Liam's Story

by Ann Victoria Roberts

  Liam was searching Ned’s pockets. ‘There was a letter he wanted me to post...’

  ‘In this lot? Are you crazy?’ He slithered down to Liam, grabbing his arm as he found the wet and crumpled letter, and dragged him upwards. ‘Get moving, you stupid bugger, before you get us both killed.’

  Numb with shock, his mind operating on a different plane altogether, Liam did not resist again. He was only vaguely aware of scrambling upwards amongst a group of gasping, cursing men; hands and knees were gashed and scraped on sharp rocks, but he was not aware of it.

  ‘Where the hell are we?’ a voice demanded from the left. ‘This ain’t the place we was supposed to be. Flat, they said – they said the sodding landing place was flat!’

  ‘Tide rip,’ somebody else gasped, ‘took that first lot north, I reckon. Should be down there, where that bloody fort’s firing from.’

  ‘Stupid bastards,’ another voice commented. ‘You’d have thought the bloody navy could bloody navigate!’

  For the first time, Liam looked down the way they had come. The narrow strip of beach below them was still in shadow, curving from a peaked headland on the left to a smaller one on the right. Beyond that it broadened considerably, reaching gently inland to where a distant wheatfield looked like a patch of pale green silk. A rocky headland overlooked that longer beach, and from the promontory came a series of flashes which indicated the source of those shells exploding with such deadly accuracy over the landing craft still coming ashore. Privately, Liam thought they would not have been any better off had they landed down there; the Turkish defences were obviously concentrated at that vulnerable point, any attacking force likely to be mown down immediately.

  From the sea, at least two of the destroyers were pumping shells at the fortress in an attempt to silence those deadly guns; it was a heartening sight for the men on the cliffs, but did nothing to halt the equally deadly machine-gun fire coming sporadically from above.

  Just below the summit they came across a group who had paused to gather breath. Some bore the red and white shoulder flashes of Liam’s battalion, but none were of his platoon. Where were they? With a flash of panic, he knew they could all be dead.

  With an effort, he quelled the thought. Along these cliffs they could be anywhere.

  An officer of the 9th, whose men were scattered in a ravine to the right, was trying to organize all the odd members of other battalions who had been separated in the chaotic advance. He kept saying it was important to reinforce the line, while Liam wondered how he could know where the line was. From here, it was impossible to see what was ahead; below, it was all too clear. Men were still landing, still being fired upon; the dead lay huddled among discarded packs on the shingle, while a few brave souls struggled to get the wounded back into the boats and off the beach. Seeing the terrible numbers, Liam forgave the man who had dragged him away from Ned. He had saved Liam’s life, while Ned was gone and nothing more could be done for him.

  Except the decency of burial. That was not possible here and now, but Liam swore he would not rest until he had found his own company and an officer to whom he could report the details.

  If that had been me, he thought, Ned would have done the same.

  Looking to right and left, for the first time he saw they were not alone on the cliffs. Half-hidden by the thorny scrub, working their way up in groups of three of four, were scores of men. Every now and then one would fall. With a shock, Liam realized they were being picked off by snipers hidden amongst the dense, low-lying vegetation.

  The officer was talking quietly, rallying the scattered force for concerted attack on the machine-gun post above them. As they fixed bayonets, Liam kept thinking of manoeuvres, the rushing and yelling before the carefully balanced thrust into the gut. When it came the reality was nothing like that.

  It was far from easy to rush the crest through that terrain, over rocks that crumbled and rolled with every footfall, but somehow they achieved it. On the right flank, Liam stumbled into a hidden trench, almost on top of a Turkish soldier struggling to escape. For a second he hesitated. The man levelled his rifle and Liam went at him awkwardly; there was no room for the balanced thrust, the bayonet shuddered as it went in and the Turkish soldier fell forward, his scream ending in a froth of blood. Shocked, Liam jerked back, narrowly avoiding a bullet. A sergeant silenced that man, while others loaded rifles and shot at the retreating enemy.

