The Best Gallipoli Yarns and Forgotten Stories Page 7

  ANZACS

  EDGAR WALLACE

  The children unborn shall acclaim

  The standard the Anzacs unfurled,

  When they made Australasia’s fame

  The wonder and pride of the world.

  Some of you got a V.C.,

  Some ‘the Gallipoli trot’,

  Some had a grave by the sea,

  And all of you got it damned hot,

  And I see you go limping through town

  In the faded old hospital blue,

  And driving abroad—lying down,

  And Lord! but I wish I were you!

  I envy you beggars I meet,

  From the dirty old hats on your head

  To the rusty old boots on your feet—

  I envy you living or dead.

  A knighthood is fine in its way,

  A peerage gives splendour and fame,

  But I’d rather have tacked any day

  That word to the end of my name.

  I’d count it the greatest reward

  That ever a man could attain;

  I’d sooner be ‘Anzac’ than ‘lord’,

  I’d sooner be ‘Anzac’ than ‘thane’.

  Here’s a bar to the medal you’ll wear,

  There’s a word that will glitter and glow,

  And an honour a king cannot share

  When you’re back in the cities you know.

  The children unborn shall acclaim

  The standard the Anzacs unfurled,

  When they made Australasia’s fame

  The wonder and pride of the world.

  THE LIGHT HORSE WAITS

  OLIVER HOGUE

  Some of the Australians and New Zealanders had already got the call, but we of the Light Horse still waited at Mena Camp outside Cairo—growing more and more impatient every day.

  It was the arrival of our Australian wounded back from the Dardanelles that settled it. It was a wrench to leave our horses behind—the dear old horses that we petted and loved, the horses that were a very part of us—but it had to be done.

  When we saw our fellows coming back with their wounds upon them—when we heard of what they had been through—when we listened to their story of that wonderful landing on Gallipoli on 25 April, and of the wild charge they made up the frowning hill—all of us, to a man, begged to be sent to the front as infantry, but it didn’t matter—we were soldiers of the King!

  I saw the Red Crescent train as it steamed in loaded with the wounded, and I went to the base hospital to see and chat with the men who knew now what war was—the men who had clamoured so impatiently for so many weeks to be sent where ‘the fighting’ was, and then came back again to be nursed in an Egyptian hospital!

  Yet they were happy. They had ‘done their bit’. They smoked cigarettes and yarned about their experiences. I watched the slightly wounded ones marching from the train to the hospital—an unforgettable sight. Most of them were shot about the arms or scalp. Their uniforms had dried blood all over them, and were torn about where the field doctors had ripped off sleeves or other parts to get at the wounds.

  As they marched irregularly along, one young fellow with his arm in a sling and a flesh wound in the leg limped behind and shouted out, ‘Hey, you chaps, don’t make it a welter!’

  I visited the wounded men and chatted to one soldier of the 3rd Brigade who had landed in the first wave.

  ‘Bah!’ he exclaimed as he lit his cigarette. ‘The Turks can’t shoot for nuts! But the German machine-guns are the devil, and the shrapnel is no picnic!’

  His arm was in a sling, and his leg was bandaged from hip to ankle. But he was cheerful as could be, as proud as Punch, and as chirpy as a gamecock. For he was one of the band of Australian heroes, wounded and back from the front. And we who listened to the deathless story of the wild charge they made could not help wishing we had shared in the glories of that fight.

  ‘We fought them for three days after landing,’ said a big bushman in the 2nd Brigade, ‘and they made about a dozen counter-attacks. But when we had a chance of sitting down and letting them charge us it was dead easy—just like money from home. They never got near enough to sample the bayonets again. But on the twenty-seventh they tried to get all over us. They let the artillery work overtime, and we suffered a bit from the shrapnel. The noise was deafening. Suddenly it ceased, and a new Turkish division was launched at us. This was just before breakfast.

  ‘There is no doubt about the bravery of the Turks. But we were comfortably entrenched, and it was their turn to advance in the open. We pumped lead into them till our rifles were too hot to hold. Time and again they came on, and each time we sent them about their business. At three o’clock we got tired of slaughtering them that way, so we left our little home in the trench and went after them again with the bayonet.’

