Gallipoli

by Alan Tucker

  He looked along the trench to the foot of the broken barricade. ‘You got five of them, mate. Not a bad effort for a bloke who was asleep. Think how many you could have potted if you’d been wide awake.’

  I staggered slightly as I moved towards him. He grabbed my arm in support.

  ‘I’m all right,’ I told him. ‘I tripped.’

  He looked at my bruised and swollen face then said, ‘Come on, cobber. I’ll fix you a hot drink.’

  By then other men from my battalion had pushed past to block and guard the barricade.

  ‘I didn’t give myself much chance of surviving,’ I told him nervously. ‘Thank goodness you turned up when you did.’

  ‘Don’t thank me, mate. It’s we who should thank you.’

  ‘Too right,’ one or others chorused. ‘Who knows how many of our lads would be dead if you hadn’t put your life on the line.’

  ‘God bless you, cobber,’ another added.

  They slapped me on the back and moved forward with bayonets ready for action.

  Robbo laughed. ‘You’ve made quite a reputation for yourself, Quickie. I knew you had it in you.’

  Tuesday, 10 August

  Counterattacks on Lone Pine have ceased. The Turks have fallen back to lick their wounds, as we desperately need to do too.

  It is nerve-wracking being in unfamiliar trenches. In our trenches we know only too well where the danger points are but here we feel vulnerable. We’re obviously well protected from our old trenches but that’s not where the snipers lie in wait. We are frantically throwing up a parapet along what was the rear of the Turkish trench and is now the front of the Australian trench.

  Sadly, we have buried many bodies in the parapet to rid the trench of their stench. None of us have shaved, showered or changed clothes or socks for four days. Needle commented that we stink like fly-blown sheep.

  Wednesday, 11 August

  Our pain has had some gain. Lone Pine is now firmly in Australian hands. I would not call it a victory but those in command may wish to describe it that way. Taking these trenches has come at a great cost. Casualties have been posted and across the three battalions in our brigade (3,000 men), there are 2,000 casualties including 800 dead. By the looks of many of the casualties, some won’t live long enough to get to the hospital on Lemnos, and many of those who do will be crippled or maimed for life.

  Despite our losses, spirits are reasonably high in this section of the line because of our small gain in territory. Men’s spirits elsewhere on the peninsula must be at an all-time low. The Cape Helles demonstration failed to establish any worthwhile gains and the major offensive at Suvla Bay cost thousands of lives and gained nothing. Suvla was our last great hope of breaking the stalemate and overpowering the Turkish army. What now?

  Our commanders may still believe we are superior fighters to our Turkish adversaries and think we can fight our way free of this stalemate but those of us in the trenches know differently. The Turks are magnificent fighters and very brave men. We respect Jacko as our equal.

  A matter which is so horrific that I can hardly bare to write about it concerns our comrades one mile from here on the northern end of the line: the men of the Australian Light Horse.

  On Saturday, one day after my lot were ordered over the top to take Lone Pine, the Light Horse at Quinn’s were ordered to charge across a narrow strip of land known as The Nek to capture the Turkish trenches.

  I’m not sure exactly what went wrong but it’s rumoured the artillery barrage designed to keep Jacko’s head down, let up too soon. This gave the Turks time to get back into their trenches and prime their weapons.

  When the first wave of the Light Horse climbed aloft to charge, they were mown down within a couple of paces.

  The second wave rose and were slaughtered on top of their mates. Turkish machine-gunners knocked them over like skittles.

  The roar of machine-guns was apparently deafening but somehow the third wave heard the order to ‘Go’ and go they did—to certain death.

  A fourth wave was partially halted so there were less fatalities.

  The Light Horse copped more than 350 casualties including 234 deaths. The death rate was so high because the Turks shot them at very close range.

  My friends and I were on the beach when we heard the news.

  ‘It was a piece of madness to keep ordering men over the top in such a situation,’ Needle said angrily. ‘What officer thought so little of his men that he sent wave after wave to such certain slaughter? He ought to be shot.’