  The men were jubilant at their success, putting forward a dozen ideas as to what their next move should be. The officer thought they should man the gun and use it against the Turks; their own guns had yet to arrive, and would be the very devil to manhandle from the beach. But no one knew how to operate the one they had captured, so it had to be disabled. Liam drank from a Turkish water bottle and tried to avoid looking at the man he had just killed. In little more than an hour he had watched his best friend die, and killed a man at close quarters. He was shaking so badly he could hardly light a cigarette, and beneath the constant whine and crump of shells to the right, his ears were still ringing from that explosion on the beach.

  With an effort he forced himself to concentrate on what the sergeant was saying. They were to make their way carefully across the ridge and down into the next gully, where some sort of rendezvous was being set up. From there they might find their own units.

  It was vicious, unfriendly country, full of jagged rocks and hidden holes, perfect for snipers; a country ideally suited to defence, but hostile to attack. Unexpected scree slopes sent the unwary careering down into thorny, dried-up stream-beds, and in a couple of hundred yards Liam counted three exposed ridges and as many hidden gullies. Reaching the rendezvous in the deepest and broadest, which ran at an angle up from the beach, was a nightmare journey, unrelieved by what seemed even greater chaos when they arrived. Hideously wounded men were being ferried by stretcher-bearers down the rocky slope, while active companies struggled to climb in an attempt to reinforce a thin line spreading out along the ridges. Brigadiers were holding hurried meetings in rocky ravines, messengers dodging stray bullets, while the NCOs of a dozen different companies transmitted garbled orders to their men.

  Liam and his friend from the beach searched for the red and white square of their battalion, finding several men in the same position as themselves but no NCOs. During that short delay on the beach and their subsequent scramble for the first available cover, it seemed as though the main body had advanced without them. Accosting a harassed adjutant, Liam asked where they were likely to be; in a vague gesture, the man indicated the hills to the right, and equally vaguely gave Liam permission to go in search of his missing company.

  ‘Might as well,’ one of the men said in answer to Liam’s question, grinding out a cigarette. ‘Were like a pack of bloody dills, standing here.’

  The man who had dragged him off the beach was less keen. In the gully they were far from safe, but the odds against survival on the ridge were vast; he was for waiting on direct orders. Impatiently, Liam took a vote and found that they were evenly divided. Sadly, for he felt he owed the man something, Liam said goodbye, and squaring his shoulders, set off with his small group.

  Implicitly they followed his lead up and across another series of crests and gullies, benefiting from a lull in the firing. Within the hour they spotted a large body of Australians ahead of them on the next ridge. Without field glasses it was impossible to tell whether they were men of the 8th, and a sudden increase in shelling over the beach made shouting useless. Scanning the intervening valley, Liam paused for several minutes. It seemed to him that the body ahead must have come this way, and the absence of gunfire below suggested that any lingering Turks had been flushed out. The greatest danger, as Liam was beginning to understand, would inevitably come from above. Nevertheless, it was a chance that must be taken.

  Exhausted from their exertions, with little water and no food since well before first light, the others wanted to stop and rest. Liam, sweating just as freely in the hot sun, was anxious to
press on before the group ahead moved out of sight. He pointed to the scree slope and told his companions to dig in their heels and slide down; from there it was but one more climb.

  ‘Yeah,’ the most aggressive of his companions muttered, ‘just one more bloody climb through that lot!’ His hands were torn and bleeding, his breeches, like Liam’s, already in tatters. ‘I say let’s rest: we can catch them later.’

  The rest were wavering; hesitation, Liam felt, might well prove fatal for them all. The bayonet which had wrought such damage a short while before, was in its sheath. Threateningly, he pulled it free. Although not aware of it, he was a daunting figure with blood all over his breast and sleeve, face scratched and filthy, blue eyes glittering beneath the broad-brimmed hat jammed firmly over his brow.

  ‘If they’re advancing,’ he said tersely, ‘they need every man they can muster. I say we go now – and we stick together. Right?’

  ‘All right, mate, keep your hair on. You want to go now, fine, we’ll go now.’

