Brokenose Brodie is wielding his pick with an easy rhythm and Library Spencer beside him is shovelling the clods away as fast as possible as they work in concert, though plainly Library is unable to keep up. He rests for a moment, exhausted, leaning on his shovel. ‘I wonder where Hornbill got to?’ he says suddenly. The five friends working in the same proximity all stop abruptly, it is as though they have been waiting for someone to bring it up and by voicing their own thoughts Library has somehow admitted the likelihood that their mate is dead, copped one, killed on the beach or in the water.
‘Ah, he’ll turn up,’ Muddy Parthe volunteers at last. ‘Look’t me, I got lost comin’ ashore, separated from youse blokes.’
‘Yeah, but in your case we was hoping it was permanent, that you’d decided to join another platoon,’ Numbers Cooligan remarks.
‘Ha bloody ha! If I did, it would be to get away from you, mate.’
Nothing further is said and they return to their digging.
The slaughter taking place on the plateau no more than a few feet above their heads is now apparent to every soldier. The troops are rapidly becoming conscious that going over the lip on 400 Plateau means almost certain death. They all think that if they can wait until nightfall and cross they will be able to get among the Turks with their bayonets.
With their trench no more than eighteen inches dug into the hard red clay, Wordy Smith returns. He is grim-faced as he talks to Ben. ‘We’re all ordered over the top, Ben. The C.O.’s got his orders. Colonel M’Cay says nobody stays behind and insists on pressing on with the attack, his intention is to take the third ridge before nightfall.’ He shrugs. ‘It seems we’ll be letting down the advance of the centre and the left flanks if we remain here and dig in.’
‘The centre and the left flanks are advancing?’ Ben asks, sounding doubtful. ‘Do we know that for sure? There are no telephone wires up yet, no communication?’
Wordy Smith shrugs helplessly. ‘No, it’s only assumed.’
‘Assumed! Fucking assumed!’ Ben cries incredulously. It is the first time anyone has seen him blow his stack and he quickly reins himself in. ‘Bloody M’Cay looking for a promotion or something, is he?’ he adds bitterly. He turns away from Wordy and looks upwards to the Turkish positions and says quietly to himself, ‘As Ikey Solomon would say, “He’s fucking meshuggeneh!”’
Platoon officers, brandishing their Webley revolvers above their heads in some macabre form of battlefield tallyho, followed by their men, continue to pour up over the rim, attempting to cross 400 Plateau. By now, less than half an hour after their arrival, the entire area of the plateau is littered with new corpses, a second sacrifice to add to the Turkish killing orgy. Only this time there are vastly more Turks on the slopes above them.
Wounded men, abandoning their rifles, attempt to crawl on their hands and knees back to the safety of their comrades. In the process, they are picked off by the Turkish snipers. Often two or three bullets hit a wounded soldier, his body jerking with each impact, then he lies still, sprawled, spiderlike, with his face against the hard ground, quivering like a rabid dog shot in the street. In a matter of moments his wounds are set upon by a thick swarm of flies. One soldier still crawling back towards the rim has taken a direct hit in the face and the blood pours from his nose, his mouth, even his eyes, though this can scarcely be seen as the flies completely obscure what’s left of his features, turning the entire front surface of his smashed and broken head into a blank, black, buzzing horror.
The Indian Mountain guns are firing willy-nilly into the ridge directly above them and are seemingly as effective as a popgun fired at a brick wall, their aim too unco-ordinated to do any real damage to an enemy well dug in and damn near invisible.
It makes absolutely no sense when crossing the plateau to return the rifle fire, it simply delays the run for cover and, besides, there is nothing to aim at. Firing bullets, even machine-gun bullets, into a blank mountainside is a fruitless occupation. The only way they can possibly hope to engage the enemy is by means of a bayonet charge at close quarters. And if Wordy Smith is correct, they won’t ever get that far up the slope. In the unlikely event that they make it across the plateau, the handle of the spoon, in any numbers, the spoon is waiting to dish them up piecemeal to the Turks.
