The Best Gallipoli Yarns and Forgotten Stories

by Jim Haynes

  The Indians excelled in finding and despatching snipers. They knew the art of concealment and stealth, and could meet the Turk with his own weapon.

  After we spent some time in the firing line the next two days were spent ‘resting’—that is, digging reserve trenches, tunnelling and sap making. There were innumerable fatigue parties, water to be carried, ammunition to be taken to the firing line, provisions and stores to fetch. It was work, work, work.

  Once, just as a party of us were turning in for the night, crouched up in our little earthen holes, a Sergeant Major came along and called upon us to come out. It appeared that the engineers and sappers were dead beat; they required help—it didn’t matter how they obtained it, or where they obtained it—they must have it. We happened to be nearest to hand, and we were accordingly sent to their assistance.

  Growling and swearing, we were marched up, up those towering hills. In places it was so steep that it was necessary to ascend by means of a rope, hand over hand. The hillside was a mass of white shifting sand—there was no foothold, to lose the rope was to tumble, rolling, bouncing to the bottom below. It was a laborious climb, and we were not sorry when we found ourselves, puffing and blowing, at the top.

  We were then sent off in pairs, to work in different parts of the line. The saps, which we were to continue, were a few yards in front of our firing line. It was pitch dark, and the feeling of being entirely alone grew upon one as one toiled.

  The sap was only sufficiently wide to allow for the entrance of one man at a time. To enter, it was necessary to go on hands and knees, as the Turkish lines were about ten yards away, and if one so much as showed a finger, a shot would ring out and be very close to adding another wooden cross to the already great numbers at the beach cemeteries.

  To keep this huddled position was very tiring, and the work was slow. Every time the pick appeared over the top of the sap, a bullet would ping past and bury itself in the loose soil thrown up, and send showers of it down on to the worker. The Turks, too, were tunnelling towards us. It was a race, a race with death. We were bent upon blowing them to perdition and they were bent upon blowing us to perdition. They were equally determined to best us. Who was going to win?

  Just to add spice to matters, the Turks would roll bombs towards us. They would glide, unnoticed in the darkness, right into the sap, behind the man who was digging. The trench was too narrow to turn around; if one wished to retrace one’s step it was compulsory to crawl backwards like a huge crab. Several times bombs came rolling in, the only sign they gave of their presence would be the burning smell of the fuse.

  The moments before the bomb would be picked up and thrown back seemed an eternity. While one of us worked away at the sap, our comrade would amuse himself by sniping the enemy. They would do likewise.

  ‘Rotten shot, you cows, try again!’

  ‘Here, you shot out of your turn, it’s my go now! Take that, you swine, and that!’

  ‘Look out! A bomb—quick, quick, pitch it back.’

  Bang! It had burst in mid-air, just above the Turkish trench. It was a case of the biter bit.

  For many hours we sweated and toiled, alternately digging and watching. The foe could be heard plainly picking his way towards us. Thud, thud, thud. They are only a few feet from us. When we stopped working, they did also. At any moment now we could expect to meet. When we did, there would be trouble for someone. We two chaps, however, were destined not to see the final lap of the race—two others, New Zealanders, came to take our place.

  We crawled back, back, back, until we were once more in the front line of trenches, then down the communication trench, out into the open. A bayonet was thrust forward under our noses.

  ‘Where the hell do you come from?’

  ‘Sappers, fatigue party, 15th.’

  The sentry, being satisfied, let us pass, and we found ourselves under the stars, standing in the midst of a large number of recumbent figures, snoring and breathing heavily, rifles at their sides. It was the 4th Brigade, at least part of it, the colours of the 13th, 15th, and 16th were visible. We were behind the firing line, behind Quinn’s Post, overlooking Shrapnel Valley.

  A row of still, stiff figures caught our eye, their feet and faces were turned to the sky. Their limbs looked twisted and stiff. Over their faces had been thrown handkerchiefs and rags. They were the dead, awaiting burial that night, or on the morrow.

