The Darkness and the Thunder

by Stewart Binns

  The Channel is also festooned with German-manufactured artillery pieces: 75mm Krupp field-guns; 75mm Schneider mountain guns and a few 150mm Krupp and Schneider-Creusot howitzers. All in all, the British ships will have to run a gauntlet of artillery all the way to the Sea of Marmara.

  The battlecruiser HMS Inflexible is line abreast, third from the right amidst her five sister ships. She has Prince George and Triumph on her starboard side, and Lord Nelson, Agamemnon and Admiral Sackville Carden’s flagship, Queen Elizabeth, to her port. They have sailed from Mudros Bay on Lemnos, 50 miles to the west, the island which the Greek government has granted as a base for the operation.

  The weather is fine and the sky clear when, just before 10 a.m., the bombardment of the Turkish defensive gun emplacements begins. The plan is to destroy systematically the Turkish defences, leaving the route through to Constantinople open to an unopposed attack from land and sea. The assumption is that, with their defences gone, the Turks will either capitulate, or there will be a pro-Allied coup in Constantinople which will welcome the Allies with open arms.

  The attack is relentless. From the ships, it looks as if little – the defences of the Turks, or the Turks themselves – could survive such an onslaught. But surface explosions, with their thunderous noise, bursts of flame and billowing smoke, can be deceptive. Astutely designed defensive fortifications and defenders with resolve, dug in deep underground, can survive attacks that seem overwhelming.

  The Allied planners may well have underestimated their foe. It will not be the first time, nor the last.

  Tom grabs the ship’s rail and gasps as volley after volley from Inflexible’s 15-inch guns make her entire superstructure shudder and her hull lurch sideways in the water. The noise is deafening as smoke swirls around the deck and the smell of cordite fills the air.

  ‘Bloody hell, Mr Cawson, she’s fair lettin’ rip!’

  ‘She is that, lad. But that’s only a few early farts, wait till she really gets goin’ and empties her belly. Those gun barrels will be red hot soon.’

  The attack continues until dusk, when Carden orders the ships to withdraw.

  Tom is feeling distinctly queasy by the end of the day. As a result of helping the armourers move shells to the gun turrets, he has not eaten and has had very little to drink. He is covered in oil and dust, and his eyes are red-rimmed and watering. His hearing has been reduced to nothing better than ringing echoes of the day’s shelling. Billy puts his arm around the young sailor.

  ‘Come on, lad, let’s get you below decks and get some grub inside yer.’

  ‘How did we do, Mr Cawson?’

  ‘Not too well. Lots of explosions around the Turks’ guns, but I don’t think we hit much. None of their magazines went up.’

  ‘But we sent enough shells over.’

  ‘We need to get in closer, but old Carden’s a bit too cautious for that. He’s not Lord Nelson, that’s for sure. He was Admiral Superintendent of Malta afore this lot kicked off, which is usually a job for old sea dogs past their prime.’

  ‘I was told he was a good man.’

  ‘He is, but that don’t make ’im a good commander. You have to be ruthless to win battles. Below decks they all reckon Arthur Limpus should have got the job. Apparently, he used to be Naval Commissioner to the Turks before they threw in their lot with the Hun. He knows them and the Dardanelles like the back of his hand.’

  ‘So why didn’t they pick him?’

  ‘Cos our ambassador in Constantinople thought the Turks would be upset if we chose him.’

  ‘How do you mean? I thought the Turks were our enemies now. Besides, we’re blowin’ up their bloody artillery positions – that might upset ’em a bit too.’

  ‘I know, daft ain’t it? That’s diplomats for yer.’

  ‘So what will happen now?’

  ‘Back to Lemnos, take on more ammo and come back for another crack.’

  However, a severe gale and bad visibility postpone the bombardment, giving the Turks time to strengthen their defences and move many more men on to the peninsula. When the attacks resume, shells from the Turkish positions fill the air before the British guns can open fire, suggesting that little damage has been sustained in the first attack.

  Tom can see the flashes of the Turkish guns onshore, then counts the seconds before the shells arrive overhead. Billy Cawson tells him that if you can hear their screech you are safe; it is the one you cannot hear that will kill you. Not clear how reassuring that information is, he watches with increasing trepidation as Inflexible’s neighbour, Agamemnon, is hit seven times in just ten minutes. Fortunately, the shells are small and little damage is caused. Even more fortuitously, Inflexible is spared altogether.

