The corporal returned and picked up his rifle. `Of all he stupid jokers!’ He pulled a cigarette from his hat and squinted up at the cliff. `Pretty quiet landing so far, but he boys is held up in a gully over yonder.’ He gestured aaguely to a small cliff path.
Beaushears sidled along the cliff and peered at Chesnaye. `All right, Dick?’ He glanced at the spread-eagled Lieutenant on the open beach. `It’s up to us, then?’
Chesnaye nodded dazedly. ‘I suppose so.’
`I’ll set up my signal party here as arranged, Dick,’ Beaushears was speaking fast as if unable to stop. `You rust take Thornton’s job with the Army until Saracen can send a replacement.’ He looked grim. `Or do you want me to take over?’
Chesnaye shook his head. `No. I’ll go!’ He wanted to screarn. These stupid, formal tones. A man he had known was still bleeding barely feet away, his face a bloody pulp. An Australian was smoking a cigarette, his eyes on the distant monitor. Nothing was real any more.
Tobias said carefully. ‘We’d better be off, sir. It may take some time to contact the army signals blokes.’
‘Er, yes.’ Chesnaye looked at Pickles’ stricken face. `Can you make it to the top?’
Pickles seemed to pull himself together. `I’ll be all right with you, Dick!’
Then they were off up the path, the soldier still leaning against the cliff, his eyes slitted as if in deep thought.
It took Chesnaye more than an hour to lead his small party of seamen to the top of the cliff path. The sun was already high in the clear sky, and every step up the dry, crumbling track brought the sweat pouring down his body, so that he repeatedly had to stop and wipe his face with his sleeve. At last he turned sharply into a deep fold of rock, the sides of the cliff rising on either side of him sheer and smooth as if the very weight of stone and boulders had split the land in two. His eyes were dazzled by the heat haze which shimmered above the barren countryside and the sparse tangle of small trees which clung desperately to the ridges above the cliff path, and he almost stumbled on to a group of soldiers who were squatting comfortably outside what appeared to be a narrow cave.
A harrased-looking subaltern rose to his feet and stared at Chesnaye and his men. `You’ll be the gunnery experts, then?’ He grinned companionably and eased the weight of his revolver at his belt. `In the nick of time, too!’
Chesnaye looked around him. Just beyond the V-shaped end to the gap in the cliff he could see the rounded crest of a long ridge. It seemed quite near, yet he knew from his map that there was a deep gully between it and the coastline. And beyond that there was a higher ridge, and then another. They had cut the Peninsula into a mass of valleys and gullies like a bird’s eye view of a badly ploughed field, each ridge dominating the next for a watchful friend or enemy.
Already the sea had vanished, the hiss and murmur of wavelets along the beaches lost in the boom of artillery and the vicious rattle of machine-guns. Yet the dust which hovered in the humid air like smoke was tinged with salt, and a handful of angry gulls still circled and screamed above the narrow path from the shore.
The subaltern pointed towards the gap in the cliffs. `Our chaps have pushed forward quite well. Not much resistance on the beach either, thank God!’
Chesnaye thought of the nodding corpses in the stained water. `It looked bad to me,’ he said quietly.
`Hell, no !’ The Australian accent seemed strange and casual. `My signals outfit reported that the main land
ings down south have had a really bad time of it! Lost hundreds in the first minutes.’ He grimaced. ‘Cross-fire. The Turks had the whole damn’ beach zeroed in!’
Chesnaye looked across Pickles’ heaving shoulders at his silent seamen. In their dusty and crumpled uniforms they seemed out of place, lost and dispirited. Chesnaye bit his lip. They had not started yet. He wondered how the dead lieutenant would have dealt with the situation. No doubt as casually and as efficiently as this young soldier.
`Can we go forward now?’ Chesnaye saw Pickles stiffen at his question.
The subaltern gestured towards the squatting soldiers. `Here, runner ! Take these jolly jacks up to the observation post.’ He grinned again. `If it’s still there!’
Chesnaye waved his arm. `Come on, lads!’ He was too tired to look at them again. `We’ll rest when we get there !’
The subaltern called after them : `Keep your heads Town when you cross the first gully. There’s a goddamned ;viper about somewhere!’