  Fish told him to keep his voice down. We weren’t far from headquarters and if someone in authority heard his rebellious remarks, he’d be placed on a charge.

  ‘I don’t care what they do to me,’ he bellowed.

  ‘But we do,’ Robbo said assertively. ‘We need you alongside us when we move back into the frontline.’

  ‘Whoever gave the order was a murderer,’ Needle snapped then dropped to his knees. ‘The Light Horse lads must have known they were dead men as soon as they stepped up.’ He broke into deep sobs.

  Robbo let him settle then said, ‘But they went over the top. And you know why, cobber. They didn’t do it because some officer ordered them: they did it because they knew their mates were going.

  ‘Without our mates none of us could withstand this senseless slaughter and squalor,’ he added almost to himself.

  No-one spoke for some time. We each squatted beside Needle and gazed out to sea where the late afternoon sun’s rays silhouetted the naval vessels patrolling the coastline. If we weren’t at war, the scene would have been idyllic.

  Each of us empathised with Needle’s grief. Each of us knew we should cry every day to relieve the pain we felt at the loss of comrades, even those we’d never met.

  Gradually Needle’s sobs subsided. He raised his head and stared out to sea.

  ‘We’re wonderfully lucky to be alive,’ he said with a sniff then wiped his eyes and nose with the back of his hand. Dirt streaked across his weary face.

  A second later a Turkish shell exploded, Needle was dead and we were catapulted across the pebbles.

  Friday, 14 August

  Fish was wounded in the blast that killed Needle and has been shipped off to the hospital on Lemnos. Robbo and I only have minor wounds.

  ‘No wound is minor here, laddie,’ the doctor told me as he patched me up. ‘Even the simplest of scratches can get infected and before you know it your arm or leg has turned septic and swollen up like a football. In the worst cases, we have to amputate.’

  ‘I’ll be right, Doc,’ I replied. ‘I’m tough.’

  ‘You’re not,’ he corrected. ‘Nearly half the lads from your battalion have been evacuated in recent weeks with dysentery and septic wounds. You were fit and healthy before you landed here but the campaign’s taken its toll on you.’ He stood back and looked me up and down. ‘You’re sick and you’re run down, laddie. It’s only your stubborn loyalty to your chums that keeps you going day in, day out.’

  He gave me medication to apply to my scratches.

  ‘You’re a good lad. Look after yourself.’

  I thanked him and left the Red Cross station.

  Robbo and I and some mates buried Needle today. The battalion buries someone every day but we’re not able to attend most funerals. Today’s was well attended because our lot was not in the frontline and could be spared from fatigues.

  I’d have risked a charge of AWOL (Absent Without Leave) to be there. I owed Needle’s mother a massive apology. I promised her I’d look after her son but I’d failed her badly. The least I could do was be part of his burial party and tend his grave thereafter.

  The ceremony was short. Chaplain Frank had many other lads to bury. The bodies are being stretchered back from Lone Pine at a shocking rate, and besides, the Turkish artillery sent shrapnel shells over every few minutes specifically targeting the cemetery. They are determined to drive us from their land. Who knows what will happen to the graves of our brave lads
when this campaign is over.

  Friday, 20 August

  I’m on Lemnos recuperating. Why? A combination of factors: mild dysentery, a septic infection, diarrhoea, you can throw in fatigue too—mental and physical. Five days ago I awoke with no energy and dizziness. As I crawled out of my dugout my strength left me and I keeled over so they stretchered me to the beach then shipped me here.

  I felt pretty crook for the first two days but with some hearty meals and uninterrupted sleep, I’ve recovered quickly and am returning to the peninsula tomorrow.

  While here I’ve caught up with Fish. He’s not too good. His original wound was nothing major but he lay unattended in No Man’s Land for 24 hours before stretcher-bearers got to him. It was scorching hot by day and freezing cold by night. Luckily he fell with his water bottle at hand or he probably would have died of thirst.

  Infection had set in before he got here and doctors are battling to save his leg. Worse than that, his morale is very low. He’s lost his will to live.