  ‘Say, what do you think of “Big Lizzie?”’ asked another Cornstalk.

  It is necessary to explain that this was the affectionate way our fellows alluded to the super-Dreadnought Queen Elizabeth. The soldier continued: ‘All the while our transports were landing, “Big Lizzie” just glided up and down like an old hen watching her chickens. Every now and then Turkish destroyers from Nagara tried to cut in and smash up the transports. But the moment “Lizzie” got a move on they skedaddled. One ship was just a bit slow. Didn’t know that “Big Liz” could hit ten miles off. Shell landed fair amidships, and it was “good-night nurse”.’

  One of the 9th Battalion (Queenslanders, under Colonel Lee) chipped in here, ‘Ever tried wading through barbed wire and water with maxims zipping all round you?’

  This pertinent question explained the severe losses of the 3rd Brigade. The landing was effected simultaneously at several points on the peninsula, but one spot was a hornet’s nest and they started to sting when the Australians reached the beach. A couple of boats were upset and several sailors killed. Others dashing into the shallow water were caught in the barbed wire.

  ‘My legs are tattooed prettier than a picture,’ added the Queenslander, ‘and I’ve a bit of shrapnel shell here for a keepsake, somewhere under my shoulder.’

  ‘Fancy 10,000 miles and eight months’ training all for nix,’ said a disgusted Corporal. ‘Landed at 4 a.m. Shot at three seconds past four. Back on the boat at 5 a.m.’

  And so on.

  To have gone through all they had gone through, and then to treat it all so lightly, seemed an extraordinary thing. All the doctors and nurses commented on the amazing fortitude and cheerfulness of the Australian wounded. I used to think the desire to be in the thick of things, that I had so often heard expressed, was make-believe, but I know better now.

  I used to say myself that I ‘wanted to be there’ (and sotto voce I used to add ‘I don’t think’); and now, in my heart-searchings, I began to wonder if I didn’t really mean it, after all.

  I used to strike an attitude and quote ‘One crowded hour of glorious life is worth an age without a name’, whilst all the time I felt in my heart that I would prefer a crowded age of inglorious life to an hour of fame. Now I began to wonder whether in my heart’s core, in my very heart of hearts, I did not agree with the poet. The proper study of mankind is Oneself. And what was I doing there, anyway?

  Yes, it was extraordinary—not a doubt of it. Doctors and nurses said they never saw anything like it in the world. Those soldiers back from the Dardanelles, many of them sorely wounded, were laughing and joking all day, chatting cheerfully about their terrible experiences, and itching to get back again.

  ‘Nurse,’ said one of them with a shattered leg, as he raised himself with difficulty, ‘will you write a little note for me?’

  She came over and sat on the side of the bed, paper and pencil in hand.

  ‘“My dear Mother and Father, I hope this letter finds you as well as it leaves me at present.” How’s that for a beginning, nurse?’ he said with a smile.

  I heard of another man who sent a letter from the Dardanelles. It ran: ‘Dear Aunt, This war is a f
air cow. Your affectionate nephew.’ Just that, and nothing more. The Censor, I have no doubt, would think it a pity to cut anything out of it.

  I heard of another, and at the risk of an intrusion into the private affairs of any of our soldiers, I make bold to give it. It was just this: ‘My darling Helen, I would rather be spending the evening with you than with two dead Turks in this trench. Still it might be worse, I suppose.’

  Those cheerful Australians!

  Can you wonder that the Light Horse wanted to get a move on and make a start for the front? Can you wonder that when we heard of the terrible list of casualties which were the price of victory, and when we saw our men coming back, many of them old friends, with their battle scars upon them, we fretted and fumed impatiently?

  We had a church parade, and the chaplain, Captain Keith Miller, preached from the text, ‘Let us run with patience the race that is set before us,’ and it only made us angry. There was only one text that appealed to us, and that was, ‘How long, O Lord, how long?’

