnaces to take them up. Then the race for shore was on, the men crouching in the small boats, waiting for the moment when they would be cast adrift to row for their lives.

  The destroyers now entered the action. They were ordered through the slow-moving battleships, to approach as close to the shore as possible and provide covering fire.

  The sea was a turmoil of activity and the air throbbed with the noise of engines. But there was not a movement, not a sound, from the land.

  The dawn light had not yet tinted the sky when the pinnaces prepared to cast off their tows and, in the dark and confusion, they had lost direction. They were roughly one thousand yards too far to the north, but by now it was too late.

  Two hundred and fifty yards to shore and still no sound from the land. Two hundred yards …

  ‘Prepare to cast off!’ was the command aboard the pinnaces. One hundred and fifty yards. Still no sound from the land. One hundred yards …

  Then it started. The hellfire from the shore. A flame from the funnel of one of the pinnaces shot high into the air lighting up the confusion of men and boats in the churning black waters. The light died as quickly as it had flared and, from the inky wall of the shore, rifle bullets cracked and machine-gun fire cleaved the air. The tows were cast off. The men of A and C Companies were on their own.

  ‘It’s up to us now, lads!’ Tony Prendergast yelled, grabbing his oar.

  Freddie, in front of him, grabbed his and started to row with the strength of a bull. On the other side of the boat the Brereton brothers set to with all their might.

  Packed like sardines in the centre, the men leant what help they could with the weight of their bodies and their eighty-pound packs, leaning forward and aft as the rowers heaved on their oars.

  ‘A bit bloody early for birdsong, don’t you reckon?’ Tom Brereton grunted as the bullets whistled all about them. The men laughed.

  Not fifty yards away, Jack Brearley focused on Rick Gianni’s head in front of him as they strained on their oars in unison. ‘Pull, two, three, four!’ he yelled over the constant crack of the gunfire. ‘Pull, two, three, four!’ The men took up the chant.

  It was ironic he was sharing the same boat as Enrico Gianni, Jack thought. He’d far rather have been rowing alongside Tom Brereton. He smiled grimly; it was hardly the time to quibble.

  The first of the boats reached the shore. Bowed under their heavy equipment, the men struggled through the shallows for the beach. Most were mowed down before their boots hit dry sand.

  Fifty yards. Thirty yards. The boats kept coming. Men were being hit now before they were able to scramble out into the shallows and shrapnel screamed all about them. The one comforting sound was that of the shells whistling overhead as the warships fired on the enemy.

  ‘Give it to them, boys!’ Tom Brereton screamed, but he didn’t turn around to look, he just kept rowing as hard as he could. They all did.

  The first glimmer of dawn revealed the chaos. The beach was strewn with the bodies of men who had made it to shore but no further. Some were struggling up the beach to the higher sand and safety. Boats were overturned and bodies floated in the water. Others lay drifting in the shallows.

  Suddenly Freddie slumped forward, shot through the head. A man in the centre of the boat grabbed the oar, jostled into his position and started to heave the body over the side.

  Tony stopped rowing. He grabbed young Freddie’s arm. ‘No,’ he ordered. ‘No, man, let him be.’

  The boat was changing direction. Tom stopped rowing. ‘Let him go, Tony,’ he yelled. ‘We’re sitting ducks. Let him go, mate, or we’ll all cop it.’

  Knowing Tom was right Tony helped push Freddie’s body overboard and as he heaved on his oar once again, each time he chanted over and over to himself, ‘What will I tell Freddie’s mother? What will I tell Freddie’s mother?’

  Now the sun was on the horizon and, in the clear dawn light, the Turks could pick their targets with ease.

  Concentrated machine-gun fire caught four men in Jack’s boat simultaneously. In the struggle for control, the boat capsized and the men started swimming to shore. They were easy prey.

  ‘Stay with the boat!’ Jack yelled. ‘Stay with the boat!’ but no one seemed to hear. As Rick Gianni started to swim, Jack grabbed his arm. ‘Stay with the boat,’ he yelled again.

  The two of them swam around the stern, keeping the boat between them and the shore, and watched as, one by one, their comrades were picked off in the water. Easy, slow-moving targets.

  The boat was drifting into the shallows and they stayed with it until they felt their boots touch the sand.

  When they were less than waist-deep, Jack yelled ‘Run!’ And they ran, he and Rick Gianni. They ran for all they were worth as the machine-gun fire whipped the sand about their ankles and the noises of hell screamed in their ears.

  ‘The Aussies are copping it at Gallipoli,’ Paolo announced to the family as he entered the breakfast room. Early each morning he collected the newspaper delivered to the Dunleavy doorstep and he’d been avidly following the progress of the war.

  Paul Dunleavy helped himself to one of the boiled eggs in the steaming bowl the maid had just placed on the table. He knew what was coming next.

  ‘I want to go home, sir.’

  Paul stemmed his irritation as best he could. ‘We’ve had this out before, Paolo,’ he said, placing the egg in his silver eggcup and carefully tapping the top with his teaspoon. ‘You know only too
well that I deeply respect your desire to fight alongside your countrymen.’ He didn’t; why anyone should fight a war when they didn’t have to was beyond his comprehension. ‘But we agreed that you would finish your final year at Harvard before you make any such decision.’ Hopefully the wretched war would be over by then.

  ‘But that was before Gallipoli,’ Paolo insisted. ‘Look, sir.’ He spread the newspaper out on the table, overturning the small silver salt salver in his excitement. ‘Oh,’ he said, startled, gathering up the grains in his fingers, ‘I’m sorry, Elizabeth, I didn’t mean …’

  ‘It’s perfectly all right, Paolo,’ Elizabeth smiled. Unperturbed, she nodded to the maid who had just arrived with Paul’s fresh rack of toast. ‘Some more salt thank you, Edith.’

  ‘Where’s Gallipoli?’ Meg asked. She’d recently become a little jealous of her father’s protege, who lately seemed to pose a threat to the place she held in her daddy’s affections. Which was a pity because, from the very outset, she’d found Paolo Gianni fascinating. Meg had never met an Australian before, let alone one who insisted he was half-Italian.

  ‘There’s a map here.’ Paolo turned the page of the newspaper, threatening yet more damage to the breakfast table, but Paul interrupted.

  ‘Look it up in the big atlas, Meg. You may go into my study. You too, Paolo; it will do you good to acquaint yourself with the precise location …’ Paolo was about to protest. ‘We will discuss the personal aspects of the matter this evening.’

  Recognising the suggestion as a command, Paolo left the table with Meg.

  ‘Never fear,’ Paul said when they’d gone, more to himself than to his wife, ‘I’ll persuade him otherwise.’

  Elizabeth nodded, resigned. She was sure he would. Her husband was a very persuasive man. He had certainly managed to talk the boy around the previous year, when the Australians had first entered the war and Paolo had wanted to return home and join the army.