  ‘What’s the point, Quickie? My life’s shot. I had dreams but they’ve turned into a nightmare. I wanted to marry and have kids, and I wanted to prove to my parents I could travel and make something of myself instead of which I’ll go home less of a man than when I went away.’

  ‘There’s no guarantee they’ll remove your leg. Stay positive,’ I told him but could see that his eyes were filled with despair.

  I visited him again this morning and he looks ghastly. The doctor said they’ll operate to remove his leg tomorrow. I’ll be on the ship by then. I hope all goes well.

  Until recently, I would have prayed for his recovery but during my convalescence I’ve been rethinking my beliefs. I have doubts. My life these past four months has been shaken up. I have lost faith in our commanders and all those in authority above them including King and Country, even God. I have gained faith in my mates. Mateship is all I have. It’s what keeps me alive.

  I’m beginning to sound as pessimistic as Fish so I should stop. I’ll go for a walk. Fresh air and sea views have always revitalised me. Moonta has a beautiful, white sand beach which stretches for miles. When I return home, which I am determined to do, I have promised myself that I will love my family and my little mining community more than I ever did before this monstrous war intruded.

  It’s hard to believe that it’s now one year since I enlisted with such naïve enthusiasm.

  Dear Mother and Father,

  We captured a series of trenches called Lone Pine, as I’m sure you’ve read in the paper. We paid a big price for this small gain. I was not wounded but suffered fatigue and had to be evacuated to a nearby Greek island. I have recovered quickly and go back to the peninsula tomorrow. Do not worry about me. When I am there I am where I want to be—with my battalion.

  I have very sad news: Needle was killed. Fish was wounded in the same explosion and is likely to lose a leg.

  I cannot write more, it is too hurtful.

  Your son, Victor

  PS Please let Hans be healthy.

  Later

  As I waited to board the ship this evening, I received the horrendous news that Fish died this afternoon. I am upset that I cannot be here for his funeral but I have to persevere, and survive, and go on without him, and for him.

  Saturday, 21 August

  I am back with the battalion and feel very much at home in their company. We go back to Lone Pine tomorrow. We are rotated 48 hours in the frontline then 48 hours in reserve.

  When we had a moment’s privacy I told Robbo of Fish’s death. It came as a shock. He hadn’t been expecting it.

  ‘His wounds weren’t that serious.’

  ‘They turned septic.’

  ‘This whole campaign’s septic,’ he replied. ‘This peninsula’s a very unhealthy place to live and who knows how much longer we’ll be stuck here. This stalemate could go on for years. Our chances of getting off alive are pretty slim, Quickie. If we could walk on water we could withdraw overnight.’ He gazed over the ocean.

  His mood was shattered by Turkish shells exploding just beyond our trench. Dirt and rocks rained down on us. ‘And I don’t fancy surrendering to Johnny Turk. He’s not too keen on us since we arrived uninvited.’

  I asked the lads if any of them could give me paper and a pencil. They suggested I visit the YMCA tent.

  ‘Their representative arrived during your absence. He’ll give you stationery and even a table of sorts to sit and write at.’

  ‘Jessop’s his name.’

  ‘Is he a good bloke?’ I asked.

  ‘Must be. He’s had no shortage of volunteers to help him build bench seats. And he’s got the Big Brass on-side—they’ve allowed him to scrounge timber, tools and even a marquee.’

  I introduced myself to Mr Jessop. He was such a positive person that I too immediately offered to help him. We shook hands and as we did so a mighty explosion sent rocks and soil thudding into the canvas wall and bouncing along the roof. We laughed.

  ‘Welcome to Gallipoli,’ I said. ‘You’ve probably learned already that nowhere’s safe from shellfire or snipers, so watch where you go.’

  ‘I’m prepared to go wherever you men go and run the risks you run in your daily lives,’ he replied.

  I admired his spirit and knew he’d fit in.

  At sunset Robbo and I walked to the cemetery and paid our respects to Needle. Robbo had maintained the grave in my absence.

  At an appropriate moment we moved our attention from Needle to Fish. We turned and faced the sun setting over the ocean. The Greek islands were faintly silhouetted: the sun set directly behind them.