‘Stow your picks and shovels, get your packs onto your backs, lads,’ Ben now orders, then bends down and ties his shovel to the back of his pack and hoists his kit onto his shoulders. Those who watch him are strangely comforted by the sight of the Maori fighting axe in its holster on the side of his pack, a more inappropriate and useless weapon for the circumstances they are about to encounter can scarcely be imagined. But it is their proven talisman and they take heart from it. They also see a red bandanna tied to a buckle on the back of his pack. It is the one given to him by Victoria to wave from the deck of the Orvieto when she and Hawk came to farewell him. ‘Righto, don’t bunch, yer hear?’ Ben instructs them. ‘Stay well apart, it’s no more than a hundred yards across, we can do it in thirty seconds flat, keep low, don’t run in a straight line, you all know the drill.’
He turns his back on them and it appears as though he is buckling the chest strap of his pack. None of them see him pull the little green Tiki from beneath his shirt and briefly touch it to his lips. Ben turns and looks at Wordy Smith. The lieutenant nods. Ben turns back to the men. ‘Right then, follow me, lads. Keep yer eyes fixed on the red rag at my back, we’re going over now, we’ll all meet on the other side.’
‘Precisely what “other side” is that?’ Crow Rigby says softly to himself and watches as Numbers Cooligan makes the sign of the cross.
Chapter Fourteen
BEN AND COMPANY
Shaking Hands with the Shadows
Ben’s platoon is positioned on the southern side of 400 Plateau and looking over their shoulder they can see the low black promontory of Gaba Tepe as it intersects the wide arc of Suvla Bay, its Aegean waters sparkling in the bright morning sun. The plateau is covered with low gorse-like scrub, reaching not much above the waist, though it grows in patches with open ground between. It is good cover for a soldier remaining still, but not well suited for forward movement. Directly ahead of him at about four hundred yards is perhaps the narrowest section of the plateau which begins to slope away to an area known as Lonesome Pine, the name of a popular song. This name for the gently sloping hillside came about because among the juniper and scrub stands a single stunted pine tree. Lonesome Pine will soon enough be changed to Lone Pine in the way that Australians have of chopping any extraneous syllable from a word without changing its essential meaning.
Wordy Smith points out to Ben that this southern slope, protected somewhat by the Gaba Tepe headland to the south and positioned at a slightly oblique angle to the sea, doesn’t get the full force of the wind. This, in turn, means the juniper and scrub are higher and grow in bigger and denser clumps than on the flatter section of the plateau. He reasons that with the land falling away from the third ridge a man’s height is even further reduced, making him a slightly smaller target for the enemy rifle and machine-gun fire. It means they must move in an arc rather than take the shortest route across the plateau.
Ben estimates this will add perhaps another hundred yards to the distance, another four or five minutes of exposure to the hellfire coming from the Turks. But to counterbalance this, Wordy Smith suggests they will avoid falling into the spoon where they can easily be killed, the proposition being that machine-gun and rifle fire is instinctively aimed at the most obvious and nearest target and artillery fire where the greatest force is concentrated.
Ben agrees that the plan is the better of two fairly poor options. He is first over the rim, followed by Wordy Smith and the remainder of the platoon, who are staggered left and right at an interval of approximately four yards between each man. They have practised this drill in the desert where little concealment exists and advancing troops are trained to break into a haphazard formation of single-man targets.
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Once on the plateau they can see it is literally covered with the bodies of the dead infantrymen and most of the dead soldiers are already black with flies. Many of them belong to the 3rd Brigade but, after only half an hour of coming over the rim, M’Cay’s 2nd Brigade is dying at a much faster rate than during the early morning slaughter. The men trying to cross the plateau form a perfect target for the Turkish artillery, who actually look down at the Australians in a semicircle of heights from Battleship Hill in the north to Gaba Tepe in the south.
If one can imagine an amphitheatre, the plateau becomes its stage and the seats near the top are the enemy artillery positions from which all movement and space on 400 Plateau can be covered. To take the analogy further, the audience in the Greek amphitheatre are the Turks, with rifles and machine guns, and the Australians are the hapless actors.