  Others, who had been sapping, joined us and we were quite ready and willing to throw ourselves down where we stood. No sooner had our heads hit the ground than we slept. It seemed a few moments only—in reality, it was hours—when we heard the Major shouting ‘Stand to!’ It was dawn.

  We were not required that morning, however, as the fighting was not heavy—the Turks were not attacking. The Marines, young boys, mere youths, were in the trenches, so we were at liberty to rest a little longer before we should be called upon to relieve them.

  The day was hot and fierce, dug-outs were hot and sweltering. Flies were a pest and the smell of the dead was in our nostrils. We passed the morning away frying bacon and making tea. While we had a chance we took good care to take a meal, a full one, too.

  At rare times like that you have a chance to think and reflect. How calm and peaceful the sea looks this afternoon! Why are we at war? What is it all for?

  Musings and wonderings are brought to a sudden and violent finish. With yells and shouts, the Turks are attacking. Bombs are falling like rain on the Marines in the trenches. The smoke and stench is overpowering, explosions shake the earth. Wounded are being dragged down the communication trenches. Poor, mangled fellows, crying in delirium.

  The attack seems fierce and lasting. We are all on our feet, bayonets fixed, rifles in hand, awaiting the order to rush to the rescue. The trenches are full and will hold no more of our men.

  ‘Heavens!’ The enemy is in, he is driving the overpowered, fighting Marines before him. Out pour the unfortunate boys, horror written on their faces. At the time, the General was standing conversing with the Major. Now he turns to us and in a stentorian voice calls loudly: ‘Come on, 4th Brigade! Show yourselves Australians! At them, boys, at them!’

  With a responding roar, we charged, up over the back of the trenches, over the sandbags, up the communication trenches, right in and upon those yelling, exulting Turks.

  Their joy was short-lived. With resounding cheers, our steel meets theirs. They turn and attempt to evacuate the position. No use, our blood is up, we are mad, not one of these shall escape us. Thrust, shoot, butt, they melt away before us.

  The position was re-won, was ours! We meant to hold it, to regain it; many gallant lives had been sacrificed.

  The Turks were making another desperate effort to dislodge us. Their short success had encouraged them. On they came, launching bombs upon us.

  The General, standing calmly and coolly, under a terrible fire, exposed to snipers, exposed to everything, directed us in low clear-toned notes. He saw our predicament, and sent word for bombs to be passed on to us.

  Now we could give the foe some of his own medicine. The Turk fought desperately and bravely, but we showered him with missiles, blew him to pieces, and he fell back before our onslaught.

  We had won! Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!

  SHRAPNEL AVENUE

  JOSEPH BEESTON

  Our bearers continued doing splendid work after the May offensive and right through to the August offensive. As I said, it was a long and dangerous carry from the firing line to the ‘Shrapnel Avenue’ ambulance station or Casualty Clearing Station on the beach and a lot of them were wounded themselves.

  The miserable part of the affair was that the Casualty Clearing Station on the beach broke down and could not evacuate our wounded. This caused a blockage, and we had numbers of wounded on our hands. A blockage of a few hours can be dealt with, but when it is impossible to get cases away for forty hours the condition of the men is very miserable.

  The cooks got going, and had plenty of bovril and
Oxo, which we boiled up with biscuits broken small. It made a very sustaining meal, but caused thirst, which was troublesome, as it was particularly difficult to obtain water.

  Shelter from the sun, too, was hard to get; the day was exceedingly hot, and there were only a few trees about. As many as could be got into the shade were put there, but we had to keep moving them round to avoid the sun. Many of the cases were desperate, but they uttered not a word of complaint. They all seemed to understand that it was not our fault that they were kept here.

  As the cases were treated by us, they were taken down towards the beach and kept under cover as much as possible. At one time we had nearly 400 waiting for removal to the ship. Then came a message asking for more stretchers to be sent to the firing line, and none were to be obtained; so we just had to remove the wounded from those we had, lay them on the ground, and send the stretchers up. Thank goodness, we had plenty of morphia, and the hypodermic syringe relieved many who would otherwise have suffered great agony.