  We could stand it no longer. Our boys needed reinforcements, and that was all we cared about. They must have reinforcements. It would be some days before men could arrive from England and France. Sir Ian Hamilton wanted men to push home the attack and ensure the victory.

  We knew that no cavalry could go for a couple of weeks, and our fellows were just ‘spoiling for a fight’. They were sick and tired of the endless waiting, with wild rumours of moving every second day. Men from all the troops and squadrons went to their officers and volunteered to go as infantry, if only they could go at once. B Squadron, 6th Regiment, volunteered en masse.

  Colonel Ryrie, accurately gauging the temper of the men, summoned the regimental commanders, Lieutenant Colonel Cox, Lieutenant Colonel Harris and Lieutenant Colonel Arnott. What happened at this little Council of War we don’t know. But we guess. Word was sent on to the General that the whole Brigade would leave for the front within an hour, on foot if necessary.

  A similar offer had just been made by the 1st Light Horse Brigade (Colonel Chauvel) and the 1st Brigade of New Zealand Mounted Rifles.

  What it cost these gallant horsemen to volunteer and leave their horses behind only horsemen can guess. Colonel Ryrie’s Brigade was said to be the best-horsed Brigade in Egypt. Scores of men had brought their own horses. After eight months of soldiering we were deeply attached to our chargers.

  Fighting on foot was not our forte. We were far more at home in the saddle. But Colonel Ryrie expressed the dominant thought of the men when he said, ‘My Brigade are mostly bushmen, and they never expected to go gravel-crushing, but if necessary the whole Brigade will start tomorrow on foot, even if we have to tramp the whole way from Constantinople to Berlin.’

  ***

  There came a day when there was sudden movement in the camp.

  General Birdwood had arrived back from Gallipoli, with a wonderful string of medals and decorations, and there were other ‘signs of the zodiac’ pointing to our early departure.

  When at last Colonel Ryrie announced to us of the 2nd Light Horse that we were to make ready, you could have heard the cheering miles away. The residents of Ma’adi, when they heard it, thought peace had been declared!

  Men who had of late been swearing at the heat and dust and the flies and the desert suddenly became jovial again. At dinner they passed the joke along, sang songs, and cheered everybody, from Kitchener to Andy Fisher, and the brigadier down to the cooks and the trumpeters.

  So we are off at last, after weary months of waiting—on foot. Blistered heels and trenches ahead; but it’s better than sticking here in the desert doing nothing.

  OWNERLESS

  JOHN O’BRIEN

  He comes when the gullies are wrapped in the gloaming

  And limelights are trained on the tops of the gums,

  To stand at the sliprails, awaiting the homing

  Of one who marched off to the beat of the drums.

  So handsome he looked in the putties and khaki,

  Light-hearted he went like a youngster to play;

  But why comes he never to speak to his Darkie,

  Around at the rails at the close of the day?

  And why have the neighbours foregathered so gently,

  Their horses a-doze at the fence in a row?

  And what are they talkin’ of, softly, intently?

  And why are the women-folk lingering so?

  One hand, soft and small, that so often caressed him,

  Was trembling just now as it fondled his head;

  But what was that trickling warm drop that distressed him?

  And what were those heart-broken words that she said?

  Ne’er brighter the paddocks that bushmen remember

  The green and the gold and the pink have displayed,

  When Spring weaves a wreath for the brows of September,

  Enrobed like a queen, and a-blush like a maid.

  The gums are a-shoot and the wattles a-cluster,

  The cattle are roaming the ranges astray;

  But why are they late with the hunt and the muster?

  And why is the black horse unsaddled to-day?

  Hard by at the station the training commences,

  In circles they’re schooling the hacks for the shows;

  The high-mettled hunters are sent at the fences,

  And satins and dapples the brushes disclose.

  Sound-winded and fit and quite ready is Darkie,

  Impatient to strip for the sprint and the flight;

  But what can be keeping the rider in khaki?

  And why does the silence hang heavy to-night?

