Livesay pressed him further. ‘You mean he’s the only one here?’
‘Until he’s relieved. Or maybe he’d fallen asleep. After all, who would expect a depleted platoon to advance on the Turkish army?’ What the hell did it matter, he thought. The Turk was dead, and nothing had happened.
Someone exclaimed, ‘Look, sir! A flare!’
But it was far away, probably a small one fired from a pistol.
Payne said, ‘The buggers have taken the bait. The supply boats must be standing into the cove.’
Livesay whispered, ‘Thank God! We’d better advance, Blackwood!’
This from the officer who had protested to Beaky Waring: Sacrifice our own people? What had happened to that man?
Payne handed Jonathan the evil-looking knife. ‘All nice an’ clean now.’ He found it hard to express his true feelings. Ta, sir. For what you did: I thought I was done for good an’ proper that time!’ He peered after Livesay’s shadow until it was lost in darkness. ‘Well, you lives and learns.’
Jonathan cradled his rifle across his arm. ‘Couldn’t manage without you!’ He heard Payne chuckle. In this terrible place, while they moved slowly away from the last man to die, the sound was the warmest thing he had ever heard.
Jonathan leaned on his borrowed rifle and waited while the marines, in small squads, clambered over the lip of the ridge and fanned out in three directions.
Made it. We made it. If he was out of breath it was because of the last part of the climb. He almost wished it otherwise. He could feel the dead Turk’s blood already hardening on his fingers but sensed only disgust.
Lieutenant Maxted crunched across the loose stone and sought out Major Livesay.
‘One prisoner, sir. An N.C.O. of some kind. He was sleeping beside one of their old Maxim guns.’ He was quite matter-of-fact about it. ‘No other machine-guns though. They must have carried them down to rake our supply boats.’
Livesay stared around with increasing desperation. ‘If only there was a moon, some sort of light!’
They all turned as sporadic firing echoed against the ridge. Sergeant McCann said, ‘ ’ere we bloody well go!’
Jonathan asked, ‘Any grenades, John?’
Maxted tore his mind from the sound. ‘Sorry, sir. Yes – there’s a crate of them in one of their dugouts.’
Livesay came out of his thoughts as well and snapped, ‘Take Sergeant McCann and issue them to each squad. Just in case . . .’ He did not finish.
Jonathan watched Maxted hurry away. Thank God he had not noticed Livesay’s uncertainty. But when dawn broke . . . He said, ‘Issue rations, sir?’
‘Ah – yes, of course. Squad by squad, but have every sector manned.’ He flinched nervously as a corporal called out, ‘The heavy machine-gun’s here, sir!’
There were several derisive cheers as the lump-shaped Langmaid and his assistants stumbled into the defence line, and two others dragged the ammunition belts after them like shining snakes. But there was relief in their voices as well. Once it had been hopeless. Now, with the heavy machine-gun and some grenades at hand, they had a chance, and it put new life into them. They might even get the ancient Maxim to fire.
Livesay said, ‘They can have a tot of rum with their rations. I – I think we should have some too.’
Jonathan glanced around but Payne had already vanished. He recalled when he had been resting in a ruined village on the Western Front, behind the support lines but not far enough to shut out the endless roar of artillery. Payne had disappeared then also, and had eventually returned with a dead chicken and some sticks of freshly-baked bread.
His shadow loomed towards the two officers now and he handed a mug to the major before offering Jonathan what he knew was the familiar silver cup.
Livesay swallowed deeply. ‘God! That’s the stuff to give the troops!’ He gestured with the mug. ‘Leave the flask, Payne, there’s a good chap.’
‘Sir.’ Payne seemed to be waiting for his reaction. ‘All right?’
The cup felt cold in his bloodied fingers. It was Scotch. The wheres and hows meant nothing to Payne, or to Jonathan himself now either.
Livesay was saying, ‘When we get some daylight we’ll know better what to expect.’
Jonathan ignored the meaningless comment but heard him refilling his mug. How many was that? He would be useless when the time came. The Scotch might hold his fear at bay, but it would not kill it.
He said, ‘Go and get yourself some food, Payne.’ He held out the cup. ‘And thanks.’
