With Ben working the machine gun, Wordy Smith has taken over command of the rifle fire, manning the side of the trench looking down into the valley with fifteen men while the other fifteen sleep. Three of the men on duty cart ammunition, make tea, prepare rations and fill the machine-gun strips. Even Jack Tau Paranihi is put to work filling machine-gun strips. He has received a spoon of Wordy’s medicine every four hours which has managed to relieve much of his pain. By mid-afternoon the trench is working as a highly efficient unit and each of the men has killed or wounded to their certain knowledge a handful of Turks. All the Broadmeadows drill, the ceaseless concentration of handling a rifle, has come to fruition. The Clicks, with fifteen rifles firing at a maximum rate well in advance of perhaps any other platoon on Gallipoli, are almost the equivalent of a second machine gun.
On several occasions the Hotchkiss, together with the concerted fire directed at the same target by Wordy’s rifles, forces the Turks to scatter and retreat when they are at the point of reaching the Australian line.
Soon a Turkish gun on the Third Ridge tries to get their range and the ridge just below the trench is pounded all afternoon with shells. Clouds of dust often obscure their line of sight. Rifle shots whistle over their heads and sniper fire constantly hits the sandbags, but miraculously never enters the three narrow slots through which the Hotchkiss and Crow Rigby fire and Woggy Mustafa observes. Crow and Woggy have taken to picking out the Turkish officers, doing to the enemy what their snipers have been doing all day to the Australians on 400 Plateau. They’ve taken out more than thirty, Woggy’s incredible eyes calling the shots and Crow Rigby placing them. Used this way, Woggy’s eyes are worth several rifles firing at the enemy.
Ben knows that sooner or later they will either take a direct hit or sufficient shrapnel will explode over the trench and wipe them out. At four o’clock in the afternoon this happens at the southern end of the trench and while most of the shrapnel pellets rain down on the covered section, six of the platoon are killed. Ben orders their bodies to be taken into the shed, as the covered section is now known, so that the trench remains uncluttered. ‘We’ll grieve them later, lads,’ he says, knowing that it is only a matter of time before it happens again and they are all killed. Ben is rapidly coming to the conclusion that there is no escape from Gallipoli other than to be killed or wounded. Victory is simply out of the question. He now has only one objective, to inflict as much damage on the enemy as he is able before he dies. Two more of the platoon are wounded, though not too badly, Library Spencer has a chunk taken out of the fleshy part of his arm and a lad from Geelong, a quiet bloke known to all as ‘Moggy’ Katz, who played for the Geelong reserves, has lost the tip of his little finger. Wordy Smith proves to be a dab hand with a field dressing and both men continue to man a rifle, with a spoonful of Wordy’s medicine to comfort them.
Towards dusk Ben observes that the Australians in the valley below are pulling back and that the Turks are coming after them. In the indifferent light it is becoming more and more difficult to use the machine gun effectively and he is convinced that the Turks will attack them after dark. They have done an enormous amount of damage with the Hotchkiss and any Turkish company commander will want to stop them. Ben is about to pack it in when a Turkish sniper hits the barrel and casing of the Hotchkiss, putting it out of action. Hornbill is called to have a look and shakes his head. ‘Barrel’s bent, ain’t no way.’ In the dark and without the machine gun Ben realises they are even more vulnerable to attack.
With the light failing fast, they suddenly observe a soldier coming towards them from higher up on the plateau. The man, running down the slope without a pack, is obviously a messenger. He waves his arms, shouting, ‘Fall back, fall back!’ With nightfall the Turkish rifle fire seems to have temporarily stopped, only the artillery continues to pound the plateau higher up.
Ben turns to Numbers Cooligan. ‘Go get that man, bring him in.’
The soldier, a lance corporal named Penman, explains that the Australians are moving back across 400 Plateau to the original crest and that Sayers, Ben’s company commander, has pulled back from a position near the Daisy Patch and reorganised what’s left of the 5th Battalion and an assortment of others. Commanding the battalion, he is positioned on the rear slope of White’s Valley. ‘You’re not to try to join him, he wants you to pull back down Pine Ridge where the 6th is pulling back and needs help.’
