by Jim Haynes
We lay under cover in the dark waiting for the word to go. Every man had his bayonet fixed and his magazine empty. The work before us had to be done with cold steel. The Turks had three lines of trenches on the hill slope opposite.
Suddenly I became aware of a stir among the Maoris on my left; I was right up against them. Next to me was a full-blooded Maori chief, a young fellow of sixteen stone, as big and powerful as a bullock, a lineal descendant of fighting Rewi, the Maori chief from whom all the legends descend.
This fellow has two good university degrees and is a lay preacher. I once saw him in a frock coat and silk hat, talking on the virtues of cleanliness and the nobility of hard work.
But now he had dressed for the occasion in a pair of running shoes and shorts, which covered about eight inches of the middle of him. I could see his brown skin glistening with perspiration in the dim light as we waited for the whistle to blow and send us over the top. His head was moving from side to side and his lips were twitching. From time to time he beat the earth softly with his clenched fist.
Then I got the rhythm of it and realised what was happening. I suppose those 500 Maoris picked me up into their silent war song.
I know the words of the Haka well, and though they could not dance it they were beating out the measure of it with their fists on the ground. After each soft thump I could feel that their bodies strained forward like dogs on a leash. They caught me up in their madness and I longed to be at it. I thumped the ground with them, and prayed to be up and dancing, or out and fighting.
Their eyes were rolling and their breath was coming in long, rhythmical sobs. The groaning sound of it was quite audible; in another minute they would have been up on their feet, dancing their wild war dance. But then came the signal; and Hell was let loose.
‘Ake, Ake,’ they shouted, ‘we fight for ever and for ever.’
Up to the first trench they swept. I could hear some of them yelling, ‘Kiki ta Turk’. Those were the fellows who had kept on their heaviest boots, and meant to use their feet. God help the Turk who got a kick from a war-mad Maori.
Our blood was up; I know mine was. We were not far behind them to the first trench, and you never saw such a sight in your life.
The Turks had been bashed to death; there is no other word for it. We got up to them at the second trench, where there was a deadly hand-to-hand going on. Some of them had broken their rifles and were fighting with their hands. I saw one Maori smash a Turk with half-a-hundredweight of rock he had torn up.
I don’t remember much more, because I was in the thick of it myself by then, that’s why I am here in the hospital.
I don’t know anything more at first-hand but I hear a good many of them came back, though I shouldn’t have thought it possible. The Turks who escaped will not wait next time when they hear the Maoris coming . . . and you can hear them coming all right.
THE ANZAC V.C.s
OLIVER HOGUE
Our first Australian V.C. was Jacka of the 4th Brigade. He was young and didn’t have the splendid tall physique of most of the Australians, but he was greased lightning with the bayonet. It all happened on Courtney’s Post. The Turks had been sapping in towards the front trench, and after a shower of bombs they swarmed in and captured the trench. Lance Corporal Jacka, posted behind the traverse in the fire trench, blocked their advance. An officer and a few men hurried up and volunteers were immediately ready to eject the intruders.
Then, while the officer and three men engaged in a bombing exchange with the enemy, Albert Jacka jumped from the front trench into the communication trench behind, ran round and took the Turks in the rear. He shot five of them and bayoneted two. The officer’s party then charged and shot the four remaining Turks who tried to escape. They found Jacka leaning up against the side of the trench with flushed face, a bloody bayonet in the end of his rifle and an unlighted cigarette in his mouth.
The boys who took Lone Pine in that fine charge, amid a shower of lead and shrapnel such as the war had not previously seen, got no V.C. for their valour. But the lads who held the hard-won post against all the subsequent counter-attacks did manage to secure a few. One of these was Captain Shout. But he never lived to wear the cross. For three long days and longer nights he participated in the furious hand-to-hand fighting in Lone Pine.
Captain Shout with his bombing gang was ubiquitous. Laughing and cheering them on he time and again drove the Turks back, and then when he reached a point where the final sandbag barrier was to be erected, he tried to light three bombs at once and throw them amongst the crowding Turks. To throw a single bomb is a risky job. To throw three bombs simultaneously was a desperate expedient. One exploded prematurely, shattered both his hands, laid open his cheek and destroyed an eye, besides minor injuries. Conscious and still cheerful he was carried away. But he died shortly afterwards.
The heroic 7th Battalion—victorious Victorians—participated in the great charge of the 2nd Australian Infantry Brigade down at Helles, the charge that made the French and English marvel at the dash of the young colonials. Four men of the 7th Battalion—Captain Fred Tubb, Lieutenant Symons, Corporal Dunstan and Corporal Burton—won the V.C. at Lone Pine.
On the night of 8 August, while the British troops in the Suvla area were struggling to wrest the hills from the Turks, the Turks round Lone Pine were vainly endeavouring to recapture this stronghold from the Australians. On the right of the 7th Battalion, things were particularly sultry, and early on the morning of the ninth some determined attacks resulted in six of our officers and several men being killed and wounded. A bit of the front sap was lost, but Lieutenant Symons headed a charge, retook the sap, shot two of the Turks with his revolver and finally erected a barricade which defied all the attacks of the enemy who set fire to the overhead cover in the hope of driving back the 7th. But the fire was extinguished and the position held for good.
It was give and take, attack and counter-attack all through 9 August that showed the qualities of pluck and determination, which won the V.C. for Captain F.H. Tubb, Corporal Dunstan and Corporal Burton. Three times the enemy attacked with bombs, blew up our barricades, and swarmed into the trench, but each time Tubb and his companions returned to the assault, repulsed the invaders, rebuilt the barricades, and in spite of a shower of bombs held the post. Captain Tubb was wounded in the head and arm, but stuck to his job throughout.
Lance Corporal Keyzor was one of a band of heroes who did wonders in the hell-zone at the south-eastern corner of Lone Pine. It was a murder hole and after much slaughter we found that we could not hold the outer trench, while the enemy found that he also was unable to hold it. Finally it was abandoned as No Man’s Land.
As a bomb-thrower, Keyzor was pre-eminent. He was one of those who repeatedly caught the enemy’s bombs and hurled them back before they could explode. It was here that Colonel Scobie was killed shortly afterwards, and here it was that for days and nights Keyzor moved amongst the showers of bombs with dead and dying all around, and threw bombs till every muscle ached and he could not lift his arm.
John Hamilton was very young, just nineteen. But lots of these young Australians had old heads on their young shoulders. It was at Lone Pine, where the 3rd Battalion was defending a section of the line against the repeated attacks of the Turks, that young Hamilton won the coveted honour. He climbed on to the top of the parapet and with a few sandbags as a precarious shield against bombs and bullets he stayed there for five solid hours sniping merrily, potting off any stray Turks that showed up, and giving warning to the officer below each time the enemy started out to attack. There was plenty of shrapnel flying and the zip of bullets into the sandbags grew monotonous. But young Hamilton hung on.
It was away on the left of our line at Hill 60 that Lieutenant Throssell of the 10th Light Horse performed his great act of valour. There was one section of the enemy’s line that obstinately defied the Australasian attack. At last the 3rd Light Horse Brigade received orders that the redoubt had to be taken. The Brigadier
sent the 10th Light Horse Regiment out to do the job.
***
Just after midnight—28–29 August—the Westralians suddenly leaped on to the parapet and charged ahead. They were met with a hail of machine-gun and rifle fire and a shower of bombs, but nothing could stop those horseless horsemen. A brief melee on and in the Turkish trenches and the position was won. But holding it was a far more difficult matter. Lieutenant Throssell, in charge of the digging party, worked overtime putting the new line in a state of defence.
