Solomon's Song

by Bryce Courtenay

  I miss you terribly!! Write if you can, I constantly long for news of you.

  Your loving sister,

  Victoria.

  P.S. Please make sure you always wear your Tiki, I know it’s all superstitious nonsense, but our mother said it will keep you safe and she was half-Maori and we are a quarter. I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean, but just wear it because it’s in your blood!

  V.

  The bugle sounds reveille and Ben goes over to the cookhouse to get a mug of hot water in order to shave. Upon his return he sees Brokenose Brodie fully kitted outside his tent, seated on an empty ammunition box with a slate on his lap busy writing. Ben can see by the way he holds himself that the process is one of a most earnest endeavour.

  ‘Mornin’, Private Brodie, what are you up to?’

  Brokenose looks up. ‘Doin’ me ’omework, Sergeant. Library’s learnin’ me to read and write.’

  ‘Good on ya, Private. Soon be writing home to the folks, eh?’

  Brokenose Brodie grins but then immediately goes back to work. ‘I’m sorry, Sergeant, I can’t talk,’ he says, his head bowed over his slate. ‘I were that tired last night I didn’t get me ’omework done and Library’s gunna kick me arse from ’ere to Jerusalem!’

  The platoon’s day is spent out in the desert in a mock battle with the 4th Light Horse Regiment combining with the 1st and 2nd Infantry Brigades to attack one of the high desert ridges. The Light Horse, sent in first to seize the ridge, get there before the enemy, but the 1st Infantry Brigade advancing up the other half of the ridge is held up and the Light Horse are placed in an unsustainable position. If the enemy should reach them before their own infantry they do not have the firepower to hold the position. Ben’s battalion with the 2nd Infantry Brigade, who are meant to advance behind the Light Horse, seeing their position is in jeopardy, advances at the double to the top of the ridge faster than seems possible to the two brigadiers, M’Cay and MacLaurin, who are jointly directing the battle. They now see the long line of each company showing dark against the white glare of the sand dunes as they suddenly spring into existence, sweeping, one line after another, across the hillside to take it and bring the fight to an end. A British officer, observing, turns to M’Cay with the comment, ‘Could not have been better.’ It is apparent to everyone that the Australians are thoroughly trained and ready for the fray.

  Late that afternoon when the troops return to camp, instead of being dismissed, they remain on parade and the officers are told that the Australian 1st Division is moving out, and all but the Light Horse and the Mounted Rifles are going to the front. They are to proceed immediately with the evacuation of the Mena camp.

  A tremendous cheer goes up as each company is informed. The young infantrymen break rank and are seen clapping each other on the shoulders and backs, sending their slouch hats and caps high into the air. There is no possible way they can be brought to heel. They have waited too long for this moment. This is what they’ve worked for. At last the time has come for the colonial lads to prove their mettle against a real enemy.

  The Anzacs are ready for war.

  Chapter Thirteen

  THE LANDING

  Gallipoli 1915

  ‘Righto, get this into your thick heads,’ Ben says. ‘We know they’ll be waiting for us, it’s never easy to invade from the sea, the defender on land always has the advantage and in this case there is every likelihood of high ground involved. That means they’ll be looking down on us.’

  Ben’s platoon is gathered together on a sheltered part of the deck of the Novian, one of the transports carrying the Anzacs to Lemnos. They are a day out from Alexandria, hugging the coast of Asia Minor, the weather turning increasingly foul. Ben’s platoon is seated under a tarpaulin on the deck where Lieutenant Peregrine Ormington-Smith, together with Ben, is briefing them.

  Although they are not supposed to know their destination, there isn’t a man in the Australian 1st Division who doesn’t have a fair idea of where they’re headed after the Greek island of Lemnos. In Library Spencer’s words, ‘A man would have to be a bit of an idjit not to know that it’ll be somewhere along the coastline o’ the Dardanelles and that we’re gunna get as close to the Narrows as possible.’

  ‘Let me give you an example of what we might expect,’

  Ben continues. ‘We’ll probably wait until the moon goes down.’

  ‘Yeah, we’ve already seen what ’appens when you attack in bright moonlight,’ Numbers Cooligan says, obviously referring to the axe incident on the Orvieto. Several of the men look at Brokenose Brodie, Matthews and Jolly.

