by Jim Haynes
Each heart will leap as never we thought men’s heart could thrill.
Away from horrid mem’ries of death moans and of pain.
God speed the twenty-knotter that takes us home again.
And to the coast of Egypt, with sun haze on the sand,
While racing down the Suez, we’ll wave a farewell hand:
We’ll cast no backward glances across the Indian Sea,
Our thoughts will fly before us and light of heart we’ll be.
And when the big boat’s nearing her berth by Sydney quay,
And two black eyes are watching the side rails there for me,
Oh, let them drop the anchor and get the gangway down!
And let us see the land again in our old Sydney town.
We’ll kiss the girls who waited through those long years so true.
Our patient loving sisters and grey haired mothers too.
We’ll find familiar faces and friends on every hand
When we return . . . if we return . . . to that sweet southern land.
A SILENT GETAWAY
OLIVER HOGUE
Then like a bomb came word that in very surety we were going to evacuate. In the House of Commons members had asked in an airy way why the troops were not withdrawn from Suvla and Anzac.
To them, in their ignorance, it was merely a matter of embarking again and returning to Egypt or Salonica or France. So simple it seemed to those armchair strategists. They did not know that the beach at Anzac, our main depots, and our headquarters were within a thousand yards of the main Turkish line; that the beach had been constantly shelled by ‘Beachy Bill’ and other batteries for eight solid months on end.
However, the powers that be had so ordained it and that was sufficient. The Australians had talked about ‘never retreating’, but that was only a manifestation of the unconquerable spirit that animated them. They might talk, but they never yet disobeyed an order. It nearly broke their hearts to leave the spot where so many thousand gallant young Australians had found heroes’ graves; but they knew how to obey orders. The only kick was for the honour of being the last to leave. So many wanted to be amongst the ‘diehards’.
It was to be a silent ‘get-away’. Absolute secrecy was essential for its success. It sounds just like a wild bit of fiction. Just imagine the possibility of withdrawing an army of 90,000 men with artillery, stores, field hospitals, mules and horses, and all the vast impedimenta of war, right from under the nose of an active enemy, and all on a clear moonlit night. One single traitor could have queered the whole pitch. But British, Indians, New Zealanders and Australians were loyal to the core.
The final attack of the Turks on the right of our line had been repulsed by the 2nd Light Horse Brigade, though the enemy in determined fashion had pushed forward with sandbags right to within a few yards of our trenches.
There were half a dozen spots in the Anzac firing line where we and the Turks could hear each other talking: Quinn’s Post, Lone Pine, the Nek, Apex, Turkish Despair, Chatham’s Post. It would be fine fun sticking it out here while the army made its get-away. Men clamoured for the honour of being the last to leave . . .
It is the night of 19 December; the fatal night which will see the evacuation of Anzac. Men talked cheerily, but thought hard. Had the Turks any idea of our projected departure? Two nights ago, a little after midnight, there was an unrehearsed incident. A fire broke out in a depot near North Beach. Soon the whole sky was reddened with the glare and the rugged outline of Anzac was brightly illuminated. Bully beef and biscuits blazed merrily. Oil drums burst with terrific force.
Then we wondered if the Turks would deduce anything from this. Would they guess it was a preliminary to the ‘get-away’? It was hardly likely. The ‘fool English’ would never burn the stores till the last minute. So the accidental fire did no harm. Maybe it did good. For during the past month the Anzacs had tried by all manner of tricks and subterfuges to induce Abdul to attack. But Abdul knew how costly a business it was attacking the Australians, and after a few abortive attempts he remained on the defensive . . .
Now all was normal. Down at Helles the British had, during the afternoon, made a big demonstration. The warships had joined in the fray and the bombardment of the Turkish lines was terrific. But on this last night there was nothing untoward happening.
General Birdwood during the day had gone the rounds of the trenches and the boys yarned with him as of old. It was a good thing for us to have had a General like that—one who understood the devil-may-care Australian character. That’s why the boys called him the ‘idol of Anzac’.