  ‘We will indeed – you first!’ With that he shoved hard and sent the other man careering down the slope. The others went of their own free will, while Liam followed, bullets from some hidden point flying round his head. The others scrambled for shelter in the gully, but Liam had grown immune to the noise. It seemed to him there was little point in being afraid of bullets, it was more important to discover their source. From the cover of a scented myrtle bush he looked for the hidden sniper; a movement from above brought for two more flashes from across the gully, only a hundred yards or so from where they had passed. With great care he levelled his rifle and waited; not long and there was another flash and a report; an instant later he pressed the trigger. As the butt thudded back into his shoulder, he saw the barrel of a gun jerk upwards through the scrub. He fired again and a body fell like broken puppet. Gripped by elation, he wanted to jump up and cheer his own success; instead he kissed the barrel of his Lee Enfield and scurried to join the others.

  For a moment they were speechless, then, clapping him on the shoulder, resumed their climb. There was a short whistle and one of them dropped like a stone. Shocked, Liam realized another sniper was at work, something he should have known from the shots that had rained around him as he came down the scree. This time, however, the sudden fire attracted attention from the company above them. Within minutes a regular battle was going on, while the four remaining men climbed like beings possessed.

  They found men as shattered and exhausted as themselves, almost unrecognizable as the smartly-uniformed troops which had mustered on the boat-decks before dawn. Of the gathered companies, one was Liam’s, but of his platoon, only a handful remained. His arrival caused a stir, because the shell that killed Ned had taken out several others. They thought it had finished Liam, too. Their young officer, exhorting them all to pull together, had met his end beneath a burst of shrapnel fire in the first gully; others had been killed or wounded by snipers and machine-gun fire in the subsequent advance. Amongst so many, Ned’s death made little impression, and it struck Liam strangely that his own survival should be the cause of such rejoicing. He had not thought himself so popular.

  There were, apparently, several companies of different battalions gathered on that long, southerly spur; separated by thick scrub, but under the general command of Colonel Bolton of the 8th. It seemed they were on the extreme right flank of the line. Although orders were confused and conflicting, it filtered down that the advance had been stopped by concerted enemy fire, and that they were to dig in and hold their position on the heights.

  During a break in the trench-digging, Liam shared out water and biscuits with the remaining men of his platoon. It was hardly a feast, but the food and the respite from constant action put heart into them all. It was pleasant, suddenly, to be there; the sky was blue above and birds were singing, and in the noonday warmth they were surrounded by the mingling scents of myrtle and thyme. Before them and to the left, where the hilltop widened before dividing into another ridge, was a small wheatfield, scattered with scarlet poppies, the field Liam had seen in his original climb from the beach.

  With familiar faces around him, for the first time that morning he felt safe. Relaxing with a cigarette after that small but satisfying meal, almost idly he watched a destroyer closing into the long beach below them. Peace was abruptly shattered as Bacchante fired shell after shell at the fort of Gaba Tepe on the promontory. The men cheered as shells burst into great gouts of flame, cheered louder still when one of Gaba Tepe’s massive guns was flung into the air and broken like matchwood.

  The cheering came to an abrupt end when shelling from inland interrupted their high spirits with crumps and booms close by. A company of the 6th Battalion, ordered to dig in on the wheatfield, had been spotted by the Turks. The pale green corn made an easy target, and salvo after salvo descended on that small patch of ground, while those who watched were helpless to defend the men lying low before them.

  Ducking into a trench while those shells thudded into the soil and scrub around them, Liam was close enough to the command dug-out to catch something of their officers’ frustration. As yet they had no artillery, but with those huge naval guns so close, if that Turkish battery could be located, it could be stopped. Runners were sent out to make contact with the forward lines to the north, but none returned. Meanwhile, as troops moved on or near the wheat-field, the enemy reopened fire. Other runners were sent back to headquarters in that gully off the beach, returning with the anxious news that the forward line was opening as it continued to advance across the main plateau. If it were to hold, the main body must be reinforced, therefore some of Colonel Bolton’s men must be relinquished in support.

  Overhearing some of these exchanges, and shrewd enough to guess the rest, Liam began to wonder whether this was the right place to be. He watched a man detach himself from the party on the wheatfield and sprint up the hill towards them, attracting another salvo as he did so. Wincing, he ducked again, while the man fell in a gasping heap beside him. Even as Liam reached out to help him up, he was scrambling away to deliver his message.

  Permission was granted for the men below to advance, anything better than lying prostrate beneath those shrieking salvoes. Orders were hurriedly given, and as hurriedly carried out. Together with several other sections of the 8th, