7 August 1915 (Night)
Well, I didn’t get much sleep earlier on. I’d no sooner rigged myself a little awning with my groundsheet than a runner came look for Colonel Downing. At last, after half the day was gone! Soon the order was passed to form in threes and we set off around the bay, the old boy at the front with his blackthorn stick, and everybody sweating and grunting along under the blazing sun. It was clearly too hot to be marching with full packs so, to lighten the load, we dumped all our kit except rifles and a day’s rations. Then it was on again, past piles of stores and men lying on the beach or bathing in the sea.
After about a mile we reached a deep gully cutting down to the sea. It was a natural choke point, and the Turks were shelling it sporadically. It was here that I lost my first man: a shell landed in the gully as he was scrambling out and he toppled back in. His name was Kelly. The blast must have killed him because I could see no wound, but the MO pronounced him dead and we had to leave him and keep marching.
We were headed for a little hill that the CO called Chocolate Hill. We could see it by now, and we could also see the Turkish trenches criss-crossing the top. To reach it, we had to cross the bed of a dry lake. I suppose when it rains this is a real lake, but now it was just dry mud with a salty crust that broke under us as we marched across. At every step we sank up to our ankles in a dusty mixture of salt and sand. The dust clogged our throats and worsened the thirst, but I was grateful for the cover it gave because the Turks had spotted us and opened fire. This was something I hadn’t heard before: the crack of a shot passing overhead, and the thud as another hit the ground nearby. The urge to lie down was very strong.
It was a relief to reach the scrubby ground on the far side. As we closed on the hill, the Turkish fire got heavier. A man was shot in front of me, but I stepped over him with little more than a glance. We had to keep moving and we were soon advancing by rushes through the long grass. It felt safer now that we were shooting back, and at least directing my men gave me some sense of control.
With one last dash we tumbled into the Turkish trench at the foot of the hill as the former tenants ran away under cover from their friends at the top. They left a few corpses behind, which we tried to ignore – though it was hard to avoid walking on them. While we waited for the navy to shell the top of the hill I decided to have a bite to eat. The hard tack was very dry in my mouth and the warm water tasted gritty and stale. My stomach was closed with nerves and I was surprised to see the sun already setting behind Kazlar Dagh.
Suddenly the shelling started. The whole top of Chocolate Hill was covered in smoke and flame and the noise was tremendous. It went on for about half an hour and then, just as suddenly, it stopped. The command was passed to fix bayonets and I reloaded my revolver. Many of the men blessed themselves as the CO jumped up on the parados, waving his stick, and called for three cheers for the Dublins. At the last hurrah he pointed up the hill with his stick, and the whole battalion charged out of the trench, howling and screaming like savages.
We went flying right over the summit of the hill, hurdling empty trenches like thoroughbreds. When at last we stopped, puffed out and laughing, we had chased the Turks halfway across the grassy saddle between this hill and the next. We trudged back and found the CO looking hungrily at the other hill – Green Hill on his map. The Turks had vanished down the other side and for all we knew they were still running. We reckoned we could take it with another charge, but Downing was more prudent. It was almost dark and he had strict orders not to push too far forward for fear of being cut off.
So here we stay – in shallow scrapings and shell holes, the remains of the Turkish trenches. We have lifted the corpses out and laid them on the parapet. Apart from the sentries, everybody is trying to sleep, but the excitement of the charge is still coursing through our veins and most are talking quietly or sharing food. I’m writing by the light of a Turkish candle I found in the trench. I see I’ve half filled my notebook already, so I’ll have to be less long-winded if it’s to last me past the end of the week.
* * *
The scream brought him snapping awake. But when he opened his eyes there was silence, nothing but the whispering breeze. And yet he was sure he had heard a scream; there was anguish in it, real pain. What would make somebody scream like that?