Soon the Turks massed for the inevitable counter-attack, and Throssell, with Captain Fry and a troop of the Light Horse, repulsed the first charge. But just as dawn was breaking the Turks came again with a shower of bombs as a prelude. The grenades were smothered as they fell or were thrown back again, but Captain Fry paid the final penalty. One bomb rolled over the parapet into the trench, and spluttered. The men yelled, ‘Let it rip.’ But the only safe thing to do was to smother the bomb or heave it out. The gallant Captain chose the latter alternative, but the bomb exploded and killed him.
The holding of this threatened elbow of the line devolved upon Throssell, who rose manfully to the occasion. With his rifle he shot half a dozen Turks and with his cheery example he heartened his command, and the enemy attacked in vain. Twice indeed they swarmed in and the Light Horsemen had to give ground. But only a few yards and a fresh barricade was immediately erected. Early in the afternoon Throssell was wounded in the shoulder. But he kept on. At four o’clock he got another bullet in the neck, but still he kept on. Just after nightfall relief came and his superior officer sent him back to the field hospital.
There were other Australians who gained the V.C., Captain William Cosgrove of the Royal Munster Fusiliers, who did such a fine performance down at Helles, and others. But other historians will tell of their deeds. Corporal Bassett of the New Zealand Signallers won his V.C. for a daring exploit—laying a telephone wire right on to Chunuk Bair in broad daylight under a heavy fire.
Scores of the boys did big things that in lesser wars would have won distinction. Here they just were numbered with the unknown heroes. Every man on Lone Pine deserved special honour.
If they had been Germans they would have been covered with Iron Crosses. As it is they are just satisfied that they were able to do their job. Anyhow, Australia won’t forget Lone Pine.
‘WE’RE ALL AUSTRALIANS NOW’
A.B. ‘BANJO’ PATERSON
Published as an open letter to the troops, 1915
Australia takes her pen in hand,
To write a line to you,
To let you fellows understand,
How proud we are of you.
From shearing shed and cattle run,
From Broome to Hobson’s Bay,
Each native-born Australian son,
Stands straighter up today.
The man who used to ‘hump his drum’,
On far-out Queensland runs,
Is fighting side by side with some
Tasmanian farmer’s sons.
The fisher-boys dropped sail and oar
To grimly stand the test,
Along that storm-swept Turkish shore,
With miners from the west.
The old state jealousies of yore
Are dead as Pharaoh’s sow,
We’re not State children any more
We’re all Australians now!
Our six-starred flag that used to fly,
Half-shyly to the breeze,
Unknown where older nations ply
Their trade on foreign seas,
Flies out to meet the morning blue
With Vict’ry at the prow;
For that’s the flag the Sydney flew,
The wide seas know it now!
The mettle that a race can show,
Is proved with shot and steel,
And now we know what nations know
And feel what nations feel.
The honoured graves beneath the crest
Of Gaba Tepe hill,
May hold our bravest and our best,
But we have brave men still.
With all our petty quarrels done,
Dissensions overthrown,
We have, through what you boys have done,
A history of our own.
Our old world diff’rences are dead,
Like weeds beneath the plough,
For English, Scotch, and Irish-bred,
They’re all Australians now!
So now we’ll toast the Third Brigade,
That led Australia’s van,
For never shall their glory fade
In minds Australian.
Fight on, fight on, unflinchingly,
Till right and justice reign.
Fight on, fight on, till Victory
Shall send you home again.
And with Australia’s flag shall fly
A spray of wattle bough,
To symbolise our unity,
We’re all Australians now.
After the August offensive another stalemate eventuated; not one inch of territory was won or conceded by the Anzac forces from the end of August until they were evacuated in December.
By the end of August more than 80 per cent of the Allied troops were suffering from dysentery. Then winter brought snow and many soldiers died from exposure or suffered frostbite.
The Allied troops at Anzac Cove and Suvla Bay were withdrawn in December 1915. Unlike the landings and the eight-month siege campaign, the evacuation was a masterpiece of military strategy and coordination.
Troops were evacuated steadily from 11 December, and the final 20,000 left furtively and completely undetected on 18 and 19 December.
A rear-guard of 1500 men occupied the trenches and fired rifles, made noises and set timers on guns and booby traps to make it appear that the trenches were occupied as normal. On a given signal the rear-guard ran to the deserted beach and were taken off under cover of darkness.
Only two lives were lost during the whole process of evacuation.
Anzac and Suvla were evacuated by 20 December 1915. The British forces at Cape Helles, however, remained in place until 7 January and were evacuated on 8 and 9 January 1916.
ANZAC ALPHABET
‘IFSH’
A is for Anzac, renowned evermore,
B is for Beachy who bursts on the shore.
C is for Colic which follows directly,
D is for Dose taken paregorectly.
E is for Exercise climbing the hills,
F for Fatigues which come faster than bills.
G is the German who makes the Turk fight,
H is for Hell which we hope is his plight.
I is for Indian, excellent fellow,
J is for Jaundice which makes us turn yellow.
K is for Kobber, Australian for friend,
L the Last Post which comes right at the end.
M is for Mule who’s as game as a sparrow,
N is the Nuisance of saps much too narrow.
O is for Oaths, some of which are ripsnorters,
P is the Pain they produce at headquarters.
Q is the Quiver that runs down your back,
R the big Rooster which shells from Chanak
S the Soft Jobs you get back at base,
T is for Turk who’s a pretty tough case.
U is for Underground where we all rest,
V is for Vickers, the man-killing pest.
W the Whisky we sigh for in vain,
X for Xcitement, ‘The mail’s in again!’
Y is for ‘Yes’ if we’re asked to go home,
Z is for Zero, we’re chilled to the bone!
WINTER ARRIVES
H.W. DINNING
It is now late October and autumn and changes in temperature are as incalculable as they are in Melbourne in certain seasons. Fierce, biting, raw days alternate with the comfortableness of mild late summer. Today it may be more than your life is worth to bathe (shrapnel disregarded) and tomorrow
in the gentle air you may swim and splash for an hour and still desire more as you prolong the joy by washing your garments in the ocean.
We have suffered the tail end of one or two autumn storms and have had two downright fierce gales blow up where the wind came in the night with a suddenness that found most unprepared. In half an hour many of us were homeless, crouching about with our bundled bedclothes and trespassing on the confined space of the stouter dug-outs of our friends.
Men lay on their backs and held down their roofs by the weight of their bodies until overpowered and the sea roared over the shingle beach with a violence that made even swearing and blasphemy inaudible.
For weeks men had been preparing dug-outs against the approach of winter, but they were unprepared for weather of such violence. The morning showed a sorry sight on the beach, barges torn adrift from their moorings and hurled ashore. Some were empty, some were filled with supplies; but all were battered, some disabled and some utterly broken. One was filled with rum and never before, on active service, had such a chance of unlimited spirits been offered. Many jars were spirited away before the time of unloading came.
Far more serious was the state of the landing piers. There had been three. One stood intact; the landward half of the second was clean gone and of the third there was no trace except a few splintered spars on the shore.
The mending began forthwith but so did the bursting of shrapnel over the workmen, for this stroke of vengeance from Allah upon the unfaithful was not to go unsupplemented.
By nightfall, however, the abridged pier was successfully reunited with the shore, in spite of the shrapnel and a sea that made it impossible for barges to come alongside.
For two days the after-wind of the gale kept bread and meat and mail tossing on the waters off Anzac and we were fed on bully beef and biscuit as we wistfully eyed the mail trawler pitching out there with her precious burden. For the arrival of mail eclipses all other considerations, even life and death, the fighting or even the landing of rations!
Mail has been arriving weekly for six months. Sometimes it comes twice a week, for the Army Corps Post Office never rests and instalments may be spread over three or four landings.