The Best Gallipoli Yarns and Forgotten Stories Page 5

  Thus ended the memorable 25 April 1915, ‘The Day’ . . . on which 16,000 Anzacs won for Australasia an ‘Imperishable Record’ and a ‘Name among all the Nations’.

  SONG OF THE DARDANELLES

  HENRY LAWSON

  From the southern hills and the city lanes,

  From the coastal towns and the Blacksoil Plains;

  Australia’s finest—there they stood,

  To fight for the King as we knew they would.

  Knew they would—

  Knew they would;

  To fight for the King as we knew they would.

  They trained in the dust of an old dead land

  Long months of drill in the scorching sand;

  But they knew in their hearts it was for their good,

  And they saw it through as we knew they would.

  Knew they would—

  Knew they would;

  And they saw it through as we knew they would.

  They were shipped like sheep when the dawn was grey;

  And as the ships left Mudros Bay

  They squatted and perched where’er they could,

  And they laughed and swore as we knew they would.

  Knew they would—

  Knew they would;

  They laughed and swore as we knew they would.

  The wireless tells and the cable tells

  How our boys behaved by the Dardanelles.

  Some thought in their hearts, ‘Will our boys make good?’

  We knew them of old and we knew they would!

  Knew they would—

  Knew they would;

  They were mates of old and we knew they would.

  The sea was hell and the shore was hell,

  With mine, entanglement, shrapnel and shell,

  But they stormed the heights as Australians should,

  And they fought and they died as we knew they would.

  Knew they would—

  Knew they would;

  They fought and they died as we knew they would.

  BIRDWOOD

  JIM HAYNES

  William Riddell Birdwood was commander of the Australian troops throughout World War I. It is said that he was the only high-ranking British officer who could have successfully led Australian soldiers.

  He was born in 1865 in Pune (Poona), India. His father was under-secretary to the government of Bombay, and William was educated at Clifton College, Bristol, and the Royal Military College, Sandhurst, England. Originally posted to the 12th Lancers in India, he later served with the 11th Bengal Lancers. In 1894 he married a baron’s daughter, Jeannette Hope Gonville.

  Prior to 1914 he served in various North-West Frontier campaigns and in the Boer Wars as part of Lord Kitchener’s staff in South Africa. He became major general in 1911 and was secretary to the Army Department in India.

  In November 1914 Lord Kitchener, as minister for war, gave Birdwood, aged fifty, command of the ANZAC forces. Right from the start he adopted a friendly, tolerant approach to the Australians he commanded, and the diggers generally respected and liked him.

  At Anzac he spent time every day visiting the front trenches and chatting to the men, and there are many stories about his relationship with the troops he commanded. One oft-told story is that he would never accept a drink of water while up on the firing line, as he knew that men had to carry every pint of water up from the beach.

  Although he neither smoked nor drank, the Aussies loved his friendly attitude and the fact that he yarned with them and never bothered if they saluted or not. He swam every day with the men and loved telling the story of how, on one occasion when shrapnel was bursting over the beach, an Aussie soldier pushed him under the water as he swam and yelled, ‘Get your head down, you silly old dill!’

  He was the only senior officer opposed to the evacuation, yet it was he who planned and led the brilliant evacuation operations at Suvla, Anzac Cove and Helles, which were all evacuated without loss in December and January. He took command of the Australian Imperial Force (AIF) in France in March 1916.

  Birdwood was given three knighthoods after the war, and was created a baronet and granted £10,000 in 1919. He became Field Marshal and Commander-in-Chief of the Indian Army in 1925.

  When Birdwood retired in 1930, King George V wanted to appoint him as Australia’s Governor General, but Scullin, the prime minister at the time, insisted on an Australian and Isaac Isaacs was appointed instead. Birdwood became Master of Peterhouse College, Cambridge, in 1931 and, in 1938, was made Baron Birdwood of Anzac and Totnes.

  His name is still revered in Australia and a town in South Australia is named after him.