He cocked his ear and strained his eyes into the darkness. Still nothing. Maybe it was in his head. But the smell was real enough; there was no getting away from that. Even though the fire was long out, there was still smoke wafting into the trench and sometimes an eddy in the breeze brought the sweeter stench of burning flesh that turned his stomach. The sights and sounds he remembered were all nothing to that. That was the stink of war and he’d have it with him for as long as he lived. He had known those men, talked to some of them, but now they were just blackened lumps lying out there in the burned grass.
It had been such a perfect morning that they’d had no inkling of what was to come. As the night faded over the Anafarta plain, the rocky hills rose like islands out of the gloom and the sky gradually turned pink and then blue. The men were scattered around the hilltop, lying in crevices and corners, sleeping with the sun on their faces. All silent save the clink of a tin mug, or the rattle of stones as a sentry shifted his weight. And all around them dry grass rustled as the night breeze slithered down to the sea. It was peaceful until a hoarse docker’s voice broke out.
‘Stand to arms! Stand to arms! Come on, you lazy buggers, let’s be having you.’
Men stretched and yawned and stood up to look over at Green Hill. Then a bullet cracked off a rock and went zinging away in an angry ricochet, and they remembered where they were and bolted for cover. The reality of their situation robbed the scene of all its beauty as the first privations made themselves felt. Breakfast was a few dry biscuits and a sup of water. Yesterday’s sunburn was starting to sting.
It was obvious that they were going to have to attack Green Hill, but the night had stolen their appetite for a fight and the impetus of the last evening had evaporated entirely. More worrying, it was clear that the Turks had brought up reinforcements. They had grown bolder and were sniping at the carrying parties bringing up ammunition and water. A clever stroke, since most of the men had exhausted their canteens and as the sun got higher and hotter it was hard to think of anything but a long cool drink.
Colonel Downing went down to the beach after breakfast and didn’t return until lunchtime, puffing back up the hill under a hail of fire from the Turks.
‘Those saucy buggers were shooting at me,’ he exclaimed, when all his officers had been assembled, but there was a wild gleam in his eye as he went on: ‘Well, gentlemen, the time has come. We’re going to put a stop to Abdul’s capers for once and all. Division’s finally got the finger out, and we shall be attacking this afternoon. That bloody hill,’ he pointed at Green Hill with his blackthorn stick, ‘that’s the key to this whole place. If we can clear them off there, then we’ll finally have secured our beachhead. So the honour falls to us, gentlemen, with the Munster Fusiliers supporting us on the right. We’ll have to move damned quickly, so it’ll be rifles only. Leave the haversacks, but make sure your chaps have got plenty of ammunition. I have a feeling they won’t give up that hill as easily as they did this one.’
After lunch, the battalion formed up just below the crest of the hill. Stephen lay with his men, feeling the heat of the sun through his shirt and weighing his heavy revolver in his hand. Kinsella was grinning at him from a few feet away, his face already burned red by the sun, but the rest of the men seemed distracted. Some of them were looking at the ships in the bay, some at the Munster Fusiliers forming up on the eastern side of the hill. When everybody was in position, a whistle shrilled at the far end of the line and they scrambled out of their trench and set off across the broad grassy saddle.
Even the first few yards seemed harder than the night before, the ground rougher and the going slower. But not a shot was fired, and only the swishing of the long
brown grass around their bare knees broke the uneasy silence. Then, when they were about halfway across, the Turks hit them hard. Mortars, artillery, machine guns. Men fell like ninepins and the rest instantly dropped flat, crawling and twisting like rabbits through the grass. Stephen scrambled behind a rock not much bigger than his head, and a bullet cracked into it, fragments flying into his eye. Half-blinded, he looked around for his men; there were khaki lumps scattered through the grass, whether dead or alive he couldn’t tell.
‘Pull back! Pull back!’ he shouted, crawling towards a shallow gully a few yards behind. Bullets were whipping through the grass and it was a queer feeling to be crawling like that, head down, back exposed. Then he slid into the gully and found it already full of men cowering down under the solid thatch of bullets snapping overhead.