The Turkish gunfire from the ridge is even more concerted than on the beach. The guns on the plateau have gained a steady rhythm and every thirty seconds a salvo of four shells falls, covering a large part of the plateau as a moving garden spray might water a lawn. Two enemy batteries, one at Chunuk Bair in the north and the other at Scrubby Knoll in the south, are the deadliest. Depending on where the largest concentration of Australians appear on the plateau, these two batteries shorten or lengthen their range like a fire hose playing on flames. The result, no single salvo is missed.
It becomes apparent to M’Cay after the very first troops are sent over the rim that the attempt to get his 2nd Brigade across must fail. A simple estimation of the dead already lying on the plateau after the initial attempt by the 3rd Brigade must tell him that there can be no front line to reinforce. Simple arithmetic indicates there are too many factors against him, the combination of Turkish firepower and the vastly superior and impregnable position they hold on the ridge directly above him means the odds are hopelessly stacked against him. His troops, pouring, as they mostly do, from the handle down into the bowl of the spoon, become, in effect, sitting ducks, unable to do anything more than attempt to conceal themselves from the Turkish guns directly above them. The likelihood of any of them mounting a further attack on the Turkish positions simply does not exist.
Colonel M’Cay is slaughtering his men, thinking only to slavishly obey his misdirected orders without accepting the responsibility to call it off. His men can never reach and effectively reinforce the isolated pockets of the decimated 3rd Brigade who are dug in beyond the plateau and now find themselves pinned down by the Turks. The first rule in the military handbook is that in a rescue operation you do not sacrifice more men than you hope to save.
M’Cay should dig in along a line on the plateau and wait until nightfall for the isolated pockets of the 3rd Brigade to join him in the trenches he has prepared. It is a strategy any junior subaltern could devise and it would save the lives of countless men.
Thus begins a day in which the Turks, far from admiring the courage of the Australians, wonder at the stupidity of the infidels and the commanders directing them. They take great heart from what they witness on 400 Plateau. This is an enemy to be laughed at. Even the humblest Turkish recruit knows that stupidity, even brave stupidity, seldom wins battles.
Stupidity in the time of war is usually put down to a lack of critical information by those responsible for it. It takes a long time for history to point an accusing finger at an errant and inadequate commander, and by then it is usually too late and he is out of the firing line or has been promoted to a higher rank.
Commanders who substitute men for ideas and approach a battle with complete disregard for saving the lives of the troops under their command almost always turn battles into killing fields without being granted victory as the prize.
On the first day on Gallipoli, from the beach landing in the pearl-grey dawn to the splashed and brilliant sunset over Asia Minor, nearly four thousand men are killed, countless others are wounded. The majority of these deaths occur at two places, on the landing beach and later on 400 Plateau.
Once the foolishness of invading Gallipoli had been decided upon, the attrition rate caused by landing from the sea onto a well-defended shore could scarcely be avoided. It is a price an invading army must expect to pay. But the slaughter at 400 Plateau was not necessary.
However, the manner of fighting the Turk on the Gallipoli Peninsula demonstrated on the first day on 400 Plateau by the brigadiers M’Cay and, to a slightly lesser extent, MacLagan sets the pattern for the Australian commanders on several other occasions.
Gallipoli was always intended to be a diversion, a ploy to make the Turks think that the main attack was to come from the high ground to the north so that they would concentrate their strength and effort on the Australians while the British and French invaded the flat ground south of Gaba Tepe.
In the end, seven months later, two hundred and forty thousand men will have been wounded, over forty thousand killed on the Allied side. The Turks never counted their dead, except in counting them fortunate, for they had been grasped to the bosom of Allah as heroes and consigned to Paradise. But it is estimated that they suffered much the same attrition rate as those who dared to invade their ancient land.
And so more than half a million young warriors were wounded or died in a series of battles and endless skirmishes that never reached further inland than a man could walk at a brisk pace in half an hour from the pebbled beach and which, in the overall scheme of things, didn’t amount to a fart in a hurricane.
Ben doesn’t rush things, making use of whatever cover is available, effectively using the gorse and scrub or a sudden dip or hollow in the terrain and making a dash across the open ground in between, resting up under the cover after every dash. It is careful progress where time is not the principal ingredient and after a while the platoon grows accustomed to the procedure and uses it skilfully.