‘How did you know we were here?’
Lance Corporal Penman laughs. ‘We seen what you blokes been doing all day to the Turks in the valley. Major Sayers says there’s only one platoon in the 1st Division can rapid fire at the rate you can and keep it up all day. He just said, “Tell Lieutenant Ormington-Smith and Sergeant Teekleman well done, we’d love them back with us when he’s through rescuing the 6th Battalion.”’
‘He always did have a black sense of humour,’ Wordy Smith says.
‘Well, machine gun’s buggered, I guess we’re no better here than on Pine Ridge, maybe we’ll get to look a Turk in the eye before the night is out,’ Ben says.
‘I’ll be coming with you,’ Lance Corporal Penman says.
‘Good, we lost our “one stripe” earlier, that would be useful, one thing though, we don’t stand formal here, what’s your name, Lance Corporal?’ Ben replies.
‘Ben,’ the corporal says.
They all laugh. ‘Sorry, Corporal, but I’m afraid there’s only one Ben in this platoon, we’ll have to call you something else.’
‘Nibs! Nibs Penman!’ Cooligan offers, pleased with himself.
‘Nibs then?’ Ben asks the corporal.
The corporal shrugs. ‘Suits me fine, probably won’t be around long enough to hear it much anyhow.’
‘Subtle or what!’ Crow Rigby cries.
‘Aw shuddup, Crow!’ Cooligan calls. ‘Just ’cause you ain’t clever like me!’
‘Righto, let’s pack up,’ Ben calls. ‘It’s dark enough to get going and the moon won’t be up for a while. We’re taking Jack with us on the stretcher, I want four men on it. Nobby, Brokenose, Macca, Keith, you blokes first, change every ten minutes with someone else. There’s still a little water left in the barrel, fill your water bottles, it could be a long night. Everybody have something to eat now, you’ve got ten minutes before we pull out. Moon will be up soon, we want to get going.’
The platoon moves out down Lone Pine. The artillery fire has ceased over this part of the battlefield and to the south and while it is a welcome relief it is also a sign of danger to come. The Turks are about to mount an attack on the southern spur. Their plan obviously is to move around Pine Ridge, where the remnants of the 9th Battalion of the 3rd Brigade and the 6th Battalion of the 2nd have been fighting all day and are greatly weakened.
Ben and his platoon make their way down the slope and south to Pine Ridge without any fire directed at them. Perhaps the worst aspect of the trip is the scrub they must move through in the dark. On the southern side of Lone Pine and again on Pine Ridge the gorse is heavily mixed with thorn scrub and their uniforms and puttees are torn to pieces. Jack, lying supine on the stretcher, is, seemingly, one long scratch, the thorns having damn near ripped him apart. By the time the moon is up they have made their way down to the extreme northern end of the spur where it connects with Lone Pine and here they come across a captured Turkish gun-pit linked with a series of trenches which are occupied by Captain Daly of the 8th with a handful of men all exhausted from the day’s fighting. They welcome Wordy Smith with open arms.
‘Frankly, we’re about done in,’ Daly tells Wordy. ‘We’ve thirty-five men and half of them wounded. With your mob in reasonable shape we may be able to hold the bastards off, though I think you’ll need to break your platoon up. There’s a handful of men under Corporal Harrison and Lance Corporal Kenyon in a Turkish trench about a hundred yards to the north, I doubt if they can hold on without help. We’ve heard down the line of what your lads have done today, I guess we were the beneficiaries down in the valle
y, twelve men with your firepower could make all the difference.’
Ben asks Wordy Smith to recommend that Crow Rigby be promoted to corporal on the spot. He has lost Mooney, his corporal on the third landing craft that morning and Phillips, his lance corporal, on the plateau, but is reluctant to send Nibs Penman since he doesn’t even know the names of the men who would be placed under his charge. Daly, when he is told Crow Rigby is a sniper, immediately agrees to the promotion.
Crow asks Ben if he can take Woggy Mustafa and Numbers Cooligan. Ben agrees and picks the other nine, though none of them seem too happy to be broken up as a unit. ‘Give ’em hell, lads, this is your chance to look the Turk in the eye,’ Ben says and for a fleeting moment wonders how many of them he will meet again.
