On Dangerous Ground

by Bruce Scates

  ‘There, there, Corporal,’ Maggie pressed the blankets closer around him. His body heaved and shivered. A voice gurgled through the fluid.

  ‘Not true, miss, there’s...’ his words caught again on the phlegm, ‘someone.’

  ‘Hush, Corporal, hush, try to get some rest, now.’

  And then with terrible resolution the corporal coughed out the last of a sentence.

  ‘Fiancée. In my pay book. Write?’

  Maggie closed her eyes tight. There was someone for everyone. ‘Yes, Corporal, of course I’ll write.’

  Corporal Curtis clutched at his heart. Egypt’s high priests had torn it from his body.

  Maggie sighed as she pulled the sheet over Curtis’ face. She paused a moment to wipe the beads of sweat from his brow. She would wait a time with Curtis and with God and then prepare the body for burial. She could spare Elsie that. And of course, she needed to do it. One small kindness to thank their little corporal.

  Eleven

  A Richer Dust

  scatters like the dead themselves across the battlefield...

  The Turkish memorial to the lost at Lone Pine, awaiting its own destruction. Photograph taken by George Hubert Wilkins under the direction of Captain C.E.W. Bean of the Australian Historical Mission, February/March, 1919.

  Lone Pine/The Third Ridge, 1919

  ‘Zeki Bey wants to take us over there, Harry,’ I gesture back to the east, desperate for some distraction. ‘Reckons he knows the furthest point the men reached. Not sure how he can know so precisely. Can you think how?’

  There can only be one explanation.

  It takes almost half an hour for the three of us to walk the length of Lone Pine’s battlefield. We may have crossed it sooner were it not for the sunken galleries blocking our way. Vickers slings his wounded leg over one obstacle and then another. He says nothing of his pain. We halt near an old Turkish command post at the foot of the next valley.

  ‘The 57th had been stationed here for weeks,’ Zeki Bey says. ‘We had just come out of the line and as the battle commenced we were ordered back to these trenches.’

  I take my notebook from my pocket. ‘So you weren’t here to meet the first attack, on the night of 6 August?’

  Zeki Bey smiles in reply, wondering why a date should matter. ‘No Charles Bean, the 47th was in position, a regiment less battle-hardy than my own.’

  ‘They fought well enough,’ Vickers says softly. Two veterans nodded grimly at each other.

  ‘I knew the commander. He told me a party of Australian soldiers tried to batter their way into our command post.’

  Vickers notes he is no longer counted amongst the English.

  ‘They were driven back, Captain. Many – of course – were killed here.’

  ‘And that’s how far we came then? It’s much further inland than the objective.’ My mind retraces maps the generals had drawn up, as if, in retrospect, I could tidy up a battle.

  ‘With one exception, Monsieur Bean. As the 57th came back into line we encountered a party that had somehow weaved their way through all our defences. Over there, near that headland.’ Zeki Bey points towards a clump of trees on the horizon.

  ‘But that’s the third ridge, Major.’ Vickers’ disbelief is obvious. ‘Our objective in April. Are you saying our men reached it in August?’

  ‘One man did, and he wore the same uniform you do.’

  Without speaking further we continue on our journey. We follow a deep communication trench linking the Turkish frontline to the relative safety of supply depots, hospitals and encampments. I can hear the hollow footsteps of soldiers tramping towards the frontline, each step taking them closer to eternity. At one point, near the base of the third ridge, the trench has entirely collapsed. There is a mound of dirt and the remains of a bayonet rusting deep in its centre. It is like the grey aftermath of a nightmare.

  ‘Most of them died here,’ Zeki Bey resumes the broken commentary. ‘They were buried in the earth as one of your shells exploded.’

  ‘One of ours? How can you be so sure?’

  ‘Really, Captain, why does it matter?’

  For a time we stand there, gazing on the troubled earth. Then Vickers stutters into speech.

  ‘We should get them out, Ch-Charley. Bring Hammond and his men up here. Take them back and b-b-bury them, bury them decently.’