Payne grinned. ‘Told you, didn’t I, sir?’
Jonathan looked at Livesay’s outline. He must stop him from thinking about the enemy counter-attack, as attack there surely would be once they had discovered what had happened. There were more muffled shots, and the sound of a different machine-gun. But not Turkish; more like the one Langmaid was tinkering with while his crew dragged sandbags closer to give him some protection.
Jonathan said, ‘You once served with Captain Soutter, I believe, sir?’
Livesay wrestled with his reeling mind. ‘Yes. And Rear-Admiral Purves, for good measure. Why?’
‘I was wondering why they dislike each other so much. It was something that happened aboard the light cruiser Assurance in the North Sea – that’s all I know.’
Livesay tilted the flask over his mug but it was empty. Savagely he flung it against the sandbags.
‘I was in command of the marine detachment. Purves was the captain and Soutter the gunnery officer.’ He was feeling his face as if it hurt him. ‘Peacetime, of course, but we all knew it was coming. It was a night exercise off the Danish coast – we were showing no lights as I recall.’ His words were slurred, angry. ‘Anyway, we ran down two fishing boats and some men drowned. Soutter was the O.O.W. at the time, and was ordered to face a court of inquiry. Could have been the end of him . . .’
He was losing the thread of his own description and when Jonathan prompted him he snapped, ‘I mean a court-martial, man!’
It made no sense. Soutter careless, even incompetent? A man who handled both himself and Reliant with such discipline and control; and yet was not ashamed to reveal his own pain and pity for a dying midshipman.
Livesay lurched to his feet. ‘But Purves interceded, spoke up for him. He was well-connected even then. The matter was dropped. So just forget it, will you?’
Jonathan propped his head in his hands and felt the dried sand on his scalp. A bath, a swim in some impossible river . . . He looked up and saw Lieutenant Wyke standing in silence, his fair hair ruffling in the light breeze from the sea.
‘Have you seen Major Livesay, sir?’
‘He’s gone to relieve himself.’ He could sense Wyke’s anger and something more, despite his level voice. ‘What is it?’
‘The prisoner escaped, sir.’
Jonathan stood up slowly, sensing there was worse to come.
Wyke said, ‘The sentry must have released his arms so that he could feed himself. The Turk garrotted him with some wire. I’m not quite sure when.’
‘Who was it?’ But he already knew.
‘Private Barlow, sir. He was only seventeen.’
‘Yes.’ The one who had looked about twelve. What a way to end. ‘I’ll tell the major if you like.’
Wyke said in the same inexpressive voice, ‘No, sir. He’s my company commander. But thank you.’ They heard Livesay coughing nearby and as he turned to go he added, ‘But I wish to God you were.’
McCann joined him and said harshly, ‘Some of the lads want to go after that Turk, sir. If I got my ’ands on that bastard I’d . . .’
‘It wouldn’t help, Sergeant. We’ll need every one of them when it’s daylight.’
McCann seemed to force his mind away from the murdered Barlow and said, ‘It would take an army to get us off here, sir.’
‘They’ve got an army.’ He saw some shadowy figures carrying the limp body down into a shallow depression at the end of the ridge. One of them would be Geach, his
friend from Yorkshire. Hey-oop, then. He could almost hear it.
‘This is a fine bloody mess, Blackwood!’ Livesay came out of the darkness, his breathing worse than before. ‘I shall get to the bottom of it, believe me! How could anyone be so stupid?’
The stench of whisky was almost physical. Jonathan said, ‘He paid for it. Sergeant McCann was ready to kill the prisoner when he found him asleep.’
‘I know all about that! I told him as I tell you now, we’ll not fight with their barbarous methods! We did not make this war but we’ll surely fight it by the rules, dammit!’
‘There are no rules, sir.’
Lieutenant Wyke hovered nearby. ‘The firing has stopped, sir.’
‘What?’
Wyke replied calmly, ‘Either the attack failed, or the boats took a different course. Maybe they returned to the ships.’
Livesay strode this way and that. ‘Then it’ll be our turn next!’