Ben can see that Daly, who is wounded, and his lieutenant, an officer named Derham who is actually asleep in the trench at his feet, are exhausted and soon after discovers that both have been wounded. He quickly sets about organising the defence of the gun-pit which is situated in a separate trench behind the front one. It is occupied by a rag-tag of mixed platoons from the 9th, 8th and 6th under Lieutenants Levy and Hooper, both of whom are wounded. Ben breaks up his platoon once again, sending ten of the men to the forward trench and keeping eight in the gun-pit.
Wordy Smith reports to Captain Daly and outlines to him what they’ve done. ‘Sir, there’s a lot of Turkish ammunition lying about in crates. I’d like to move it under the section of the trench that’s covered?’
Daly agrees. ‘Go ahead, Lieutenant, ’fraid we’re too bushed to attempt it.’
Wordy Smith sets out to put a detail together to move the crates and returns some few minutes later with two men carrying a Turkish machine gun between them. ‘Look what I’ve found,’ he says excitedly to Captain Daly.
Daly sighs. ‘We know about it, Lieutenant. Nobody knows how to use the bugger, could’ve been a godsend.’
‘It’s a Hotchkiss, sir, Sergeant Teekleman and Private Horne have been manning one like this all day.’
Daly looks amazed. ‘Something good had to happen in all this, thank God you came.’
A machine-gun post is hastily constructed out of sandbags near the pit furthest to the south, with Hornbill standing behind Ben to feed in the ammunition strips. Almost on cue the scrub and juniper a hundred or so yards below the gun-pits are set on fire, the Turks hoping the fire will reach the gun-pits and explode the ammunition.
But a God who has been anything but kind to the Australians all day changes the direction of the breeze and the blaze turns back on the Turks, forcing them into the more open ground where they can be clearly seen in the moonlight.
The men in the trenches now realise that they are vastly outnumbered by the enemy who have their bayonets fixed and are charging up the slope towards them. It is one of the few occasions all day when the Australians own the high ground. ‘Let them come closer,’ Ben yells. ‘Don’t fire!’
One Turk some ten feet in front of the rest is shouting, ‘Allah! Allah!’ and is caught mid-word on the third ‘Allah’ by Crow Rigby, who picks him off from the trench fifty yards from Ben and they all see the man’s head explode in a black burst. The remainder of the Turks come charging on, the Prophet’s name on their lips, shouting, wildly excited, their bayonets gleaming in the moonlight.
‘Don’t fire, lads,’ Ben shouts again. ‘Steady! Steady, lads. Wait until you can see the fucker’s eyes.’
At a range of about fifty yards Ben gives the order to fire and opens up with the machine gun. The Turks in the front drop like rocks in a quarry blast and the next line follows and then the next. Seemingly in moments bodies are stumbling and tripping over each other and yet they come, there are no cowards among them. The battle lasts no more than ten minutes, the machine gun and the remorseless rifle fire simply cuts the Turks apart. Finally, with some of the Turks having reached almost to the edge of the gun-pits, they fall back. There are more than two hundred of the enemy lying on the black, smouldering apron left by the fire they’d started earlier. Occasionally a small flame from the spent fire momentarily leaps into life and snatches at the rag of a uniform, sending thin ribbons of white smoke spiralling into the moonlit night.
Captain Daly turns to Wordy Smith, his exhausted face barely capable of creasing into a smile. ‘I’ve never seen rapid fire like that before, your lads certainly know how to handle a rifle.’ He turns to Ben. ‘Well done, Sergeant, I guess the machine gun was the difference, eh? I doubt we could’ve held them off otherwise.’
Ben, exhausted himself, grins. ‘Bloody good thing the Turks have a habit of leaving them lying around, sir.’
A little later the enemy organises a second attack, but it is no more than a show of defiance. Hornbill, now manning the Hotchkiss, gives them heaps and they soon lose the stomach to try again. What is left of the attacking force withdraws back over the valley to the Third Ridge.