  Going through the cases, I found one man who had his arm shattered and a large wound in his chest. Amputation at the shoulder-joint was the only way of saving his life. Major Clayton gave the anaesthetic, and we got him through.

  Quite a number of Ghurkas and Sikhs were amongst the wounded, and they all seemed to think that it was part of the game; patience loomed large among their virtues. Turkish wounded were also on our hands, and, though they could not speak our language, still they expressed gratitude with their eyes.

  One of the Turks was interrogated, first by the Turkish interpreter with no result; the Frenchman then had a go at him, and still nothing could be got out of him. After these two had finished, Captain Jefferies went over to the man and said in plain English, ‘Would you like a drink of water?’ ‘Yes, please,’ was the reply.

  During one afternoon a battalion crossed the ground between us and the beach. This brought the Turkish guns into action immediately, and we got the time of our lives. The shells simply rained on us, shrapnel all the time; of course our tent was no protection as it consisted simply of canvas, and the only thing to do was to keep under the banks as much as possible.

  We were jammed full of wounded in no time. Men rushing into the gully one after another, and even a company of infantry tried to take shelter there; but that, of course, could not be allowed. We had our Geneva Cross flag up, and their coming there only drew fire.

  In three-quarters of an hour we put through fifty-four cases. Many bearers were hit, and several were killed. Seven of our tent division were wounded. One man reported to me that he had been sent as a reinforcement and had just arrived in Gallipoli. While he was speaking, he sank quietly down without a sound. A bullet had come over my shoulder into his heart. That was another instance of the fortune of war. Many men were hit, either before they landed or soon after, while others could go months with never a scratch.

  From 2 p.m. till 7 p.m. that day we dealt with 142 cases.

  This shelling lasted for an hour or more, and when it subsided a party of men arrived with a message from Divisional Headquarters. They had been instructed to remove as many of the Ambulance as were alive. Headquarters, it appears, had been watching the firing. We lost very little time in leaving, and for the night we dossed down in the scrub a mile further along the beach, where we were only exposed to the fire of spent bullets coming over the hills. Our fervent prayer was that we had said good-bye to shells.

  The new position was very nice; it had been a farm—in fact the plough was still there, made of wood, no iron being used in its construction. Blackberries, olives and wild thyme grew on the place and also a kind of small melon. We did not eat any; we thought we were running enough risks already; but the cooks used the thyme to flavour the bovril, and it was a nice addition.

  The 4th Field Ambulance had some ingenious craftsmen. Walkley and Betts secured two wheels left by the Signalling Corps, and on these fastened a stretcher; out of a lot of the web equipment lying about they made a set of harness; two donkeys eventuated from somewhere, and with this conveyance quite a lot of transport was done. Water rations were carried as well, and the saving to our men was great. Goodness knows, the bearers were already sufficiently worked carrying wounded.

  It was while we were in this position that Warrant Officer Henderson was hit; the bullet came through the tent, through another man’s arm and into Mr Henderson. He was a serious loss to the Ambulance, as since its inception he had had sole charge of everything connected with the supply of drugs and dressings, and I missed his services very much.

  We were now being kept very busy and had little time for rest, numbers of cases being brought down. Our table was made of four biscuit boxes, on which were placed the stretchers. We had to be very sparing of water, as all had to be carried. The donkey conveyance was kept constantly employed. Whenever that party left we used to wonder whether they would return, for one part of the road was quite exposed to fire; but Betts and Walkley both pulled through.

  Early in August, soon after Colonel Manders was killed, I was promoted to his position as Assistant Director of Medical Services, or, as it is usually written, A.D.M.S.

  On this I relinquished command of the 4th Field Ambulance, and though I appreciated the honour of the promotion yet I was sorry to leave the Ambulance. We had been together so long, and through so much, and every member of it was of such sterling worth that when the order came for me to join Headquarters I must say that my joy was mingled with regret. Everyone—officers, non-commissioned officers and men—had all striven to do their level best, and had succeeded.