***
Away to the northward at Suvla on the shoulder of Chocolate Hills the British divisions are getting ready to retire. On Hill 60, which saw so much sanguinary fighting, the stolid Indians are awaiting orders. This way a bit, the New Zealand and Australian Division has started its first parties towards North Beach. On the right above Anzac and opposite Gaba Tepe the Australians were streaming away, all but the rear-guard and the final ‘diehards’.
Before the morning Anzac will have seen a great tragedy, or else the greatest bluff in history . . . There is the usual desultory interchange of musketry at odd places along the line, now and then punctuated with the rattle of a maxim . . . nothing abnormal. Down at Helles there is a fierce fusillade. This will help us . . .
Since dusk the first contingents had been steadily streaming down towards North Beach and Anzac Cove. Quickly and silently they embarked in the waiting flotilla of small craft and streaked out to the transports. Like guardian angels the warships hovered around seeing to the security of the army.
Up at Suvla we knew similar scenes were being enacted. Along the line the musketry played its usual accompaniment to the intermittent bombing. But the whole plan was working beautifully. The tension was gradually relaxing. There would be no twenty per cent casualties as the pessimists foretold. Already from Suvla and Anzac over 60,000 soldiers had re-embarked without a single casualty.
Now and then there was a round of shrapnel sent by Beachy Bill on to the southern depot at Brighton Beach. This clearly showed that the enemy suspected nothing. Yet it is bright moonlight . . . It is midnight, and nearly all the men have embarked save the thin khaki line of ‘diehards’ in the trenches.
An odd bomb or two is thrown by the Turks. Then from the Apex, after a final volley, streaked the first batch of the skeleton rear-guard. There is a breach in the brave Anzac line at last. But Abdul does not know it yet. Soon the daredevils at Quinn’s Post heave a few bombs, then silently slink back, down the precipitous hillside, and along the gully to the beach.
From Courtney’s and the Nek and the Pimple and Ryrie’s Post and Chatham’s all along the line came the ‘diehards’, full lick to the beach. But to their unutterable surprise there is no attack. They are not followed. The trenches that for eight long months defied the Turkish attacks are now open, not a solitary soldier left. But Abdul does not know it. There is still an intermittent fire from the Turkish trenches. They think our silence is some trick . . .
At half past three on the morning of 20 December there was a burst of red flame and a roar like distant thunder. This was repeated shortly afterwards, and our two big mines on the Neck blew up. It was our last slap at the Turk. We cannot say what harm it did, but thinking the explosions were a prelude to attack the Turkish line all round Anzac burst into spiteful protest. There was a wild fusillade at our empty trenches, and on the transports the Australians smiled grimly.
Shortly afterwards the Light Horsemen on the extreme right—Ryrie’s lucky 2nd Brigade rear-guard—entered the waiting cutters on Brighton Beach. Then the stores—such as we could not take away—burst into flame. Only two men were wounded.
Before dawn word came that the whole force had been safely taken off, together with many of the mules and horses and guns, which it was thought, would have to be abandoned. At dawn the Turkish batteries opened a wild bombardment of our trenches, all along the line. Marvellous to re
late, the enemy had not yet ascertained what had happened. But the silence soon told them the truth. Then they charged in irregular lines over the skyline at our empty trenches.
The warships fired a few salvoes at the enemy swarming over the hills, and they hurriedly took cover in our old trenches. These were the last shots fired over Anzac at the Turks. Then the flotilla turned its back on Gallipoli and swung slowly and sadly westward.
So ended the great ‘get-away’, a feat quite unparalleled in the annals of war. Historians will pay tribute to Sir Charles Monro and the Fleet.
We only take our hats off to General Birdwood and his staff and the staffs of the Australian divisions. But deep down we know the wonderful work our navy did during the eight months of the Gallipoli campaign. The army may make mistakes, but the navy is all right.