At about 11.30 p.m. Daly receives orders to pull back to the original line at the rear of 400 Plateau. Ben’s platoon, though nearly as exhausted as the rest of the men, carries no wounded with the exception of course of Jack Tau Paranihi, Library Spencer and Moggy Katz. They are all badly scratched by thorns and in the days to come almost every soldier who fought across the plateau will suffer from scratches that fester badly. Ben’s men are nevertheless in the best shape of any of the men in the gun-pits and so they accept the responsibility for carrying the seriously hurt and wounded men back to the line. Ben, seeing how burdened they are with the wounded, wants to destroy the Turkish machine gun as it will require two men to manhandle it and a third to carry the tripod.
However, Lieutenant Derham and one of his men who is not too seriously hurt elect to take it with them. ‘It’s saved our lives once and it might do so again, we can manage it, sir,’ he says to Captain Daly.
The little party of fighting men under Daly trudge slowly back over Lone Pine. About halfway to the rear they come across a soldier with a broken leg and Derham and his offsider abandon the Hotchkiss, which Hornbill quickly disables, hurling several of its parts into the gorse, and they take the man with them. Light rain begins to fall and the air grows a little cooler. They arrive behind the lines a few minutes before midnight.
So ends the first day of fighting on Gallipoli. They stand exhausted no more than thirty yards from where they’d started digging in behind the rear lip of 400 Plateau shortly before nine that morning. Ben’s platoon finds itself with nineteen men dead and three wounded and those still standing barely have the strength to remove their packs. Bruised and cut, their uniforms torn, their faces and arms blackened with cordite and dust, they fall asleep on the damp ground at their feet.
If they can think at all, which is doubtful at this stage, they will be aware that they’ve killed men they could see, and will never again look at life through the same clear, clean eyes. They have undergone a process of corruption they will be unable to explain and which will cause them to cry out in the small hours of the morning. While some may grow old, where they have been and what they have seen will only ever be acknowledged by a sidelong glance, a knowingness, a look in the eyes of a mate. There are no words for what happens in the organised slaughter of men. It is a thing they’ve shared, a glory they’ve felt and a shame they will know all the days of their lives. While they have fought valiantly and with great pride, they have voluntarily lifted the lid to hell and plunged inwards. And, in the process, they have taken a terrible hiding from the proud Turks, whose ancient land they have dared to violate.
GALLIPOLI
Had he never been born he was mine:
Since he was born he never was mine:
Only the dream is our own.
Where the world called him there he went;
When the war called him, there he bent.
Now he is dead.
He was I; bone of my bone,
Flesh of my flesh, in truth;
For his plenty I gave my own,
His drouth was my drouth.
In his strength forgot I was weak,
In his joy forgot I was sad
Now there is nothing to ask or to seek;
He is dead.
I am the ball the marksman sent,
Missing the end and falling spent;
I am the arrow, sighted fair
That failed, and finds not anywhere.
He who was I is dead.
– Dame Mary Gilmore
Chapter Fifteen
THE ATTACK ON
LONE PINE
Gallipoli and Alexandria 1915–1916
GALLIPOLI
10th December 1915
My dearest Victoria and my esteemed Grandfather Hawk,
This letter is to be shared between you and is, alas, long overdue. I had hoped to get something to you in time for Christmas but several factors intervened of which I will presently write.
I did manage a scrap of paper to Victoria in mid-November wishing you both season’s greetings, I hope you received it as there has been no mail from you these three weeks. Something is going on down at the beach and the mail does not appear to be coming in or is not being distributed. The men are ropeable, letters from home and the regular copy of the Bulletin is what makes life tolerable for us.
Sitting here in a dugout carved out of the cliff face like a gull on its nest and writing by candlelight has no feel of Christmas whatsoever. I met a cove yesterday who has occasion to visit the ships in the bay below and he told me that the thousands of candles from these little shelters where troops bunk down at night give the impression of Christmas lights. I believe it’s also been most inappropriately called ‘a fairyland of lights’. Although I can vouch there is very little peace and goodwill to all men to be found on the Gallipoli Peninsula at the moment. There may be a few wicked goblins about but there are certainly no fairies.
Solomon's Song Page 50