  Brokenose brings his big paw up and rubs his flattened nose. ‘Yeah, it ain’t the best idea,’ he says a little ruefully, ‘buggers can see yiz.’

  Ben ignores the remark, though it gets a laugh. ‘The moon should go down around three o’clock, maybe a bit later. That will give us a little more than an hour of darkness to get the men into the boats and start for the shore. The idea will be to land well before sun-up, but with the dawn light to see by. We’ll want to be clear of the water and the beach before sun-up so the enemy fire can’t pick us off in broad daylight. Hopefully we’ll be up and onto the higher ground and engaging the enemy, which will be made a great deal more difficult because the sun will be at their backs and we’ll be looking directly into it.’ Ben looks at the men about him. ‘That’s the first wave going in.’ He stops, not knowing quite how to tell them. ‘But we’re not going to be with them, lads, we’re going in on the second wave.’

  There is a groan from the platoon and it is obvious they are bitterly disappointed, Hornbill and Crow Rigby and several others bury their faces in their hands.

  ‘Ain’t that bloody typical, eh?’ Numbers Cooligan howls. ‘The best there is they leave for seconds.’

  When Lieutenant Ormington-Smith told his sergeant of this decision Ben had been forced to conceal his own disappointment. Had he been allowed to rejoin his Tasmanian battalion he would be in the 3rd Brigade and among the first ashore.

  ‘It stands to reason the 3rd Brigade will be the first to land,’ he now says. ‘They’ve been at Lemnos a month practising, we’re bloody lucky to be in the second wave. So, don’t get your knickers in a knot, Private Cooligan. If things go wrong, as they mostly do in battle, going in on the second wave won’t be no Sunday school picnic.’

  ‘But, Sergeant, what if them first lot, the 3rd Brigade, do all the fighting and there’s none left for us?’ Hornbill says and most of the others shake their heads, the possibility too awful to contemplate.

  ‘That won’t happen, lads, Johnny Turk is defending his homeland and we’re the invaders. What’s more, they’ve got the high ground looking down, they’re sitting pretty.’ He continues, ‘Now, let’s get this straight once and for all, the worst thing we can do is underestimate the Turk. In a moment the lieutenant here will tell you a bit about these blokes and it ain’t bullshit neither, but let me first give you an example of the logistics involved, paint you a picture of what could happen.’

  Ben turns to Crow Rigby. ‘Private Rigby, you’re an enemy sniper, you’re nicely dug in say four hundred feet above the beach and let’s say at a distance of three hundred yards. It’s broad daylight, seven o’clock and the sun well up, bit of smoke around from the guns but you can see clearly enough. You’re watching as our battalion jumps from the boats and starts to wade up to their waists towards the beach, maybe a hundred yards through the shallows. It’s gunna take an hour to get all the men onto the beach and into the scrub. Now here’s my question. How many men do you reckon, as a lone enemy sniper with telescopic sights, you can take out in a minute?’

  Crow Rigby thinks for a moment then squinting up at Ben asks a question himself. ‘I’ve got an offset mounted MKIII Lee-Enfield, right? With an Aldis No. 3 sight on Holland & Holland mounts?’ While he has been trained as a sniper, Crow Rigby has elected to stay in the platoon, but his careful question now reflects his meticulous training.

 
‘Well, technically speaking, no, you’re the enemy remember, you’ll be using a Mauser which is a better marksman’s rifle than the S.M.L.E. and the best of your German optics and mountings are as good as, if not better than, any we’ve ever made.’

  Crow Rigby nods. ‘Righto, if I had Woggy here to spot for me, I reckon I could get a real good shot off every ten seconds, Sergeant.’ He nods again. ‘Yeah, that shouldn’t be too hard. In theory anyway, it’s a big ask in practice.’

  ‘Strewth! Three hundred and sixty dead or wounded in an hour,’ Numbers Cooligan shouts. ‘That’s our whole flamin’ company and half another one!’

  There is a stunned silence as the men think about what Crow Rigby has just said.

  ‘And that’s just the potential of one sniper,’ Ben says at last. ‘Gawd knows how many they’ll have, and, as well, every other Turk not busy fighting off the 3rd Brigade will be emptying his rifle in the direction of the beach, not to mention their gun batteries and their machine guns.’