Jonathan said, ‘The enemy will probably know we’re here if the prisoner has reached his unit. They’ll take their time, put out their snipers before they begin an attack.’
‘Quite the expert, aren’t you?’
Jonathan ignored the sneer. How could a man alter so much? It was as if Livesay’s enemies were here on the ridge instead of out there in the darkness.
‘We’ll stand-to in an hour. Change the sentries and . . .’ His voice trailed away.
Jonathan saw the lieutenant’s quick nod. Wyke and Maxted had already dealt with it. After the last few days they could not afford to forget anything.
He leaned against the sandbags and stared hard into the darkness. Suppose there were to be no relief force? It would be here that they would all die. He waited for the realisation to move him, but it left him like a stranger.
Just over there, at no more than eight hundred yards, Colonel Jack Waring would be gathering his resources. Preparing to fight to the last man. And what about young Roger Tarrier, whom he had promised his father to look after? There are no rules. The words came back as if to mock him. The only water available was what each man carried, and most of that had probably been drunk. Enough ammunition, but only just enough. He heard the scrape of entrenching tools and knew that the youth Barlow was being laid to rest.
And how will I behave?
In the darkness someone laughed and Jonathan turned to see who it was. But there was nobody.
He unbuttoned his holster and took out the revolver.
Only one thing seemed certain. These men, some no more than boys, were worth fighting for, if necessary dying for, if only to shame those who had put them in this hellish place.
Not because it is expected of me, or because I was trained, perhaps for this one hopeless battle. But because I care.
‘Time to stand-to, sir.’
Jonathan opened his eyes, from mindless rest to instant readiness. He looked up at Lieutenant Wyke’s face, covered with a fair stubble that somehow made him look younger.
‘You shouldn’t have let me sleep.’ He allowed Wyke to help him to his feet, aware of the marines moving into their positions, bent almost double as instructed in case of snipers.
He saw Payne standing by the Turkish Maxim gun with Langmaid and some of the others, who were stacking ammunition where it would be safe from any stray bullet. Langmaid was saying, ‘I done most of my training with the old Nordenfelt. Good gun in its way, and you could still crank off a ’undred rounds a minute from every barrel. But a Maxim, I ain’t so sure.’
Payne grinned. ‘I can manage it, Bert. Once a gunner always a gunner, that’s what they say.’
Jonathan turned as Livesay approached him with Lieutenant Maxted. The major looked at his officers, his face pale in the first lightening in the sky.
He said, ‘Have the ammunition shared. One grenade per section.’ He winced as a machine-gun rattled into life, but not in this part of the cove. Troops were on the move, theirs or ours it no longer mattered.
Jonathan took out his binoculars and wiped the lenses with his handkerchief. He saw a marine shake his water-bottle and stare at it with surprise. His friend offered his own and he took a quick grateful swallow: men finding strength when they had none of their own to offer.
He moved his glasses with great care, his jaw tight from strain as he waited for the crack of a sniper’s rifle. There was no other ridge within range of rifle-fire which was higher than this, but they all had to be careful.
Livesay said thickly, ‘Minimum fire. Tell the N.C.O.’s I doubt that the escaped prisoner saw how many men we have, but the enemy will try to draw us out.’ He saw the untidy machine-gunner watching him and added with unnecessary sarcasm, ‘Make sure your people know how to keep the barrel casing filled with liquid – at least the barrel must be kept covered at all times. These water-cooled weapons need a lot of care.’
Langmaid bared his teeth and looked at his assistants, each young enough to be his son.
‘I told ’em to piss in it if need be, sir.’ He added rudely, ‘They should be good at that!’
Livesay turned away as if he had not heard, or maybe he was too used to Langmaid’s insolence to care. He was peering at his watch, even as the first faint light topped the ridge and the great ships steamed into their positions, fifteen-inch guns high-angled, battle-ensigns streaming above the lingering shadows.
Crack! A heavy bullet smacked into the sandbags and Jonathan saw the grains trickling across his boots. Good shot, but the angle was too extreme.
Gunfire like distant thunder made the ground quiver, and seconds later they heard the shells tearing overhead. Men cringed and covered their ears.