  Tom is exhilarated by the battle; regrets about leaving Violeta back in Gibraltar are forgotten as he thinks of new adventures to come.

  ‘What are Turkish girls like, Mr Cawson?’

  ‘Big and hairy, lad, especially round the minge.’

  ‘What, all of them?’

  ‘In the main. You might get a slim one, but she’ll still have a fanny like a forest.’

  Tom’s thoughts drift back to Violeta. Although he never got to the point of discovering how hirsute her nether regions were, he is sure they are not like ‘a forest’.

  Royal Navy Marines, in their distinctive blue uniforms, prepare to go ashore to consolidate the damage done to the forts and guns. The marines to be put ashore from Inflexible are eighty-four men from 11th, Plymouth Battalion, Royal Marine Light Infantry. Their exploits will be just one example of what will become Gallipoli’s many legends. Tom helps them board their landing craft, handing them their equipment and wishing them well.

  One of them, Johnny Donaldson, a burly Brummie serjeant as big as a house, nods in appreciation as Tom hands him extra bandoliers of ammunition.

  ‘Thanks, lad. Hope we don’t need all this – your navy guns are supposed to have made Johnny Turk run for the hills. Why do I have my suspicions he might just have gone to ground?’

  ‘I’m sure he’s scarpered, Sarge.’

  ‘My granddad fought with the Turks when they were on our side in the Crimea. He said they were tough little buggers. So I’m not banking on it, make sure there’s a tot o’ rum waiting for us.’

  ‘Will do, Sarge.’

  ‘Good lad, I’ll bring you back a kabalak, one of their funny-looking caps, as a souvenir. My granddad gave me his when he died. We keep our eggs in it at home.’

  ‘Thanks, Sarge. I can wear it below decks. I’m always banging my head on something or other.’

  As the marines go ashore, Tom watches intently, taking turns with Billy Cawson’s field glasses. The landing is initially unopposed, as is the ascent up to the fort, but the Turks spring an ambush as soon as the marines come into the open. Four men are killed instantly by the Turks’ lethal Maschinengewehr 08 machine guns; eight more are wounded. Tom watches them fall. At first there is no sound, making it seem unreal, like they are collapsing in slow motion as in a piece of amateur theatre. Then the delayed sound arrives: the sickening rat-a-tat-tat, making it all too real.

  Johnny Donaldson’s 15 Platoon becomes trapped in an enfiladed position between two machine-gun posts and over two dozen riflemen. The platoon is cut to pieces. A few manage to find cover, but Johnny is not one of them. He is hit several times in the chest, which explodes in a cascade of blood. Thankfully, it takes him only moments to die.

  Tom can do nothing to help as men strive to find protection in any hollow in the ground, behind a pile of rocks or a small bush not even in bud. He watches as man after man is hit by accurate Turkish fire. They are like ducks in a fairground shooting stall, but have even less chance. Usually, shooting-gallery owners adjust the sights on their rifles so they do not align properly. The Turks have been trained by German sharpshooters, their sights are spot on and they are lethally proficient.

  Knowing that sooner or later they will be hit, several marines make a dash for it across open ground. Most ge
t no more than five yards before they are cut down. Some, weaving and crouching to make themselves less easy to hit, get much further, but their flight is futile. The intensity of fire is too great and, one by one, they succumb.

  Everyone watching from the ships hopes and prays that each desperate dash will be successful, but none is. One man is hit several times, falls to the ground and is motionless. However, he is not dead. He waits for the Turks to look elsewhere for a target before hauling himself to his feet and resuming his escape. One leg is badly wounded and he has to use all his strength and courage to drag it behind him.

  Cheers ring out from the ships as he makes it another 20 yards. He is now only feet away from the landing craft. Then he throws his head back and stops. He has been hit in the back. Another bullet strikes him and he half turns as the impact twists his shoulders to his right. The cheering stops and the stricken man falls into the sand for the last time.