  Ah, surely he’ll come, when the waiting is ended,

  To fly the stiff fences and take him in hand,

  Blue-ribboned once more, and three-quarters extended,

  Hard-held for the cheers from the fence and the stand.

  Still there on the cross-beam the saddle hangs idle.

  The cobweb around the loose stirrup is spun;

  The rust’s on the spurs, and the dust on the bridle,

  And gathering mould on the badges he won.

  We’ll take the old horse to the paddocks tomorrow,

  Where grasses are waving breast-high on the plain;

  And there with the clean-skins we’ll turn him in sorrow

  And muster him never, ah, never, again.

  The bush bird will sing when the shadows are creeping

  A sweet plaintive note, soft and clear as a bell’s—

  Oh, would it might ring where the bush boy is sleeping,

  And colour his dreams by the far Dardanelles.

  The geography of the Gallipoli region and the limited size of supporting forces available prevented the Allied troops from advancing beyond the positions they originally commanded both at Anzac and Helles.

  The landings at the much better defended beaches at Helles resulted in heavy casualties and the British foothold there consisted of an area stretching approximately 8 kilometres from the toe of the peninsula to the foot of a range of hills called Achi Baba, at a point where the peninsula is also about 8 kilometres wide.

  Efforts to take the hilltops failed time and again and many lives were wasted. Over 19,000 Allied troops were killed or wounded in these attempts. Some Anzacs were sent to bolster the forces at Helles, including the 2nd Australian Brigade and the New Zealand Brigade. They took part in the second battle of Krithia, which consisted of charges across open ground into machine-gun-defended territory. These attacks were ordered on three successive days: 6, 7 and 8 May 1915. The 2nd Australian brigade lost 1000 dead and wounded at Krithia, one third of its strength.

  The Anzacs suffered terrible losses at Krithia. It was here that Tom Skeyhill, whose verse appears throughout this collection, was blinded.

  There is a photograph of some twenty-seven men who were all that were left standing of a brigade of more than 700 after the Battle of Krithia. The hill was never taken and the campaign at Helles ground to a stalemate un
til forces were finally evacuated in January 1916. Those British soldiers were the last Allied troops to leave the peninsula. The battle-hardened 29th Division of the British army fought bravely at Helles and more than half their number were killed or wounded.

  Having consolidated their hold on the narrow strip of beaches and hills at Anzac Cove, the Australian and New Zealand troops settled down to what essentially was a siege. The Ottoman forces controlled the heights and the key artillery positions on the southern shore. From the sea the British naval guns provided cover and protection for the Allied forces located on the northern side of the peninsula.

  The infantry on both sides were entrenched along a front stretching approximately 5 kilometres and curving in an arc from near Hell Spit up into the ranges and back down to North Beach. The distance between the Anzac and Ottoman trenches varied from several hundred metres to just a few metres apart.

  After the initial consolidation and digging in, the situation was stable for almost a month. Then, in mid-May, the Ottoman forces launched a fierce series of counter-attacks. On the night of 19 May, 40,000 Ottoman troops were thrown at the Anzac front line, which was made up of 12,000 men.

  THE BATTLE OF QUINN’S POST

  E.C. BULEY

  General Liman von Sanders declared he would drive the Australasians off the face of the Gallipoli Peninsula into the sea. The result of his attempt was a slaughter of Turks that has not been equalled in the Dardanelles fighting. If any boasting is to be done, the proper time is after the event.

  At least 30,000 Turks took part in that frontal attack, and on a conservative estimate, one-third of them were put out of action. The wounded were sent back to Constantinople literally by the thousands, and the sight of them spread panic and dismay far and wide through that city.

  The preparations made by von Sanders for his great attack upon the Australasians were long and elaborate. For days beforehand he was busy organising the transport of great stores of ammunition to the neighbourhood of Maidos, a town on the neck of the peninsula, opposite Gaba Tepe. Five fresh regiments were brought from Constantinople to stiffen the attacking force; they were chosen from the very ‘elite’ of the Turkish army. He also detached heavy reinforcement from the main body of defenders, who were holding back the Allies at Achi Baba. He was determined to do the thing very thoroughly.