However, this method of crossing contrasts strongly with the one adopted by a great many of the men who attempted to make a singular dash for it, running in a more or less straight line directly into the path of the remorseless enemy fire.
It may have been that the men were not properly briefed on the distance they needed to cover to get across the plateau or they lost the leadership of their officers who knew at what pace to take them out. Whatever, in the sudden decision to send them over the rim, a great many soldiers did not appear to have thought out how they might sensibly cover the five or, in some cases, six hundred yards across while carrying a rifle and a ninety-pound pack.
Distance in hilly terrain is easily misjudged anyway and the plateau may have seemed much shorter than it proves to be. Men set off, running for their lives, and soon enough they find themselves brought to an untimely halt, not just by the enemy, but by their own physical exhaustion.
Many bend to grab their knees, gasping for breath unable to move forward. Being stationary or slow-moving targets, they hardly merit the attention of the snipers with their Mausers and telescopic sights, who concentrate mainly on killing the officers. Instead, they become easy targets for the more modest shots among the Turkish infantry and are certain kills for the barking enemy machine guns.
The wounded have to fend for themselves. Officers, those few who haven’t been killed or wounded, are forced to press on and not endanger the remainder of their platoons by stopping to check on their wounded men. The wounded beg pathetically for help or plead to be taken back to the line. Others simply cry out for their mothers and some lie down and die, shivering in the blazing sun as the cold hands of death embrace them. They are fraternising with death, shaking hands with the shadows as the Anzac saying goes. While some of the men do stop to help a mate in trouble there is little they can do except attempt to take them back behind the lines and, as often as not, they join the dead or lie wounded beside a comrade.
Ben loses two men in his platoon, both from shrapnel pellets, which even concealment in the scrub cannot prevent. Private Woodridge and Lance Corporal Phillips are killed instantly and Ben stops to empty their tunic pockets. He�
�s made each man in his platoon write a final letter home and place it together with any other small personal mementoes, such as family photographs, medallions or keepsakes into the left-hand breast pocket of their tunic. Every member of his platoon has been instructed that should a mate be killed beside him, whenever possible he is to remove the contents of his tunic pocket and carry it with him. Under Library Spencer’s tuition even Brokenose Brodie has managed a short letter to his parents. He is inordinately proud of this final missive and often reads it to himself or to anyone else prepared to listen. The joke among the platoon is that the letter will be worn out by the time he dies and one of them will have to look up Brokenose’s mum and dad to recite to them what it contained.
Dear Mum and Dad,
I am dead when I write this. Our sargent says I must be.
You musint cry, you hear. I am not wirth the tears.
I don’t think I will go to heaven. But who no’s. The Turk all go there, its called paradice so maybe God will sent me up there to fite them again and get even for gettin meself killt. Dad you is forgived for beltin me a lot.
Your loving son,
Wayne Brokenose Brodie.
P.S. Brokenose is me name here and I can read real good now.
A little further down the slope as they are crossing open ground Hornbill makes a sudden appearance on their left, his legs and arms pumping as he crosses over to them, yelling the while, though his voice is drowned in a sudden burst of shrapnel. He comes to a halt, panting violently just as they reach the cover of the scrub and Ben sees that he is wearing a bandage wrapped about his forehead. ‘G’day, Sergeant, ’ullo, sir,’ he pants, looking at Ben and Wordy Smith.
‘Get yer flamin’ head down, Hornbill, and stay ragged!’ Ben shouts.
They proceed another hundred yards or so downhill and reach the stunted pine tree where Ben decides to swing to the left into the slight incline on Lone Pine, which leads to the southwestern extremity of the plateau. The juniper and scrub grow thickly here and reach above their heads so that they can walk upright for a good hundred yards or so, carefully making their way through the bush. Perhaps, because of the extra camouflage provided, the enemy firepower is not coming as thick and fast on this perimeter. Ben realises that they appear to be largely alone, and that few Australians have selected this section, thinking it the furthest away from the objective.
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