  I imagine broken bones all tangled up, intertwined like the roots of a forest, a jumbled mass of rotting humanity. Exhuming them would take several days; there is little chance of separating the men, let alone identifying them. Again, it is Zeki Bey who speaks.

  ‘Leave them be, Captain. Let them rest here.’ The major speaks now as if invoking prayer, as rhythmic as a hymn, as solemn as ritual. ‘They are buried now in our bosom. Having died on our land they become our sons as well.’

  I look up at the heights looming unattainable before us. Then back at the valleys tumbling down to the coastline. What had Lambert said? They had written Australia’s name on the ridges. Why not leave them here? Gallipoli itself their memorial.

  ‘I think the major’s right, Harry. They made it here, they have a right to stay.’

  Vickers repeats the major’s words. Words that offer more comfort than stone, monuments for the living. ‘“Our sons as well.”’

  Is that all that needed to be said now?

  ‘You mentioned one officer reached the ridge, Major?’ I realise here and now it can only have been Lt Irwin.

  ‘Yes, one man survived the bombardment, but his head was bleeding badly. He could not have lived much longer.’

  The last line aches with meaning. Like most in that bitter fighting, Lt Roy Irwin would have done everything in his power not be taken prisoner.

  ‘He was buried here.’ Zeki Bey turns to Vickers and offers him something of his courage. ‘I saw to it.’

  The major gestures to a patch of scrub. At the very centre, I can just make out the shape of a cypress stretching straight and sure towards the skyline. Since the age of Troy, and even before then, a cypress has signified remembrance. So here, Zeki Bey has raised a memorial, to honour the very man sent to destroy him.

  I recall the lines of a poem committed to memory what seems a lifetime ago, a distant echo from schooldays back in England. Sir Henry Newbolt’s words mixed with images of stone and oak, old tattered books and young earnest faces:

  To honour, while you strike him down,

  The foe that comes with fearless eyes;

  To count the life of battle good,

  And dear the land that gave you birth,

  And dearer yet the brotherhood

  That binds the brave of all the earth

  ‘Thank you, Major.’ I extend my hand, the way a boy of Clifton College is taught to. To my surprise, but not my regret, Zeki Bey reaches up to my face and plants a kiss, first on one cheek and then on the other. His smooth skin scratches against my stubble, his breath mingles with mine, I smell the perfumes of the bazaar, the scent of the earth, the taste of tobacco. No peace was ever made more lasting.

  We look out across the land we have crossed; it runs with light and shadow as billowing clouds race the blue sky above us. I realise I have come to the end of my journey. Across this scorched and sacred earth, this place where men and empires fell, where nations were made and hearts were broken – a landscape mauled by history. I had come here to solve the mysteries of the campaign, to tell disbelieving generations to follow why we had failed. And I have reached the conclusion that failure was the fate of any war, but that in that failure one could still find a fragile kind of greatness. I look at the major embracing young Vickers. Yes, Gallipoli had a kind of greatness – but not a greatness any of us expected.

  I turn away to the east and look back to the Pine. I can just make out the figures of men circling the Turkish memorial. The largest I think is Hammond, and I remember he had said something about marking the boundaries of Lone Pine’s cemetery. I watch the figures move away again. Suddenly there’s a flash of
red, a clap of thunder and the monument to the Turkish dead scatters like the dead themselves across the battlefield. Smoke drifts one last time over the trenches. Vickers stares out in disbelief. His voice and body is trembling. ‘My G-G-God, what have they done? Who in God’s name g-gave them the right to do that?’

  Campbell Park Offices, Department of Defence, 2015

  ‘What this committee needs to remember,’ Howard Brawley slowed for emphasis. ‘Is that this is Turkish property, Turkish land – the Turks alone are responsible for crowd management and crowd safety.’

  ‘Hear! Hear!’ suited men echoed in approval.

  ‘This can’t be emphasised enough. The Australian Government doesn’t control Turkey, or the roadworks there. Indeed,’ Brawley paused with relish, ‘we have enough trouble controlling roadworks in Australia!’

  Laughter broke out across the room. The Fat Controller poured himself a glass of water. He would not be drinking water in the celebration to follow.