They reached the end of the path and Chesnaye stared mesmerised at the small pile of corpses which littered the saucer-shaped arena at the opening of the gully. Not people, he thought. Just things. Khaki uniforms and dis:arded rifles. Heavy boots still stained from the beach, and fingers digging into the stony path as if to mark that ast second of agony. Dried blood and staring faces across which the flies busied themselves in their hundreds.
The runner gripped his rifle and pointed to a deep hole which had been cut into the sandy side of the rock, ‘Watch,’ he said shortly. `There’s a fixed rifle somewhere up in that hill, The sniper fires it every so often in the hope some poor joker’ll be crossing this spot. He’s on to a ‘food thing, really. It’s the only path from our beach!’
There was a whiplash crack, and the gravel around the hole jumped as if blasted from the inside. The bullet must have passed right through the piled corpses, for one of them turned on its side, like a sleeper who has been momentarily awakened by some unusual sound.
‘Now!’ The runner ducked his head and ran.
Chesnaye banged Pickles’ arm. `After him ! Come on, the rest of you !’
Dazed and unsteady, the seamen scampered across the opening. Chesnaye watched them melt into the boulders beneath the rock shadow and then took a last look round. Nothing moved, yet he could feel the eyes of the nearest dead soldier watching him with fixed curiosity. Crack The stones jumped again, and the runner called, `Have a go for it, chum!’
Chesnaye wanted to walk calmly past the silent figures, to pass some confidence to his own small party, but as he stepped into the sun’s glare he thought suddenly and clearly of that hidden marksman. Perhaps he was already shifting his rifle and even now had found Chesnaye’s shoulders within his sights. He had another stark vision of his own body sprawled on top of the others, and he imagined that the corpse with the staring eyes would be glad. He ran.
Up and up they climbed, each step dislodging stones and stirring the dust. The Saracen seemed impossible to imagine, their mission merely a memory.
The observation post consisted only of a natural wall of boulders strewn deep into a long patch of the small, stunted trees which Chesnaye had seen from the cliff path. There was no shelter from the sun, and the stupendous view of a wide valley and the ridge beyond was swirling in a fantastic heat haze. The ridge flickered with scattered flashes as hidden marksmen crawled and outmanceuvred the enemy, whilst below him Chesnaye could see the clean scars in the hillside where soldiers had already dug their way into a quickly arranged defensive trench which curved out of sight around the foot of the nearest hill.
The runner mopped his face and crouched gratefully behind the rocks. `This is the narrowest part of the peninsula,’ he said solemnly. `That big formation of ridges to the left is Sari Bair, and over the ridge the Straits are only four miles away.’ He smiled sadly. `If we can break across this lot we’ll cut the bastards in half!’ He ducked instinctively as a shell droned overhead. `Got to watch that sort,’ he explained. `Johnny Turk has got a big gun somewhere over that brown hillock. It fires shrapnel mostly. Got a lot of good cobbers this morning!’ He stiffened. ‘Ah, here comes your mate ! I’d better be off to the command post.’ With a cheerful nod he was off, his long legs taking him down the slope like a goat.
Chesnaye turned to face the young army of-ficer with the blue and white brassard on his arm. The soldier was walking stiffly as if only just holding himself together. He looked at Chesnaye and they both stared at one another with disbelief.
Some of C
hesnaye’s despair seemed to melt. `Bob Driscoll !’ For a few moments he forgot his loneliness, the helpless feeling of loss, as he saw the weariness lift from the young officer’s face.
They clasped hands and Driscoll said : `Good to see you. It’s been bloody hell up here!’
Chesnaye crouched beside him as lie told the seamen where to find some sort of shelter while he outlined his orders. Chesnaye felt a stab of uneasiness as he watched Driscoll’s dust-stained face. The same mouth, the same grave eyes as Helen. It was unnerving.
Driscoll looked at Pickles. `Right, then. My sappers have started to lay a wire to the beach. As soon as they’ve connected they’ll send a morse signal to my chap here.’ He gestured to a small soldier hunched over a jumble of wireless gear above which glittered a single transmitting key. ‘You’ve got a range map of the area, but I expect we’ll have to make a few alterations after the first shots.’