As we swing off, our last thought is not concerned with the bitterness of defeat. We think of our comrades quietly sleeping on Anzac. They gave their lives gladly, proudly, for Australia and the Empire. They showed the world that Australians could live and fight and die like Britishers.
There are many sad hearts on the transports tonight. And there are very many breaking hearts back in dear Australia. But old England has showered so many good gifts on her Colonies. The Colonies will not grudge this sacrifice for Empire.
LAST TO LEAVE
W. GAMBLE
On the eve of evacuating Anzac sixty men were selected to man the firing line and cover the retreat of the battalion. Ivor and I were included and held one post together. We mounted duty at 4 p.m. on the nineteenth and kept observing and sniping continually for almost a full round of the clock.
About 12 p.m. it was reported that all was going well on the beach and the next three hours seemed like an age. I thought the time would never come but, about 3 a.m., the word was passed quietly along and we sneaked through the tunnels (with about six layers of blankets wrapped around our feet), out into the open, down the winding saps to the beach, onto the lighter and away, without halting for one moment. It was a wonderful piece of work, wonderfully carried out to the smallest detail, even to marking our tracks by a trail of flour and salt, so that we would not lose our way in the dark.
ANZAC
‘ARGENT’
Ah, well! We’re gone! We’re out of it now. We’ve something else to do.
But we all look back from the transport deck to the land-line far and blue:
Shore and valley are faded; fading are cliff and hill;
The land-line we called ‘Anzac’ . . . and we’ll call it ‘Anzac’ still!
This last six months, I reckon, it’ll be most of my life to me:
Trenches, and shells, and snipers, and the morning light on the sea,
Thirst in the broiling midday, shouts and gasping cries,
Big guns’ talk from the water, and . . . flies, flies, flies, flies, flies!
And all of our trouble wasted! All of it gone for nix!
Still . . . we kept our end up—and some of the story sticks.
Fifty years on in Sydney they’ll talk of our first big fight,
And even in little old, blind old England possibly someone might.
But seeing we had to clear, for we couldn’t get on no more,
I wish that, instead of last night, it had been the night before.
Yesterday poor Jim stopped one. Three of us buried Jim.
I know a woman in Sydney that thought the world of him.
She was his mother. I’ll tell her—broken with grief and pride—
‘Mother’ was Jim’s last whisper. That was all. And he died.
Brightest and bravest and best of all—none could help but to love him—
And now . . . he lies there under the hill, with a wooden cross above him.
That’s where it gets me twisted. The rest of it I don’t mind,
But it don’t seem right for me to be off, and to leave old Jim behind.
Jim, just quietly sleeping; and hundreds and thousands more;
For graves and crosses are mighty thick from Quinn’s Post down to the shore!
Better there than in France, though, with the Germans’ dirty work:
I reckon the Turk respects us, as we respect the Turk;
Abdul’s a good, clean fighter, we’ve fought him, and we know,
And we’ve left him a letter behind us to tell him we found him so.
Not just to say, precisely, ‘Goodbye’ but ‘Au revoir’!
Somewhere or other we’ll meet again, before the end of the war!
But I hope it’ll be a wider place, with a lot more room on the map,
And the airmen over the fight that day’ll see a bit of a scrap!
Meanwhile, here’s health to the Navy, that took us there, and away;
Lord! They’re miracle-workers—and fresh ones every day!
My word! Those Mids in the cutters! Aren’t they properly keen!
Don’t ever say England’s rotten—or not to us, who’ve seen!
Well! We’re gone. We’re out of it all! We’ve somewhere else to fight.
And we strain our eyes from the transport deck, but ‘Anzac’ is out of sight!
Valley and shore are vanished; vanished are cliff and hill;
And we may never go back to ‘Anzac’ . . . But I think that some of us will!
Gallipoli established the fighting reputation of the Anzacs and passed into Australian legend.