‘Don’t just lie there!’ he burst out, unsettled by the fear that was plain on their faces, ‘Shoot back! Fire, for Christ’s sake!’ And he snatched up a rifle from a wounded man, drove home the bolt and emptied the magazine at Green Hill. He couldn’t see a thing, but it had the desired effect. Stung into action, the men followed his lead and soon they were lining the edge of the gully, shouting and cursing and blazing away.
If it was only bravado, at least it distracted them from the danger they were in. Their shelter wasn’t more than a foot deep and every inch of it was covered in khaki; some men living, some dead, many wounded. One shell in there would kill them all, but they were pinned down and they would be cut to pieces if they tried to get back to their trenches on Chocolate Hill. Their only chance was another naval bombardment to give them cover, but they might all be dead before anybody thought of that.
‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph. It’s on fire,’ Kinsella shouted in his ear, and he pointed to the right.
‘What?’ Stephen was in the middle of reloading a magazine and found the brass cartridges greasy and slippery with sweat. It didn’t help that his hands were shaking.
‘The grass is after catching fire. Look!’
His eyes followed the pointing hand towards the centre of the saddle. The Turks had concentrated their mortar and artillery fire there, and some of the shells had set the dry grass on fire. Fanned by the hot wind, the flames were spreading quickly, covering everything with thick smoke. Stephen watched with a mixture of dread and hope. If the flames spread over here they would be cooked alive. On the other hand, the wind was blowing the smoke in this direction. He waited, waited, watching the black pall spread across the spotless blue sky, and then scrambled to his feet.
‘Fall back,’ he shouted, and he could hardly see the men in front as they ran through the smoke. In minutes they were back in their own lines, Turkish bullets flying high and wide. Small comfort to the hard-pressed men, most of them terrified and shaking. It took grim determination to pull together the remains of his platoon and make them dig in and prepare for a Turkish counterattack. After half an hour it was plain that the Turks wouldn’t come, but lying there doing nothing was almost worse. Fuelled by the fitful breeze, the fire consumed the whole saddle, smelling like the stubble burning in the fields back home. They could see nothing, but as the flames spread they could hear the screams of the wounded men who had been left lying in the grass. Terrible sounds, wrenching at already strained nerves, and more unbearable because there was not a thing they could do to help them . . .
Stephen’s head nodded forward again and he snapped awake in the dark. Still quiet, but that seemed even more ominous. Sitting curled up in a corner of the trench, he felt completely alone, bereft; no human voice for comfort, no friendly light, and after a while he found himself stumbling over a prayer. He hadn’t prayed in years, and he could hardly remember the words, but they came to him after a while and he mumbled them fervently. He felt a hypocrite, praying to keep from falling asleep, but anything was better than hearing those screams in his head.
* * *
Dublin,
15 August 1915
Dear Stephen,
You really must write more! There was such a hiatus between your last two letters that I thought you’d fallen off the edge of the world, or worse. But I mustn’t complain. I was so delighted to receive your last letter that it put a spring in my step. I am amazed that you have finally landed in Turkey. I never thought I’d see the day. We’ve been fighting our wars in Flanders and Picardy for centuries, and this sudden change to an away fixture is quite beyond me.
To be serious, the thought of your fighting over there chills me to the bone. It seems that every day another familiar name is added to the roll of honour. The latest was Ernest Julian – my old law professor – and as I know he was in your battalion, I hope and pray you are doing everything you can to stay out of danger.
You asked for news of home. Well, you will be shocked and amazed to learn that I have graduated with a second-class degree. After many broad hints from my father I have taken up the family trade and I am to become a barrister. I have just started devilling for a KC called Percival Barton, who is a terribly clever old chap, though exceedingly fond of a drink. You will probably laugh when you read this, but I am very much the sober half of the firm. Apart from my other duties, I am responsible for retrieving the gaffer from the pub after lunch, nudging him awake during the long afternoon sessions, and checking him if he seems about to say something he will come to regret.