  Bob Jones of 13 Platoon is among the dead, as is George Dyter of 14 Platoon, two men Tom spoke to earlier to wish them luck. Another man Tom recognizes is Jimmy Dickinson, a renowned teller of dirty jokes and blessed with a good singing voice. His leg is all but severed above the knee by multiple bullets. Dragging Dickinson and several others as they go, the few surviving marines make their way on to the landing craft under the withering fire from above. Tom can see the thick trail of Jimmy’s blood all the way along the beach and watches as he is bundled aboard. Jimmy is already dead. However, as a marine, there is one comfort: he will be buried at sea, not on foreign soil.

  There are audible cheers from the Turkish defenders, which serve only to multiply the anger of the Allied observers. Nevertheless, even the most indignant onlookers know that war is war and, if the circumstances were reversed, every Allied man would, without mercy, shoot to kill, just as their enemies have done. Such is the horror of war.

  Only fifty-nine men make it back to Inflexible, four of whom are severely wounded. Half a dozen more are carrying lesser injuries. As Serjeant Donaldson said, Johnny Turk had gone to ground, and the ‘tough little buggers’ can fight.

  Ominously for the Allies’ grand scheme in the Dardanelles, the Turkish defenders are increasing in numbers and their resolve is stiffening. Most significantly, carefully laid Turkish minefields, some mines newly placed under cover of darkness and unknown to the planners on the Queen Elizabeth, are hampering Carden’s attack far more than had been anticipated.

  Reports sent back to London begin to look increasingly gloomy. Carden, who is in his late fifties and has a severe stomach ulcer, is wilting under the pressure. The Admiralty wants progress soon, and Winston Churchill’s impatience is growing. Kitchener has sent in General Sir William Birdwood, Commander of the Australian and New Zealand Army Corps training in Egypt, to reconnoitre the situation. His report makes it very clear that he believes it unlikely that the navy will be able to force the Dardanelles without the support of the army.

  A simple, swift and decisive strike to open up a new theatre of the war is suddenly becoming complex, ponderous and inconclusive.

  Saturday 20 February

  Blagdon Hall, Seaton Burn, Northumberland

  Blagdon Hall is an impressive Georgian pile just off the Great North Road, nine miles north of Newcastle. It has been in the White Ridley family for several hundred years. The current owner, Matthew White Ridley, 2nd Viscount Ridley, is Colonel and Commanding Officer of the Northumberland Hussars. His wife, Rosamund, is first cousin to Winston Churchill.

  The White Ridley’s have been playing host to Bardie and Kitty Stewart-Murray for the past six weeks while Bardie’s Scottish Horse have been undertaking coastal defence duties. Annoyed that his regiment was not sent to France in the first place, Bardie has become more and more frustrated at being isolated in the north-east of England, 300 miles from London and even further from the Front.

  But today his mood has changed dramatically. At eight fifteen this morning a messenger arrived in the middle of breakfast. Bardie and Matthew were all togged up, ready for a day of stalking, when a Coldstream Guards serjeant from the Army’s Northern Command in York handed over a top-secret telegram from Lord Kitchener to Bardie. It read: ‘Dear Bardie, His Majesty the King and I are coming north, May, inspection tour. Dates to follow from HM’s PS, Stamfordham. Inspection of Scottish Horse and White Ridley’s N-Hussars on our list. Also, will have mission for you overseas soon thereafter. Get your men in tip-top shape. Yours, K.’

  Even though it is only nine o’clock, a second bottle of champagne has just been popped as Kitty and Rosamund appear for breakfast, surprised to find that their husbands have not left for their shoot. Rosamund looks on sternly as Matthew fills Bardie’s glass.

  ‘Champagne before a shoot! I hope the ghillies have their wits about them.’

  ‘The shooting is cancelled, darling. Bardie has had some splendid news. We’re all going to the Royal in Newcastle for lunch to celebrate.’

  Kitty is impatient.

  ‘Bardie, for goodness’ sake, stop quaffing champers and tell us the good news.’

  ‘It’s in two parts, Sweet Pea. First of all, the King and Kitchener are coming up in May to inspect my Scotty Boys and Matthew’s Geordies.’

  Rosamund’s eyes light up. ‘My goodness! Where will they stay?’

  Matthew takes two more glasses of champagne from his butler and hands them to the ladies.