  ‘Shit, eh?’ Brokenose Brodie says. ‘And I thought they was just wogs!’

  Ben smiles. ‘As Private Rigby says, that’s in theory, I don’t believe any sniper has ever achieved that many kills in one day.’

  ‘Sergeant, the sun, even if it were up an hour or so, would be shining directly into Crow’s eyes,’ Library Spencer points out rather pedantically. Ben thinks he would probably make a good officer one day.

  ‘Well said, Private Spencer, so let’s hope like hell it ain’t a cloudy day like today. But that’s not the real point, we’ll be sitting ducks blind Freddy couldn’t miss. All I want you to get into your noggins is that we’re fighting a real enemy this time and we’ll be at a distinct disadvantage. What’s more, if you ever get close enough to use your bayonets, it won’t be against an unprotesting sandbag.’ He looks about him at the men seated on the deck. ‘So when we hit the beach don’t stand about chewin’ the fat, concealment is everything, once up into higher ground we’ll probably be digging like wombats, we’ll use whatever cover is available and we’re not, I repeat, we’re not, any of us, gunna try to be heroes! I don’t want any of you lads winning a flamin’ medal, because it will probably be given to your mum posthumously.’ Ben turns to Wordy Smith. ‘The lieutenant is now going to give you a bit of a history lesson, it’s just as well to know something about the enemy’s past form.’

  ‘Yes er well, thank you Sergeant Teekleman, I er . . . yes, ah . . .’ Wordy Smith begins, then clears his throat and looks about nervously. Nobody takes any notice, his apparent nervousness stems from the old Wordy Smith who hasn’t entirely conquered the mannerisms that went with his previous persona. Among these is the habit of looking at his boots as he talks.

  Lieutenant Peregrine Ormington-Smith begins again. ‘Yes well, the Turks, better known in history as the Ottomans, created an empire that lasted just six years short of four hundred years. Until just three years ago they still held Greece, Macedonia and Crete. For the greater part of these four hundred years they controlled all of the Middle East from Iraq to Tripoli, they captured Malta, besieged Vienna and controlled all of the Balkans and south-eastern Europe as far as Budapest.’ Wordy Smith reels off these names and places quite oblivious to the fact that the platoon, for the most part, probably hasn’t heard of many of them. ‘Their navy, well actually the Turkish-Egyptian fleet, under Admiral Ibrahim Pasha, terrorised the Mediterranean until it was finally defeated at Navarino by the French, Russian and English under Vice Admiral Sir Edward Codrington on the twentieth of October 1827. But even after this, none of the great powers were keen to take on such a brave and fanatical enemy on the land.’ Wordy Smith clears his throat before continuing. ‘For a good deal of this time Russia saw Turkey as her greatest enemy and fought her constantly in an attempt to gain access from the land-locked Black Sea into the Mediterranean. Constantinople guarded the entrance to the Bosphorus and from there into the Sea of Marmara, down the Dardanelles into the Aegean and finally the Mediterranean. Russia never succeeded.’

  ‘Yeah, sir, but all that Otto-Empire, like you says, that was a long time ago, we seen the Muslims in Egypt, they ain’t much chop?’ Hornbill suggests.

  ‘Wogs in pyjamas,’ Numbers Cooligan adds dismissively.

  ‘It’s true, the Turks are Muslims, but that’s where the comparison ends. They are a fighting nation who goes to battle in the name of Allah. When a Turkish soldier dies in battle he believes he goes directly to Paradise, they are not a people who are afraid to die. Australia has been in existence for one hundred and twenty-seven years, to these people that’s the day before yesterday. Believe me, they didn’t give up when the Romans invaded, or the Crusaders, the British, the French, the Russians.’ Lieutenant Ormington-Smith pauses, perhaps realising that the history lesson is going a bit beyond most of them.

  ‘That right,’ Ben interjects, ‘so they ain’t gunna be shitting their britches now, they’ll be thinking we Australians just hatched from the latest batch of eggs in Farmer Brown’s chookyard.’

  ‘I should also remind you,’ Wordy Smith continues, ‘no more than a few weeks ago in an attempt to force their way up the Dardanelles the combined might of the British and French navies pounded the Turkish forts guarding the

  Narrows with everything they could throw at them.’ Then borrowing his vernacular from Ben the lieutenant concludes, ‘And got their arses soundly kicked by the Turks once again.’