Chesnaye nodded, his mind clearing slightly as he collected his thoughts in time to Driscoll’s calm voice. The monitor would fire from somewhere behind their spotting post, hidden by cliffs and hills, her presence only marked by the passage of her great fifteen-inch shells. It would be almost a blind shoot to start with, not much more than a compass bearing. Chesnaye and Pickles would watch and note the fall of shot and pass the alterations of range and deflection to the man with the morse key. The message would travel down the new, hastily laid wire to where Beaushears and his signalmen would be waiting at the foot of the cliffs to flag it to the watching Saracen.
Chesnaye swallowed hard. It sounded simple.
Driscoll was saying, `You must be quite an important bloke, Dick!’ His teeth shone in his grimed face. `I’d have thought that your C.O.‘d send someone a bit senior for this job!,
Pickles spoke for the first time. `He was killed on the beach!’ He still sounded shocked.
`i-irnmm, I see.’ Driscoll settled his elbow on the rocks and lifted his binoculars..‘Get your telescope rigged, Dick. You’ll be able to see the Turkish battery if you watch long enough.’ He winced as a shell passed overhead. `That’s a small chap. Mountain battery. The whole bloody place is alive with Turks, yet I’ve not seen one!’ He ‘laughed bitterly. `Imagine that ! Lost my sergeant this morning. Bang through the head. Yet we didn’t see a bloody one!’
Chesnaye jammed the telescope carefully in position. In its enlarged eye the ridge seemed very near, and as he watched he saw the telltale drift of smoke as the hidden battery fired once again. On the hillside to his right the pale rocks leapt high into the air, and he imagined that he could feel the ground lurch against his crouching body.
Driscoll took off his cap and wiped his brow. `Their shooting is improving, blast it !’ He pointed at the hillside where some running soldiers had shown themselves for a few brief seconds. ‘If the Turks can batter down our defences to the right of us we shall be in bad trouble. When night comes they’ll try to cut down the valley and split this section in half.’ He shook his head. `You men’ll have to act like infantrymen if that happens!’
The linesman reported : `We’re through, sir ! Contact with the beach signal party F’
Driscoll put on his cap. `Well, Dick, it’s all yours ! Let’s see what the Navy can do!’
Chesnaye peered through the telescope and watched the distant ridge. One real error and the shells would fall right on to the Australian positions below.
He gritted his teeth. `Very well. Make a signal to Saracen. Commence first salvo when ready!’
His limbs seemed to grow tighter. He was committed.
5
The Enemy
The Saracen shivered as the two big guns recoiled violently on their springs and the twin detonations blasted across the placid water as one. The sound was magnified and echoed by the craggy shoreline, so that the noise of the bombardment was constant and enfolded the quaking ship like a tropical storm. The two guns were angled at about forty-five degrees and pointed directly over the port rail. Already the smooth barrels were stained and blackened for several feet back from their muzzles, and the acrid cordite smoke hung over the monitor’s bridge in an unmoving cloud.
Commander Godden coughed loudly into his handkerchief and then looked with distaste at the black stains on his uniform. `How much longer, sir?’
Royston-Jones was squatting forward from his chair, elbows on the screen, his powerful glasses trained at some point along the coast. The light was beginning to fail, and there was a hint of purple shadowing across the jagged headland of Kaba Tepe. He shrugged and then jerked as the guns roared out once more.
The Yeoman moved dazedly across the bridge. His cap and shoulders were speckled with flaked paint brought down from the upper bridge by the constant gunfire and recoil. `Signal from beach, sir. Cease fire. Turkish battery silenced and supporting infantry dispersed.’
Royston-Jones gestured impatiently. `Very well. Cease firing and secure the guns.’
Muffled and indistinct within the great turret they could hear the tinny rattle of the `Cease Fire’ gong. The sweating, near-demented gunners would be almost too dazed to leave their stations after a day of continuous bombardment. The Quarters Officer, too, would have his work cut out to prepare the turret for immediate action if required.
Godden sighed with relief as the turret squeaked round until it was trained fore and aft, while the two guns drooped wearily to a horizontal position, their dark muzzles still smoking angrily.
`Signal from Flag, sir.’ The Yeoman watched his captain warily. `The bombarding squadron will withdraw at dusk to reinforce the southern landings. Saracen will maintain position in this sector until relieved or reinforced, with two destroyers in attendance. Every available effort to be made to evacuate wounded under cover of darkness.’ The Yeoman looked up from his slate. `End of signal, sir.’