  With one or two exceptions it was our first experience on active service, but all went through their work like veterans. General Godley, in whose Division we were, told me how pleased he was with the work of the Ambulance and how proud he was to have them in his command. The Honour list was quite sufficient to satisfy any man. We got one Distinguished Service Order, two Distinguished Conduct Medals, and sixteen ‘Mentioned in Despatches’. Many more deserved recognition, but then all can’t get it.

  WHEN ‘BEACHY’ PUTS ONE OVER

  LANCE CORPORAL KING

  Oh, Anzac Beach is a busy place with scores of men at work,

  And, though we never man a trench, we help to fight the Turk,

  Carrying stores and carting shell, they ‘do their bit’ and they do it well.

  But it’s duck and scatter that the load don’t matter,

  Drop it, hop it, you don’t want to cop it . . .

  You bet it isn’t clover . . .

  When ‘Beachy’ Puts One Over.

  Indian fellows with their mules, Ghurkas and Maltese,

  English and Australian lads, a mixed up crowd are these.

  But we’ve all one thought the same when ‘Beachy’ starts his game.

  It’s duck and scatter, where don’t matter,

  Don’t be slow, keep down low, let things go,

  Make a dive for cover.

  When ‘Beachy’ Puts One Over.

  We mustn’t stay down long, there’s whips of work to do,

  Those chaps up in the firing line need food and water too.

  Don’t think of looking glum, matters not where you come from,

  After the scatter it’s a laughing matter,

  It’s grin, buck in and load that tin,

  But again we’ll play the rover

  When ‘Beachy’ Puts One Over.

  THE ANZAC LINE

  H.W. DINNING

  Hector Dinning’s writings make a real attempt to take his readers into the world of the campaign and I find that his descriptions of the Gallipoli landscape are second to none. His observations and reflections about a war being fought in a place of such natural beauty are poignant and thought provoking. Dinning was a teacher from Brisbane and a clergyman’s son. His background and classical knowledge give his writing a perspective and depth beyond the scope and focus of the campaign.

  ***

  A grand range of chalk hills runs south behind th
e right flank. The low shore plain of the left flank is backed by a group of green pinnacles moving north towards the glittering salt lake of Suvla Bay. To the north the coast sweeps out to the horn of Saros Bay, a rough sheer-rising headland, southern sentinel of the great Saros cliffs.

  Moving inshore to the foot of the plateau one gets an impression of smoothness that is a delusion. In close detail it is rough, small ravines and sandy gullies which both hindered and assisted the Anzac aggressors on landing.

  Leaving behind the beach, with its feverish busyness, the climb to the trenches follows a well-engineered road levelled in the bed of the ravine. In the sides of the ravine the dug-outs are as thick as dwellings in a Cairo alleyway, which is saying a lot!

  Beaten side-tracks branch off in all directions but the only real haven for mules and horses is the shelter of the banks of the ravine, which have been dug out at intervals into a sort of extensive stable.

  It is the height of the afternoon and there is no wind stirring under the hill. The men off duty are sleeping heavily. They have flung themselves down and lie, worn out, in the thick dust and heat of their shelters where the flies swarm.

  Not everyone is sleeping. Here and there a regimental office is operating in a dug-out and the typewriters are busy. They make a strange resonance with the hum of bullets above, which does not cease.

  The Post Office lies in a bend of the path. This is dug in deep with sandbag bulwarks. There is no sleeping here. The khaki-clad staff stamps and sorts in their subterranean chamber, amidst a disorder of mail bags and the fumes of sealing wax. One hopes the shrapnel will spare this sanctuary.

  Half a mile up, the road peters out into a rough and dusty track under the hill crest. It is heavy climbing now and one realises for the first time what a task it was scaling up here at the first charge. It is hard work on a well-beaten road. Imagine what it was like for those infantrymen, hampered with their steel-laden rifles and equipment, with the Turks raining death from the trenches above! It took them seventeen minutes’ work to reach these slopes. We have been panting and scrambling for forty minutes, and we are not up yet.