by Alan Tucker
Mail arrived with the reinforcements. Some of it went down with the ship, but my letter, fortunately, was saved.
Dear Victor,
It is a glorious day here—a sunny 70 degrees. The winter bulbs are out and the garden looks marvellous. Father and I visited Hans last weekend. He looks physically better than he did at Christmas time. His friends look after him and make sure he gets his fair share of food and comforts—which are not many.
Sadly, his mind is starting to wander—he knew who we were when he first saw us but he soon became confused. Several times he called Father, ‘Victor’—and even more sadly, he sometimes called me ‘Mamma’.
The war, as one of your letters mentioned, changes people—even as far away as this from the killing.
I am determined not to let Hans’ condition get me down. I came home and got stuck into his ‘little farm’. Father supported me in pulling weeds, tidying up the garden beds and pathways and planting spring flowers. Now, every time I look at the garden, I see Hans as I want to remember him—a beautiful old man.
I look forward to seeing you, when you return, as a beautiful young man.
Father sends his love. I send love from Hans as well as from me, Mother
Saturday, 11 September
So many men are ill: our battalion’s down to half-strength. Even Lieutenant-Colonel Weir, who’s been with us from the start, was evacuated today.
The frontline is relatively quiet. Men die and are maimed every day but neither side is interested in frontal attacks, at least the men in the trenches are not. Who knows what the Big Brass are planning.
Robbo and I still aren’t having much luck sniping but judging by the dust that flies, I can see we’re getting closer to the mark. At the very least our pot-shots force Turkish snipers to pull their heads in which saves the lives of some of our lads.
Wednesday, 15 September
Our routine has become predictable. Two days in the frontline, two days in reserve. While on reserve we spend a huge amount of time carrying supplies up from the beach. Today’s torrential rain made the job very difficult. Trenches turned to creeks and steps into waterfalls. What on earth will this place be like by mid-winter? We’ve been told snow covers the peninsula for up to two months in January and February. The sickness toll rises every day and we’re only in early autumn.
Thursday, 23 September
Dear Mother and Father,
I’m a Lance-Corporal. I was given the promotion, not through merit, but because I’m still standing, I’m one of the few lads left from our original battalion, As such I know the ropes and can advise the ‘new-hands’ in the best ways not to get shot while still doing their job.
I’ll have to work closely with my platoon in upcoming days because we have a few minor stunts scheduled. l can’t be more specific than that or the censor will blank me. The Big Brass call our stunts ‘demonstrations.’ They’re mainly bluff to keep the Turks on their toes. I’ve already warned the lads not to get themselves shot unnecessarily, ‘Show your bayonets and the occasional hat but don’t have your head in it. Jacko’s snipers don’t miss.’
Sadly, as Needle found out, if you’re in the wrong spot at the wrong time, you can be potted. Death is all around us.
But enough gloom and doom from me. How are things in Moonta? It’s spring there so l suppose Mother’s single-handedly trying to get the garden under control without the help of Hans. Please say ‘hello’ from me if you see him. Write and tell me how his health is going. Hello to you too, Father.
Your tired-of-the-trenches son, Victor
PS Chaplain Frank was killed a month ago. I apologise for not informing you earlier. He was such a wonderful support and l miss him as much as Needle and Fish. War hands out no special treatment.
Saturday, 25 September
Last night’s demonstration was more like a fireworks display than a battle.
Late in the afternoon our men moved up and down the trenches and raised their bayonets occasionally so Jacko would be on his guard.
At sunset Robbo and I and other sniping teams started shooting at any sign of a Turk trying to get a better look at our goings-on. We scored several direct hits. In fact, since our section commenced regular sniping, we’ve noticed a drop-off in the number of Turkish snipers. We’ve either potted a few or put the wind up the others.
‘Maybe sniping’s not as much fun for Jacko as it was previously,’ Robbo said with a grin.
At 8 pm we huddled in our dugouts while our artillery pummelled the Turkish trenches. Theirs retaliated, of course. The shelling went on for two hours and I could see some of the ‘new-hands’ were badly stressed by the noise and the shaking of the earth caused by the artillery shells exploding. It’s not much fun sheltering in a dugout knowing you could be buried alive at any moment.
At 10 pm the bombardment ceased. We filed back into the trenches and opened fire with rifles and machine-guns. We kept our heads well below the trench line. Our job was to let Jacko opposite us know that we hadn’t forgotten him. I’m sure there was a wider purpose to our display but on this occasion we didn’t know what or where or why. I’ve learned that on the peninsula there are advantages to maintaining a low profile and keeping your head down.
Monday, 27 September
It’s damn cold here and rain storms have become more frequent. We’ve got limited woollen clothes and a few balaclavas but we need more of everything. Piles of socks would be gratefully received too. Back in Moonta it’s spring and warm and everyone’s spirits are on the rise with the lengthening of the days. Here, the weather is dismal and everyone’s spirits are low and sliding lower.
My volunteer work in the YMCA tent distributing pencils and paper and doing other odd jobs, helps to keep me sane.
Thursday, 30 September
I’m in hospital on Lemnos. I won’t be here long. The doctors had to remove glass fragments from my face and prevent the wounds from becoming septic.