  It was the third hour of debate and the seventh time the chair had had to call the meeting to order. The general’s voice rose above the clamour.

  ‘I insist on silence, gentlemen. Gentlemen, please! Professor. You have the floor now.’

  Mark imagined the old commander shouting orders over the rattle of musketry.

  ‘I retract nothing of what I said to the media last week,’ the professor calmly declared. ‘This committee must respect the principles established at the end of the Great War. Our government undertook to recover the bodies of our war dead and grant them a decent burial. Those principles are no less binding today than they were a century ago.’

  ‘You had no authority to speak on behalf of this committee – none whatsoever,’ Brawley snapped back in reply.

  ‘No – and nor would I wish to. Nor am I answerable to any bureaucracy, Mr Brawley. History doesn’t do bullet point.’

  ‘But you don’t mind a headline or two, do you, Professor?’ Vanessa went straight for the jugular. She wore red today. Mark thought that was appropriate.

  ‘Good girl,’ Brawley whispered beneath his breath, ‘let’s have the old bastard.’

  It was getting personal. Again, General Grimwade called the meeting to order. His moustache shook with irritation.

  In a carefully measured voice, the voice of the lectern, Professor Evatt resumed his testimony. ‘It’s rather old-fashioned but dates and facts still make for persuasive history.’ His fingers were guided by a series of fluorescent flags attached to his document. ‘Let’s see, page twenty, November 2014 – Remembrance Day as I seem to recall, “the Government denies any human remains have been unearthed by roadworks.” And then just one month later, that’s page thirty-two, gentlemen, “independent forensic evidence confirms the discovery of a human femur.” Then, still in December, I draw your attention to page sixty-four of the ministerial statement. “Prime Minister and Foreign Minister deny all knowledge of new roadworks.” Don’t you find it a contradiction that just a week later it comes to light that roadworks were in fact initiated on the request of the Australian Government – at the request of your very office, Mr Brawley. How terribly confusing.’

  A clatter of alarm shook the table. The professor leaned helpfully across to Vanessa who by now had paper stacked high around her. ‘You’ll find reference to that on the next page, Miss Pritchard.’

  ‘You’re misrepresenting a difficult and complex situation. Works were requested to stop and then resumed only after all the proper procedures were followed.’

  ‘Ah, yes, you’d be referring to your fact-finding tour, Mr Brawley. Fifteen minutes at Lone Pine and a full two weeks in Istanbul. And I wonder what you mean by “procedures” exactly. The hasty reburial of human remains before the arrival of the camera crew? That in itself was a breach of the War Graves Commission’s charter.’ The professor tapped his pipe against the desk, thumping home every point he was making. ‘I believe this government, or at very least its officers, has been dishonest and has reneged on its responsibility to the Australian people. This is a question of heritage. Anzac is a site of immense significance to Australia, to New Zealand, to Great Britain and, I need hardly say, to Turkey.’

  ‘We could argue over this for hours more, gentlemen.’ The general interjected. ‘The point remains, as Mr Brawley noted a few moments ago, that these events, regardless of their chronology, all occurred on Turkish territory, under the watch of the Turkish Government. The road is after all of Turkish construction, serving Turkish needs as well as our own and a requirement of the Peace Treaty with Turkey. Professor Evatt,’ the general turned to face the old man directly, ‘how can you possibly dispute section 128 of the Treaty of Lausanne, the treaty you yourself have tendered as evidence?’

  The general donned his black-rimmed glasses, took a deep breath and raised his voice. ‘“The Turkish Government undertakes to grant to the Governments of the British Empire ... and in perpetuity the land within the Turkish territory in which are situated the graves, cemeteries, ossuaries or memorials of their soldiers and sailors who fell in action ... The Turkish Government undertakes to give free access to these graves, cemeteries, ossuaries and memorials, and if need be to authorise the construction of the necessary roads and pathways.” By my reading, we own the graveyards and nothing more – and the Turks must provide the roadworks to reach our memorials.’

  Brawley and Vanessa beamed with delight. The old soldier would be on the winning side after all.