Which reminds me – who did I see last week, only your brother. We were just going into court when a group of militia came marching down the quays – you can spot the Citizen Army a mile off because their uniforms are a very dark green – and there was young Joseph, marching at the head and giving it the old left, right, left. Unfortunately, old Barton (who is a dreadful Unionist, particularly after a few brandies) let fly at them with a torrent of abuse that would make your hair stand on end, the gist of it being that they should be in France fighting for King and Country instead of prancing about like a troop of Boy Scouts. The last time I saw them, the Boy Scouts weren’t armed to the teeth with rifles and revolvers so, needless to say, I took a firm grip and ushered him off stage before Joe and his friends could get in a reply.
More recently, I bumped into your old pal Lillian Bryce. Did you hear she got a gold medal in the senior mods and won a studentship? So next year she’ll be doing postgrad work, as well as giving lectures and tutorials. More luck to her, I say. In a few years she could well be the first-ever woman fellow. And she’s such a charming girl; I don’t know why she’s got a reputation for being a bit peculiar. We had a good old chinwag and she made a particular point of asking after you. (Hint: I shan’t be too upset if your next letter heads in her direction.)
Nevertheless, I can’t help thinking she is stealing your thunder. That medal would have been yours for the taking if only you hadn’t gone off to play soldiers! But there it is; you have gone off and I can only hope you will not take as long as Odysseus to return home from those parts.
Please write again soon, to let me know you are alive and well. I remain,
Your Friend,
William Standing (BL!)
16 August 1915
I don’t know what I can write about last night. I’ve been staring at the page for an hour, but I’m still not sure where to begin. The sun is up and I can see the rocks of Kiretch Tepe Sirt as I sit with the handful of men I have left – the rest are still lying up there.
We lost a lot of men but the officers were nearly wiped out. Colonel Downing was hit in the foot by a sniper before we even got to the top of the ridge and Major Harrison, who took over from him, was blown to pieces by a Turkish bomb. The list goes on and on: in my own company, Hamilton and Leschalles were both killed, and Robinson badly wounded. That means I’m the only officer left in B Company, so the command has fallen to me. Captain Fitzgibbon from A Company is the senior surviving officer and has taken temporary command of the battalion. He has gone off, shaking with anger, to see why we were never given the order to withdraw.
It is hard to describe the fighting itself because
it was all just flashes in the dark. I had a bad feeling about it from the start. The sky was clear and there was a full moon and I was reminded of the first time Granda took me out hunting at night. We hid ourselves down low in a hollow, and when the moon rose he touched my shoulder and pointed up the valley. The crest of the hill was cut sharp and black against the moon, and even as I watched I saw a fox dart out from cover and trot across the sky, so clear I could see his legs and his head as he raised his snout to sniff at something on the air.
We must have shown as clearly to the Turks as we crept along the ridge past the Pimple. When we got as far as the knobbly peak of Karakol Dagh the machine guns on Kidney Hill opened up on us and we had to crawl forward, hugging the sharp rocks for cover, chips flying around our ears. We should have turned back – all surprise was lost, they could see us plain as day – but still we crept doggedly on. Then, just as we reached the extremity of our lines, the Turks counterattacked, working their way along the ridge below us. Below us, for God’s sake! Our height should have given us the advantage, but instead it was killing us. We were silhouetted against the sky while they were hidden in the moon shadow – and doubly protected by the overhanging cliff, they could get right in and lob their bombs up among us.
These were wicked little things about the size of a cricket ball, with a fuse that they lit with a cigarette. They came fizzing out of the void a dozen at a time and we had no cover against them and no bombs of our own to reply with. Sometimes we threw the Turkish bombs back down on top of them; Wilkins threw down five but the sixth blew up in his hand. Some men pushed rocks down onto them – it was fatal to try to shoot, as you had to lean out and show yourself against the moon. I found a notch where I could fire down with my revolver without exposing myself, but it was difficult to see; I had to wait for the glow of the cigarette, and by then the bomb was already on the way up.
The Soldier's Song Page 8