  Robbo and I put arms around each other’s shoulders and remained silent until I said, ‘May you both rest in peace. You were the best of mates, and the best of men.’

  ‘You gave it your best shot, cobbers,’ Robbo added. ‘We’ll never forget that.’

  Sunday, 22 August

  The sad news keeps coming, relentlessly. Chaplain Frank was shot and killed this morning. A sniper put a bullet clean through him. There is no leniency granted by the Turks even to men of God. Where was the Chaplain’s ‘Cobber on High’ when he needed him? You can’t survive here without a cobber’s care.

  I don’t mean to sound cynical but this place saps all the hope out of you. Frank was a good man, probably one of the best on the peninsula and yet he’s dead and others, less compassionate, are alive and killing.

  We’re back in the line. Snipers are rife. We must do something to silence them. The New Zealanders have apparently cleared them out quite effectively by patiently out-snipering them. That’s what we need to do. Give them some of their own medicine. It’s kill or be killed. Men often say, ‘If a bullet’s got your name on it, there’s no avoiding it.’ I believe that now.

  We have been supplied with a number of periscopes and Robbo and I have commandeered one for ourselves.

  ‘When we get some fatigue-free time, Quickie, I think you and I might settle down and shoot some wild turkey.’ He chuckled at his own joke.

  ‘We need to do something to make this place safer,’ I replied. ‘Look at some of these new lads. They’ll be sitting ducks for Jacko unless they learn not to bob their heads up.’

  ‘Yes, grandfather.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You sound like my grandfather, Quickie. Do you realise you’re probably younger than those lads you want to protect.’

  ‘I’m a lot more experienced in trench warfare than they are,’ I replied.

  Age doesn’t matter one bit on the peninsula. The ability to survive is all that counts. We ‘old-hands’ can do little more than hang on till the Big Brass decide our fate and in the meanwhile pass on some survival tips to the ‘new-hands’.

  Later

  This afternoon Robbo came back with a periscope rifle. The men are manufacturing them in a workshop near the beach. These modified rifles allow a man to stand in a trench and take aim then pull the trigger with a length of string.

  ‘T
he lads at Quinn’s have been using them for a couple of months,’ he told me. ‘They warned me they’re not as accurate as the unmodified Lee-Enfield but they do the job once you get used to them. Accuracy’s improved if you have a spotter who points out the target. That’s you, Quickie.’

  We trialled the two-person system late this afternoon but despite my best directions, we failed to pot a Turk. Our bullets were not totally wasted. I watched where each bullet lodged so Robbo could work out whether the rifle consistently aimed high, low, left or right.

  Late afternoon is the best time to snipe from our trench because we have the glare of the setting sun behind us. The Turks can’t see us without squinting but the low rays spotlight their trenches very clearly. The reverse applies in the mornings.

  Robbo and I regularly remind the ‘new-hands’ of this fact but also spell it out that no time is ever perfectly safe.

  Thursday, 2 September

  Bad news (is there ever any good news?) The ship carrying reinforcements to the peninsula was torpedoed this morning. War is cruel. The lads on board have not even fired a shot and no doubt some of them have been killed. We desperately need reinforcements. So many good lads have been sent off-shore because of ill-health and those of us who are here are far from fighting it. But we go on fighting.

  Wednesday, 8 September

  Reinforcements arrived today. We were worried a week ago that as many as 1,400 men might have been lost on the Southland, the ship that was torpedoed. Fortunately for us, but not for those who lost their lives, only forty men died in the attack.

  The first flocks of migratory birds arrived today too. They flew overhead heading south for the winter. The flocks of wild geese are particularly noisy: their honks and cries can be heard above the guns.

  The birds are seeking warmer climates. We wish we could fly with them. After months of complaining about the heat, we’re now getting a taste of cold weather. I fear the cold will affect us more than the heat. Being Australians, most of us cope quite well with hot weather, but freezing cold’s a different story. I hope the Big Brass soon provide us with our winter woollies and some extra blankets.