Godden groaned. `Left alone again ! God, what do they think we are?’ He glared round the bridge. `What the hell are we going to do with a lot of wounded soldiers?’
Royston-Jones said flatly : `We have a surgeon, I believe? Right, assemble all boats and prepare to carry out instructions.’
Lieutenant Travis climbed down from the compass platform and tested his legs. Gingerly he removed his earplugs and peered through the smoke. `We are a bit vulnerable here, sir?’
Royston-Jones levered himself from the chair. `Anchored fore and aft, you mean?’
`Well, yes, sir.’
`Quite so, Pilot.’
The ship had been virtually stationary during the bombardment, a sitting target had the Turks been able to bring a gun to bear. But protected by her own heavy fire and the close proximity of the high cliff she had remained undisturbed and wreathed in the smoke and fumes of her bombardment.
Royston-Jones shrugged. `Nothing I can do about that. Must maintain a good position for Hogarth’s sake. He did very well to all accounts.’
Travis smiled. `So did the young snotties, sir.’
`Yes.’ The Captain stretched like a small bird. `Pity about Lieutenant Thornton. Good officer. Must write to his father. Such a waste.’
Hogarth appeared, gaunt but grinning. `Guns secured, sir. Permission to fall out crews?’
Godden nodded, his eye on Royston-Jones. `Very well.’ ‘Ali, Hogarth.’ The Captain turned slowly. `Quite a good shoot, I thought.’
Hogarth beamed. `Eighty rounds of fifteen-inch.’ He turned down his mouth. `Mostly shrapnel, of course, but you can’t have everything!’
Royston-Jones nodded gravely. `I am sorry we hadn’t enough time to get you a more experienced spotting officer, but we were rather pressed!’
Hogarth smiled in spite of his weariness. While the whole ship had waited with frustration and anxiety for the landing party to get into position an unexpected Turkish battery had started to drop shells in the small bay, some very close to the monitor. The battery was shooting blind, but they must have known what they were after. A cheer had rippled throughout the ship when a signalman had excitedly reported contact with Midshipman Beaush
ears on the beach. Within a quarter of an hour the Turkish guns had fallen silent beneath a hailstorm of shrapnel and a few high-explosive shells for good measure. From that moment the Saracen had obediently hurled her shells inland, each salvo within minutes of the urgent signals from the beach.
Godden pulled at his lower lip. So Thornton was dead. But he was not the first casualty. Midshipman Maintland and his pinnace had been blasted to fragments by one stray shell from the shore even as he was returning to the ship. His crew of three had vanished also, and like a memorial the severed stem of the boat still drifted near the anchored monitor.
Pipes twittered below decks and within seconds the ship blossomed with seamen. Men who had stayed hidden and watchful behind guns and steel shutters, their ears deafened by the bombardment, scampered like children with a new-found freedom.
Royston-Jones frowned. `Turn to both watches, Commander. Rig tackles for hoisting the wounded inboard, and have a constant guard rowed round the ship.’ He yawned elaborately. `Send for my steward. I’m going to my sea-cabin for a few moments.’
Godden fumed inwardly. That meant that he would have to stay on the bridge himself. He desperately needed to sit down, to have a drink, to think. The fierce and sudden events had left him feeling old and helpless, and the knowledge had almost unnerved him.
Hogarth was about to leave the bridge. `Shall I signal for the shore party to return for the night?’
Godden tore his mind from his wave of self-pity. `No. Let them bloody well stay there ! It’ll do ‘em good!’
Hogarth showed his long teeth. `I say, sir, bit savage, isn’t it?’
But Godden had turned away, tired and fuddled like an elephant at the end of a long charge. Already the voice-pipes were at it again, and far below the bridge the impatient, cutting voices of the petty officers could be heard mustering their men.
Hogarth shrugged and lowered himself over the screen. He paused for a moment and stared at the silent turret. It had been a triumph. From start to finish it had been a copybook bombardment. He thought of Godden’s brooding face and wondered. Perhaps that generation were already too staid and steeped in peacetime routine to be able to accept this sort of warfare. Except the Captain, of course. Hogarth shook himself and continued his passage to the deck. That would be unthinkable.
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