I’d warned the ‘new-hands’ to crouch when they walk along the trench and stated in my diary only a few days ago that it’s best to keep a low profile and your head down—and then I copped this. That will teach me to be a know-all.
Robbo and I were sniping. I was spotting as usual but on this occasion Jacko got the last laugh. One of his snipers hit my periscope head-on. It flew out of my hands but glass from the shattered mirror ricocheted into my face. Luckily, the shards missed my eyes. The doctor says I may suffer some permanent scarring. He’ll know more after the swelling goes down.
Saturday, 2 October
What a treat! I attended a concert in the YMCA tent and heard men laughing aloud. That’s something you don’t hear on the peninsula. There’s lots of dry humour in the frontlines because of our grim situation but certainly no belly-laughs. It pained me to laugh because of my swollen face but laugh I did. And sing-a-long. And look at the nurses. Thank goodness my eyes were spared from injury.
The nurses are so beautiful. They were dressed in their uniforms but they’d spruced themselves up for the concert. When a group of them sang for us, it was like hearing angels sing. The smile on men’s faces was a joy to behold. Oh how I miss the simple things in life.
Wednesday, 6 October
Dear Mother and Father,
I’m on the Greek islands again after a misadventure but there’s nothing to worry about. I copped some abrasions to my face which have spoiled my beautiful looks! But do not fear, Mother, the doctor assures me I’ll soon be back looking like your handsome son of old.
The men in the beds in my ward are only lightly wounded or mildly ill. They smile despite their injuries and ailments. They have a nickname for every health condition. Those with diarrhoea call it the Gallipoli Gallops or the Turkey Trots and those with a form of scurvy caused by our poor diet, refer to it as the Barcoo Rot. I hope you are not offended by what I have written, Mother—I have been in the company of men too long. Their coarse expressions reflect the harsh conditions under which we live. I’m sure Father will
smile at their sense of humour.
The most wonderful thing about being in hospital is that we can temporarily rid ourselves of lice. The lads have names for those little devils too: greybacks and nits are two I can repeat in mixed company.
We have been allocated clean, new uniforms. Our old clothes will be boiled and disinfected to try to rid them of the lice infestations. I don’t like the laundrymen’s chances of winning that battle.
I have not received a letter from you in such a long time—sometimes ships carrying mail are sunk, sometimes essential supplies are loaded onto transport ships ahead of mail. Hopefully my letters get through to you.
Love to you, Mother. Love to you, Father. Love to Hans.
I am forever your ‘old-hand’, Victor
I’ve been given the All Clear to return to the battalion. The swelling in my face has gone down and the cuts are healing nicely. As well as the cuts I have two black eyes from where the periscope kicked back into my face, and gravel rash caused by falling sideways and smacking my head into the trench wall. I’ve seen my reflection in a mirror and I’m not a pretty sight and yet the nurse always asks how her ‘handsome young soldier is feeling today’. I know she’s not speaking the truth but her harmless lie lifts my spirits.
Late this afternoon I visited Fish’s grave. I stood before his little cross. It’s a cross in a long line of many crosses. Too many young men have died: for what?
I raised my eyes and gazed around. I could have been at my little home town in South Australia. The horizon was mostly flat: small hills broke the monotony of the windswept plain. Pine trees grew in place of gums and mallee trees but the familiar smell of saltwater drifted on the sea breeze.
When I go home and get a whiff of the sea, I will remember Fish.
Saturday, 9 October
I’m pleased to be back with the battalion but I’m also very miserable. We’re having our first taste of winter. Our trench was a river yesterday and today it’s a clay quagmire. And to make our living conditions even worse, we had two inches of water flood into our dugout.
We worked on supply fatigue all day. We slipped and slided and cursed all the way up from the beach because several of the steps had washed out. The ceaseless tramping of our boots cut up the steep track even more.
Despite these appalling conditions I am glad to be back with Robbo. Initially, he was the third favourite friend in my little group. I felt intimidated talking to him because he is more educated. But circumstances on Gallipoli force everyone to be equals.
Harry and Clem, our ‘new-hand’ friends are proving good lads too. They accept our advice. Why wouldn’t they? Listening to us is their best chance of surviving.
Later
I was shocked to see the damage done to the cemetery by the storm. The high tide and howling wind forced waves well up the beach. I spent an hour there late in the day setting the handmade crosses upright and rebuilding the little stone boundaries around the damaged graves.
Sunday, 10 October
I helped out in the YMCA tent this morning. Some men are not very literate so I write while they dictate their thoughts. I feel privileged that they trust me to pass on their intimate messages to wives and sweethearts.
There was a ray of sunshine today when Comfort packages were distributed. It’s such a luxury to taste jam tarts, mince pies and pieces of chocolate. It’s even nicer to share such delicacies with mates and reminisce of home. Most of the parcels also included hand-knitted socks and scarves. Some lucky lads received balaclavas.
During my convalescence on Lemnos, Harry teamed with Robbo on sniping duties. They report a definite drop off in Turkish snipers since we started our eradication campaign. The inclement weather has probably contributed to their scarcity.