  In September 1915 he wrote in a letter home, ‘I feel completely Australian.’

  Of the many stories about ‘Birdie’s’ affection for his men, this one is my favourite.

  Towards the end of the war a group of British staff officers accompanied Birdwood on a tour of a quiet stretch of the defences at Le Touquet, in France.

  When an Australian sentry failed to either salute or acknowledge the existence of the group, Birdwood asked him, ‘Do you know who I am?’

  The sentry replied, ‘Nah, and I don’t want to.’

  To the amazement of the staff officers Birdwood ignored the insult and asked politely, ‘Been in France long?’

  The sentry replied, ‘Too bloody long.’

  When the commander of the AIF introduced himself by saying, ‘Well, I’m General Birdwood,’ the Australian immediately changed his attitude.

  ‘Well, go on!’ he said, surprised and delighted, ‘Well, I’ve heard of you, shake hands!’

  To the bewilderment of the inspection party, and to his eternal credit, General Birdwood shook the man’s hand heartily and moved on.

  THE FIRST DAY

  WILLIAM BIRDWOOD

  This account comes from Birdwood’s autobiography, Khaki and Gown

  At 3.30 a.m. the battleships hove to, and the tows went ahead. It was very dark, and the tows got a mile or so farther north than had been intended; and some tows crossed one another. The enemy, entrenched on the shore to the number of about 900, with machine-guns, did not suspect our approach till we were quite close, when they opened heavy fire on the boats and inflicted many casualties.

  Meanwhile, as soon as this advance guard of 1500 had started off, the remainder of the covering force trans-shipped from their transports into eight destroyers; these followed closely, until the men were taken off by returning tows. All this worked entirely ‘according to plan’. The boy midshipmen in command of small boats earned, and ever afterwards retained, the deep admiration of all my Anzac men.

  Hardly waiting for the keels to touch the shore, men leaped into the water and raced ashore, dashing straight with the bayonet upon the Turks and driving them through the thick undergrowth.

  This landing farther north than was intended naturally caused some temporary difficulties; for these I must take the blame, for they were caused by my insistence on landing before daylight. But the error brought great compensations also. The original spot chosen for the landing was on fairly open ground not far from Gaba Tepe, and troops landing there must have suffered heavily from machine–gun and other fire from the trenches in that locality, which had clearly been dug and wired in anticipation of an attack thereabouts. But though, by this accident, our right avoided this danger, our left came in for bad trouble farther north, beyond Ari Burnu.

  On the open beach near the fishermen’s huts we suffered heavy losses; some boats drifted off full of dead with no one in control. The centre landing, in the neighbourhood of what was later known as Anzac Cove, was more fortunate. The country here was very broken and difficult, and the Turks had evidently not expected an attack, for they were only lightly entrenched and were soon driven off by the impetuous Australians.

  But the crossing of the tows in the dark was to cause great confusion and, for a time, dismay. Battalions had got hopelessly mixed up, and for a considerable time it was impossible to sort them
out. My extreme right was being badly enfiladed by machine-guns from Gaba Tepe, till the Bacchante (Captain Boyle) steamed right in, almost putting her bows on shore, and poured in welcome broadsides which silenced the enemy there—a gallant deed which the Australians never forgot.

  Gradually the Turks were driven back through this very difficult country, which is covered with high scrub and in places quite precipitous. The day was very hot, and no water was available. It was a wonderful feat, therefore, that the Australians had performed—and they were nearly all young soldiers receiving their baptism of fire. Thanks to the first-rate naval arrangements, Bridges’ entire Division (less guns) of 12,000 men was ashore by 10 a.m., and Godley’s Division followed later.

  As soon as I could, I went ashore to see the progress made, and clambered around as much as possible of the front line on the heights. Owing to the thick scrub I could see very little, but from a point later known as Walker’s Top I got a fairly good idea of the situation, realising for the first time that a large valley separated the New Zealanders there from the Australians on a ridge to the east.