A total of 5482 Australian soldiers were killed in action during the Gallipoli campaign. A further 2012 soldiers died of wounds and 665 died from disease, bringing Australian battle losses to 8159. In all, 19,441 Australian soldiers were wounded. A total of 2721 New Zealanders were killed and 4752 were wounded.
Figures for the British were 21,255 dead and 52,230 wounded casualties. The French count wasn’t accurate but was approximately 10,000 dead and 17,000 wounded.
Ottoman losses were 86,692 dead, 164,617 wounded and 20,000 who died from disease.
We have no accurate record of the numbers on the Allied side who died from disease but about 150 a day were evacuated with illness from June onwards.
It is safe to say over 150,000 men died during the Gallipoli campaign and twice that number were wounded. As the objective of the campaign was not realised, it was a futile exercise for the Allies. Ottoman army casualties were around a quarter of a million men either killed, wounded or lost through sickness. They eventually lost the war as well.
As far as the public importance of Anzac is concerned, it seems fairly obvious to me that two things created the iconic ‘baptism of fire’ that is so often talked about as part of our national identity.
The first of these was the ‘chance’ military decision made to combine the Aussie and Kiwi troops camped in Egypt into a separate fighting force, rather than spread the men out amongst British units. Secondly, there was the fact that we were a young nation with no military history of our own in world terms.
The ‘Anzac spirit’ is a palpable and wonderful truth that permeates our national character and gives us a real and justified sense of pride in our own unique national identity.
THE LETTERS OF THE DEAD
EDWARD DYSON
A letter came from Dick to-day;
A greeting glad he sent to me.
He tells of one more bloody fray—
Of how with bomb and rifle they
Have put their mark for all to see
Across rock-ribbed Gallipoli.
‘How are you doing? Hope all’s well,
I’m in great nick, and like the work.
Though there may be a brimstone smell,
And other pungent hints of Hell,
Not Satan’s self can make us shirk
Our task of hitting up the Turk.
‘He fights and falls, and comes again,
And knocks our charging lines about.
He’s game at heart, and tough in grain,
And canters through the leaded rain,
Chock full of mettle—not a
doubt
’Twill do us proud to put him out.
‘But that’s our job; to see it through
We’ve made our minds up, come what may,
This noon we had our work to do.
The shells were dropping two by two;
We fairly felt their bullets play
Among our hair for half a day.
‘One clipped my ear, a red-hot kiss,
Another beggar chipped my shin.
They pass you with a vicious hiss
That makes you duck; but, hit or miss,
It isn’t in the Sultan’s skin
To shift Australia’s cheerful grin.
‘Soon homeward tramping with the band,
All notched a bit, and with the prize
Of glory for our native land,
I’ll see my little sweetheart stand
And smile, her smile, so sweet and wise—
With proud tears shining in her eyes.’
A mist is o’er the written line
Whence martial ardor seems to flow;
A dull ache holds this heart of mine—
Poor boy, he had a vision fine;
But grave dust clouds the royal glow;
He died in action weeks ago!
He was my friend—I may not weep.
My soul goes out to Him who bled;
I pray for Christ’s compassion deep
On mothers, lovers—all who keep
The woeful vigil, having read
The joyous letters of the dead.
AT RANDWICK HOSPITAL
ANONYMOUS—AN ARTICLE IN THE SUN, SYDNEY, 1917
It is Randwick Hospital, Sydney.
‘Allow me to introduce Pte. Donnelly, 1st Battalion, commonly known as “Glutton”, on account of having tried to eat a machine-gun,’ says the man in pyjamas and overcoat.
‘Couldn’t swallow it,’ laughs Pte. Donnelly, bringing his wheelchair to a standstill.
You are a trifle bewildered, and want to know more. ‘Let us hear about it,’ you ask.
‘I’m afraid I’ve forgotten everything since I had shell-shock,’ comes from the wheelchair.