Wyke said uncertainly, ‘Wrong direction, sir.’
‘Turkish ships over there in the Narrows, snug behind their minefields.’ Jonathan felt the bitterness again. The Narrows, which the fleet had tried to force with such terrible losses. Now the enemy were firing right over the peninsula in the hope of hitting some of the attacking ships.
The response was deafening, and Jonathan guessed that the battleships and battle-cruisers, Reliant in the van, were nearer than they had expected. There was a buzzing drone overhead, like a lazy bee on a summer’s afternoon, and he knew it was one of the spotting aircraft sent to estimate the range and bearing of the anchored Turkish warships.
He imagined the gunnery officers, fingers itching to fire, turrets moving smoothly beneath them as the information was passed to the crews, while more massive shells were swung into position. High-explosive and shrapnel to turn the support lines into a smoking ruin, but first concentrating on those enemy ships.
When it came it was still a shock: the devastating scream of shells followed by the echoes of the explosions. Again and again while daylight strengthened and showed the drifting smoke, and at last the glitter of the sea beyond the defence line.
It was ironic, Jonathan thought, the Turks had been caught out by some last-moment plan in unloading stores and reinforcements. But had there been new support, Anzac or marines, they could have crossed to the enemy lines without a challenge.
The bombardment began in earnest, the ridge shaking violently as if a volcano was about to erupt.
Livesay said tersely, ‘Fire the signal. Otherwise they might still drop a few on us.’
Wyke raised his arm and fired. Seconds later, two pearl-like flares of bright emerald green were taken by the breeze and drifted slowly towards the cove.
Jonathan leaned on the sandbags and rested his forehead on his arm. They would all see the signal and know that a handful of marines had achieved the impossible. Nothing could move in no man’s land now without being caught in lethal cross-fire from the trenches and the ridge.
He picked up the rifle and worked the bolt to load it. And the ridge was where the enemy would come. There was nowhere else to go unless they were prepared to face the murderous bombardment from the sea.
The officers glanced at one another, as if trying to remember something before it was too late. Only Livesay stood apart and alone,
his face like death as he blinked at each scream of shells.
‘Here they come!’
The officers turned and scattered. One shell or grenade could kill all of them.
Livesay yelled, ‘One hundred yards! Independent! Fire!’
The instant clatter of the heavy machine-gun, followed at length by the old Maxim, sent more echoes bouncing around the ridge and through the nearest gully where so many dead still lay untended and forgotten.
Jonathan wiped his mouth and watched Turkish soldiers ducking amongst rocks; some of them must have been on the move for hours, and had almost reached the ridge.
The machine-gun swept over them and he saw them fall like bloody puppets, or try to turn and run. The cliff top line came to life and the machine-guns swept out from the trench where he had said goodbye to the Australian from Perth whose father was a boat builder.
Caught in the open, the Turks were mown down on every side. But others had taken positions in the larger rock falls, and as a marine stood to fire down a sniper’s bullet spun him round, his face almost shot away. But he did not die, and the others stared at him with horror as he thrashed at the ground with his boots while his fingers clawed at the blood and torn flesh where his eyes had been.
The Maxim jammed and Jonathan shouted, ‘Get down, Payne! Never mind the bloody gun!’
Payne turned, his eyes watering in the first proper sunlight. Then he grinned, and re-opened fire as the stoppage was cleared.
But soon he had no more ammunition, and seizing his rifle and fixed bayonet he loped across the rubble to join Jonathan.
‘God, look at ’em!’
Dead and wounded Turks lay everywhere, some turning over as if regaining life as more bullets ripped across them.
But they were still coming, yelling and screaming like madmen, their bayonets jabbing at the air as they scrambled up the side of the ridge while snipers pinned down the defenders.
A corporal named Cowell picked up a captured grenade, one of the new German types that resembled a potato masher, and his mind visibly grappled with the unfamiliar weapon before he pulled out the cord, and stood to fling it down the slope. Then a bullet smashed into his chest like a hammer and he fell by the sandbags, the grenade hissing out sparks beneath his leg.
The Horizon (1993) Page 13