  The men were naturally very exhausted after so hard a day—and inclined to be despondent, too. Small groups would tell me that they were all that was left of their respective battalions—‘all the others cut up’!

  On such occasions I would promptly tell them not to be damned fools: that the rest of the battalion was not far distant, having simply been separated in the tows. This always had an encouraging effect, though I must confess that I might not yet have seen ‘the rest’.

  Another factor, which did much to restore our men’s confidence, was the landing of the two Indian Mountain Batteries (Numbers 1 and 6) for which I had so earnestly petitioned Lord Kitchener. Thanks to their great handiness and mobility we were able to get them, but no other guns, ashore on the twenty-fifth. Before their landing, the infantry were naturally perturbed by the fact that they were being continuously shelled, while no reply could be sent from our side.

  The very first shot from one of our mountain guns (very hurriedly rushed up on the ridge over the landing-place) had an electrifying effect upon our troops, who felt they could now hold their own.

  The first brilliant advance was now checked, for the Turks had been able to bring up guns and there was a constant hail of shrapnel all the afternoon. In the scrub it was impossible to keep men together, and many stragglers found their way down gullies to the beach. Later we found that our casualties numbered some 5000 all told: in round figures, 500 killed, 2500 wounded and 2000 missing, although many of the ‘missing’ came in later.

  Some, I am sorry to say, had in their impetuosity, advanced so fast, and with so little regard for their supports or troops on their flanks, that they had disappeared right into the enemy’s position.

  The heavy rate of casualties gives some indication how bitter and unceasing the fighting had been. By the superb efforts of Colonel Neville Howse, my Director of Medical Services, the wounded were got away to the ships as fast as they could be collected.

  Nevertheless, the situation ashore seemed fairly satisfactory when, in the evening, I returned to my headquarters on the Queen after discussing matters with Bridges and Godley. I was therefore horrified, about an hour later, to receive a message from Bridges asking me to return at once, as the position was now critical.

  I went ashore again and was met by Bridges and Godley, with several of their senior officers. They told me that their men were so exhausted after all they had gone through, and so unnerved by constant shellfire after their wonderfully gallant work, that they feared a fiasco if a heavy attack should be launched against us next morning.

  I was told that numbers had already dribbled back through the scrub, and the two divisional commanders urged me most strongly to make immediate arrangements for re-embarkation.

  At first I refused to take any action. I argued that Turkish demoralisation was in all probability considerably greater than ours, and that in any case I would rather die there in the morning than withdraw now.

  But, on thinking things over, I felt myself bound to place the position before Sir Ian Hamilton, if only because every report I had sent him so far (and these reports had been largely based on what Bridges himself had told me) had been entirely optimistic.

  Sir Ian had little idea of the extent of our casualties at Anzac, though we knew that the 29th Division had suffered very badly indeed at Helles. It struck me, therefore, that, in view of the losses sustained by both forces, he might consider it advisable to abandon one landing or the other and concentrate all his strength either at Helles or at Anzac.

  His reply came as an almost incredible relief to me, telling us to ‘hang on and dig’ as we were now through the most difficult part of the business. He also gave us the cheering news that the Australian submarine A.E.2 had got through the narrows and torpedoed a gunship—a feat which opened up a new vista in the problem of checking Turkish reinforcements.

  And so ended a day which will always stand out in my life: a day of great strain and of sharply contrasting emotions. I recall my feelings of confidence but natural anxiety as the troops entered the tows at 2.30 a.m.; my elation and pride when I knew that great numbers of troops had landed on a broad front and with less opposition than we had feared; my growing satisfaction as cheering reports of progress continued to reach me; and then, at night, the sudden cold fear of threatened disaster.

  But directly I got Sir Ian’s reply, which accorded so well with my own wishes, I felt a load lifted from me. I longed for the daylight, so I could get round to the troops.