  ‘Roz, don’t get your hopes up. I think they’ll stay with the Percys at Alnwick. Stamfordham will confirm the details in due course.’

  Rosamund frowns. ‘That little shit!’

  Bardie is taken aback. Stamfordham is the King’s Private Secretary, and he has met him several times in London and at Blair Atholl.

  ‘Oh dear, Roz. I take it you’re not fond of the old boy.’

  ‘He’s a trumped-up vicar’s son from just down the road who smarmed his way into the old Queen’s affections when she was in her dotage.’

  Not interested in Rosamund’s prejudices and keen to impart his news, Bardie interrupts. ‘You haven’t heard the best bit yet. K says he will have an overseas posting for me after the inspection.’

  Kitty is delighted for Bardie. ‘At long last, darling; absolutely splendid news! France, I assume?’

  ‘Perhaps not. There’s lots of scuttlebutt in York and Catterick about a new front, perhaps across the North Sea or in the Med.’

  ‘Well, if it’s in the Med, I definitely want to come too!’

  ‘Darling, the days when wives went on campaigns are long gone. Wars are not fought by gentlemen any more, they are fought by the masses; no luxuries, no wives, no rules.’

  A very liquid lunch ensues, followed by a very hairy drive home with a cross-eyed viscount at the wheel of his Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost. The four celebrants finally stagger back to Blagdon Hall at six thirty in the evening, when yet more champagne is consumed, followed by a supper as profligate as their lunch. Because they ‘know how to behave’, they remain polite to the butler and the servants despite falling into an ever more profound drunken stupor until Matthew brings the celebration to a close with a toast. He is barely coherent but somehow manages to get the challenging syntax past a tongue that seems to be at odds with his teeth.

  ‘To the King and Kitchener, God bless them both! May the Scotty Horse and the Geordie Hussars bring glory to Scotland and England … Oh, I forgot the Welsh and Irish …’ He pauses for a moment, before giggling like a schoolboy. ‘Well, bugger the Welsh and Irish!’

  His outburst produces howls of delight as all four empty their glasses for the final time.

  Sunday 21 February

  Burnley Lads’ Club, Manchester Road, Burnley, Lancashire

  ‘Well done, Mick.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘No need to call me sir, Mick. It’s Sunday, and we’re at the club. Arnie will do fine.’

  Mick Kenny, Tommy Broxup, Vinny Sagar and Twaites Haythornthwaite are, as usual on a Sunday, relaxing at Burnley Lads’ Club. Mick has been i
n the boxing ring, where Arnold Tough has been coaching him in the subtleties of the Marquess of Queensbury’s Rules and the nuances of ringcraft. Tough is there with his friend, Raymond Ross, another lover of the art of pugilism and a strong supporter of the club. During the week, Tough is a lieutenant and Ross a captain in the men’s battalion, their officers, not their friends, and the men have to jump when commanded to do so.

  Everyone in D Company is in good spirits because final orders have just been received from the War Office confirming that, on Tuesday next, the entire Accrington Pals Battalion will set off for its training camp in Caernarvon. As a consequence, Cath and Mary have already made their plans to travel to London to see if socialist leader Henry Hyndman can get them placed in the Voluntary Aid Detachment.

  Everything is about to change for this small group of lads and lasses from Burnley.

  As Mick towels himself, Tough and Ross take him to one side. Raymond Ross does the talking. ‘Mick, are you still bored by all this military training?’

  ‘Aye, I am. It’s drivin’ me daft.’

  ‘Even though we’ll soon be off to a proper training camp?’

  ‘Aye, but it’ll still b’trainin’, not feightin’.’

  ‘I understand. In that case, something’s in the offing that might be of interest to you. The Germans have begun tunnelling under the trenches on the Western Front and laying explosives. Then they have withdrawn and detonated them. It’s created mayhem in some sectors.’

  ‘Sorry, sir, wot’s “mayhem”?’

  ‘A bloody mess, Mick.’

  ‘That’s feightin’ dirty. Reckon that’s not in t’Queensbury Rules.’

  ‘Indeed it isn’t. But the good Marquess’s idea of a fair fight doesn’t apply at the Front; it’s more dog-eat-dog.’

  ‘My sort o’ feightin’.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘So, what’s tha sayin’?’