  There is some laughter at this last remark for it is the first time the platoon has ever heard Wordy Smith express himself in anything but the most correct manner.

  ‘These here Dardanelles where we’s goin’, Lieutenant,’ Muddy Parthe asks, ‘is they the same ones Russia tried to get and where the Poms and the Frogs got their arses kicked?’

  ‘Quite right, Private, the Turks have been defending this narrowest part successfully for four hundred years.’

  ‘So that’s why we’re goin’ there, eh? To kick their arses back,’ Brokenose Brodie exclaims, pleased with himself for seeing the plot so clearly.

  It is probably the first time that the platoon truly knows why they are fighting the Turks and although Sir Ian Hamilton, the supreme commander of the campaign, is better informed than Muddy Parthe, his attitude to the Turkish soldier doesn’t appear to be vastly different from that of Hornbill or Numbers Cooligan.

  Surgeon-General Birrell has come to him to point out that he hasn’t sufficient hospital ships and medical supplies to care for the wounded and has no way to get them off the beaches unless he uses the ships’ boats. He is sharply rebuffed by Hamilton who tells him the need to get stores and equipment ashore as quickly as possible takes priority over wounded men.

  Hamilton, if he assumes a low casualty rate, has obviously forgotten Europe’s long and bloody history against the Turks. As it turns out, very little serious thought seems to have gone into the evacuation of the wounded by the staff officers at his H.Q.

  Hamilton’s order to the surgeon-general can only be seen in one of two possible ways, either it is a lack of concern for the welfare of the men fighting under his command or he has a low opinion of the fighting capacity of the Sons of Allah.

  If the first supposition is correct he is not the only general in this war to have a laissez-faire attitude to the number of men killed and wounded under his command. If the second, which is unlikely, for it is common knowledge among the officers who openly tell their men that casualties could be as high as thirty per cent, then quite simply Hamilton is guilty of gross incompetence. A good commander, given the time, is charged with planning a correct outcome for these components without having to sacrifice one for the other.

  On their arrival on the island of Lemnos, just thirty miles from the Dardanelles, the weather hasn’t improved. In fact, it is worse, with a strong wind blowing up a rough sea in the large but essentially shallow harbour at Mudros. This, in effect, means a postponement of the April 21st invasion. In the deeper, more treacherous waters of the Dardanelles, there would be no hope of
successfully unloading the boats and getting troops ashore under such difficult conditions.

  The wind continues for two more days, only moderating somewhat on the evening of the twenty-third. Meanwhile the men are made to practise getting into the small boats from their transports in the choppy conditions of Mudros Harbour. Even in the comparatively shallow water this proves to be a tricky exercise.

  Just after noon on the twenty-fourth, the Novian, carrying the 5th Battalion together with the Brigade H.Q. and the Indian Army Mule Artillery, sails from Mudros to the Bay of Purnea on the northeast of the island. Although they sail into a stiff breeze all the way, the weather seems to be clearing and by sunset it has practically died down. Squinting into the setting sun, they see five battleships in line astern, slowly heading for the Dardanelles and a place which will eventually become known simply as Gallipoli. On board are the 3rd Brigade who will make the initial assault before the sun rises over Asia Minor.

  After the moon sets, Ben’s own transport slips its mooring and under a bright moon, sails the thirty miles to the spot on the map where the Anzac landing will take place. They arrive just as the 3rd Brigade is being lowered into boats, each man carrying ninety pounds of kit and equipment on his back. Many of them must climb down the steep sides of the battleships using rope ladders that are swinging wildly from the weight of the frantically clutching soldiers ahead of them, most of whom are fortified with a liberal supply of rum. Even with the practice they’ve undergone at Lemnos it proves a difficult and trying procedure, as it takes place in the inky darkness and with the added strain of what lies ahead. Fifteen thousand men are going into battle for the first time, in complete silence, jumping into little boats, which, to their great good fortune, are barely bobbing on a glass-calm sea. These are young men from a nation of beer drinkers, their heads a little fuzzy from the unaccustomed rum, each wondering to himself if he’ll be good enough, courageous enough and won’t let down his mates.