  SAM AND ME–POSTSCRIPT

  STEELE RUDD

  From Memoirs of Corporal Keeley

  In the middle of the night we left Mudros for Gallipoli.

  I was lying in me bunk an’ listening to the throbbing of the engines an’ thinking, as usual, what was to be the end of it all, when who comes along to see me, with a smile on his face, but Lieutenant Colonel Chaplain Brown-Smith. I never thought to ask him about it later, but I was pretty sure it was Sam who sent him.

  He started telling me things about the big wars an’ heroes of olden times an’ was just beginning a yarn about something that happened on the plains of Troy, when I asked him what did he ever do with the old moke that he was riding when me an’ Sam met him on the plains outside of Blackall.

  Lord! I never saw anyone look so surprised. He stopped dead an’ stared at me an’ I had to tell him when it was, an’ the very exact spot, an’ the time of day, an’ exactly what the old moke was like.

  ‘Well, well, well,’ he says, an’ then he laughed an’ got to telling me all about his experiences in the west until both of us nearly forgot that we had to get off at Gallipoli. Then he shook hands an’ went up on deck where most of the soldiers was gathered, an’ where the moon was shining, an’ millions of stars twinkling like the eyes of angels looking down on us from Heaven.

  Just after that we were all ordered on deck an’ then they lowered us into the open boats with packs on our backs an’ rifles in our hands. As the boats moved off Sam felt for me with his hand. ‘Don’t worry, Frankie,’ he said, ‘I’m here, old chap, we’ll come through this flying.’

  I didn’t speak because I couldn’t.

  Then rifles started cracking on the land, an’ bullets hummed over us an’ past us like bees.

  ‘Go like hell!’ someone called.

  ‘Take to the water!’ from someone else.

  An’ into the water they plunged, an’ I followed, up to me waist, an’ Sam was dragging me along after him, an’ that’s about all I recall of the landing.

  All that day, an’ days an’ days, an’ weeks an’ weeks, we spent digging in an’ digging in. Every moment waiting to be attacked an’ waiting for the order to attack. At least the others was waiting for it, I wasn’t. I lived in constant an’ indescribable dread of it.

  Twice I was numbered among those told to stand ready to jump out, but I was never ready for a moment. Whether I could have
jumped out if the order had come, God only knows.

  ‘Sam,’ I would often moan, sitting there cramped up in them damn trenches, ‘this was a hell of a place to come to, a hell of a place.’

  ‘Never mind, Frankie,’ he’d say, ‘we’ll have these Turks walloped in no time an’ be back home in Australia for Christmas.’

  There was never any despondency about Sam, an’ it was always ‘home for Christmas’.

  Then, one day about four o’clock, we suddenly got a warning. Hardly had we got a grip on our rifles an’ stood to when over the parapets an’ down on top of us came the Turks, shouting an’ yelling. There was no time for thinking then.

  ‘Frankie!’ Sam shouted, an’ then I heard nothing but oaths an’ the clashing of bayonets and rifle barrels. I saw nothing but red, red, red!

  God! I fought an’ lunged an’ struck at anything in a strange uniform an’ above it all at intervals I heard Sam shouting, ‘Frankie!’

  An’ I shouted back, ‘Sam!’

  I fought till I couldn’t see a face or a uniform but a friendly one.

  Then I called, ‘Sam!’ again an’ again, but he didn’t answer.

  I tried to see the faces of the men I was walking over as I looked for him.

  I found him lying across a heap of Turks an’ lifting his head onto me knee I shouted, ‘Water!’

  When I spoke to him he just murmured, ‘We won, Frankie.’

  An’ then his head fell back an’ I put him down.

  The Allied forces suffered severe casualties during the landings. The Allied naval attacks in the area had alerted the Ottoman and German commanders and they had strengthened their military defences on the peninsula. The forces that landed were never able to penetrate past the ridges that run along the centre of the peninsula, and mostly they were dug in no more than a few kilometres inland for the entre campaign.