I’ve seen several Turkish prisoners and they look in worse shape than us. Their uniforms are worn thin and their boots hang on by a thread. They tell our boys they’re fed very little. I wouldn’t want to lie out in the open sniping if I was as flimsily dressed as they are.
They report they’re better fed as Australian prisoners than as fighting men in the Turkish army.
Even though sniping has decreased, Turkish artillery bombardments have increased. They seemed to have developed a renewed hatred of us ever since we seized the Lone Pine trenches from them.
Thursday, 14 October
Clem and I had a lucky escape today. A shell exploded on the trench near our dugout and the entrance caved in.
One minute we were quietly talking then BANG. The percussion wave sent us both crashing into the back wall, earth buried our legs and pitch blackness descended. That may be because I was momentarily knocked unconscious. Clem was certainly out to it. I got no response when I spoke to him and wasn’t sure if he was dead or alive. I couldn’t afford to check him out for too long or we’d both be dead. We were trapped in a small pocket of air which wasn’t too fresh. The smell of cordite was overpowering.
I freed my legs and dug like crazy. I had no idea how much soil lay in front of me but I did know my comrades would be digging from the other side. Cave-ins and blow-ins are a daily feature of the frontline at Lone Pine.
My fingertips were soon raw and bleeding from the digging and I quickly realised I had little room to store the dirt I’d excavated. As rapidly as I dug us out, I was filling us in. Even though it was cold outside, our ‘cave’ was stifling hot and my breathing became laboured. Sweat caused by exhaustion, heat and fear dripped from my face onto my forearms.
I thought I was going to die. My heart raced and I was forced to stop digging. In the silence I heard a faint voice.
‘Cooee, cobber, can you hear us? We’re almost through to you. Just hang on.’
Fresh air suddenly cooled my face and blinding light forced me to shut my eyes.
I gasped, ‘Clem’s back there.’
‘Save your breath, matey.’
Hands reached in and roughly dragged me out through the small opening. I shielded my eyes against the bright sunlight.
‘Thought I’d lost you, cobber,’ Robbo said with a laugh. ‘You’re nothing but trouble, Quickie. You came to grief when we were sniping so I let you lie around back here but you immediately got yourself into strife again.’
‘I don’t think Jacko likes me,’ I replied while spitting dirt from my mouth.
He hauled me to my feet.
‘Good to have you back in the land of the living, matey.’
They moved Clem out more carefully than they had me. He was mumbling and groaning so I knew he was alive.
‘Did I miss anything?’ I asked Robbo.
‘King George paid us a social visit and we shared an afternoon tea of scones, jam and fresh cream. Other than that, we’ve just been playing with little Johnny Turk.’
Friday, 15 October
We’ve had a bit of communication with Jacko in the past week. It seems he’s as fed up with the situation as we are. We’ve each thrown notes and gifts into each other’s trench. In one note they described us as brother soldiers. Our officers forbid friendly chitchats so we have to be discrete. We’re under orders to throw bombs not rations. Another note said we Australians are gentlemen, then asked, so why do you throw bombs?
‘That’s a good bloody question,’ Robbo commented.
Harry looked surprised. ‘Because they’re the enemy. They sided with the Huns so they deserve to die.’
‘Son, when you’ve been here as long as Quickie and me and get to know Jacko a little better, you’ll change your mind. He’s a hard but fair fighter who gives as good as he gets.’
‘But you’ve been sniping Turks for the past fortnight.’
‘That’s my job. You’ve got to learn to separate business from pleasure, cobber.’
‘But you can’t talk to the enemy.’
‘I’ll talk to anyone I want to, mate. Just watch me.’
He stood and waved his rifle butt above the parapet then called, ‘Cooee, Jacko. Cooeeee.’
‘Hello, Australian.’
<
br /> ‘You want tucker, Jacko?
‘Tucker. Yes.’
‘Coming over. Catch.’
He threw two tins: one of bully beef and one of jam.
‘Thank you, Australian.’
Robbo turned to Harry. ‘See. Jacko’s a perfect gentleman.’
A series of shells exploded just behind us and flung dirt all over us.
‘Steady on, Jacko. I was just singing your praises and you repay me by ruining my cup of tea.’
He threw the muddied tea over the parapet in Jacko’s direction.
Sunday, 17 October
What rotten weather we’re experiencing. Winter has come and it’s only mid-autumn. We slip and slide whenever we go: two steps forward and one back. It’s almost more pleasant in the frontline where you’re not expected to carry endless boxes of supplies up the rapidly eroding slopes.
The big news is that General Hamilton, our Commander-in-Chief, has been recalled to England.
‘I wish I could be replaced,’ I said. ‘I’m cold, dirty, lousy, smelly and feel crook.’
‘Apart from that, is everything all right?’ Robbo asked. He smiled. ‘Are we downhearted?’
I smiled back. ‘Never. Not while my feet point down.’
‘That’s the spirit.’
I tended the graves again today. Robbo prefers to sit and read a newspaper, no matter how out-of-date it is. Clem and Harry have no need to accompany me. The graves, so far, are not relevant to them. Give them time and Gallipoli will bowl over some of their friends too. No-one, here, gets any special favours.