  ‘I agree, Mr Chairman, that that is one reading of the Treaty. But it is not a historically correct one.’

  ‘Oh, for pity’s sake.’

  ‘Let the professor finish, Mr Brawley.’

  ‘Thank you, General.’

  The old scholar braced himself as he did towards the end of every lecture. He was feeling the strain now and feared for just a moment words might fail him. Old age is like a kind of abyss – you stand on the edge watching thoughts slip by you. Evatt remembered an olive grove tangled with the bodies of men, and the face of what seemed a boy turned up to the sun. He cleared his throat and continued.

  ‘Ah, that clause refers to the access roads that stretch between Helles, Eceabat and Anzac. They straddle the length of the peninsula. But I draw your attention to the substance of the Lausanne Treaty. You’ll find the full transcript in these files Dr Troy recovered from the state library. It confirms that ownership of the entire Anzac battlefields was ceded to those “Governments of the British Empire” and in particular Australia and New Zealand. We own the land, gentlemen, and, contrary to your interpretation Mr Brawley, General Grimwade, we are therefore responsible for all the roads that traverse them.’

  The professor spread a map across the table. His bent, bony fingers clutched a yellow highlighter. With some effort, but with greater care, he ran the fluid yellow across a thin black boundary. Over ninety years ago a draghtsman’s pencil had drawn that line. Today it was etched again with bold fluorescent colour. ‘Certainly, blaming the Turks for roads we asked them to build does seem just a little disingenuous.’

  ‘You know that amounts to a denial of Turkish sovereignty. And such a denial,’ Brawley spoke now with all the authority of a DFAT travel warning, ‘undermines our good relationship with Turkey.’

  ‘You entirely miss the point, Mr Brawley.’ It was the blunt appraisal of a tutor’s least promising student. ‘Lausanne asserted sovereignty for the Turks at the very moment they conceded ownership. The two are not mutually exclusive, whatever the duplicity of the government.’

  Again there was uproar.

  Vanessa scanned down the document. It was time to take sides now.

  ‘The Treaty states very explicitly that Turkish sovereignty is retained – but it is vague, very vague about ownership. “Granted to the Government of Britain and the British Empire.” What does that mean?’

  ‘Exactly what it says.’ Mark thought it was time for some honesty in the relationship. ‘Surely it’s obvious to anyone. I quote from Article 144 of the Treat
y. “The land to be granted by the Turkish Government will include in particular ... the area in the region of Anzac ... shown on the map.”’

  ‘Perhaps we need legal advice on this.’ The general knew the stakes involved. He would follow procedure to the letter. ‘Miss Pritchard, what legal advice has the government had on this?’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t disclose that, General.’

  A deafening silence descended as if time was suspended, watching itself. At last, the general’s voice cut the frosty air around them.

  ‘I’m sorry, Miss Pritchard, I must have misunderstood you.’

  ‘I don’t think so, General. I meant exactly what I said. The government’s legal advice remains confidential.’

  ‘But Miss Pritchard,’ the general drew a short sharp breath, ‘the government commissioned this Inquiry.’

  ‘Well...’ like most lawyers Vanessa had perfected the pedantic, ‘Technically, Parliament commissioned the Inquiry, not the government.’

  The general sighed. ‘I wasn’t aware of any such distinction. Very well, Miss Pritchard, we shall adjourn this Inquiry yet again and ask the relevant authorities to furnish a legal opinion.’

  ‘Really there is very little point to such a request, General. I took the liberty of broaching this matter with the minister. He’s taken the trouble of preparing a written response.’

  ‘How very thoughtful of the minister,’ the general made no attempt to conceal his sarcasm. ‘Why don’t you read it Miss Pritchard’?

  ‘Of course, General.’ In the politest voice imaginable Vanessa Pritchard informed the Inquiry of its irrelevance. ‘“The Minister for Foreign Affairs has decided that this Department should decline any request to provide advice on the legal implications of the Lausanne Treaty. It has been longstanding practice not to disclose legal advice which has been provided to the government, unless there are compelling reasons to do so.”’

  There was a disbelieving silence in the room. Even the suited men were taken aback.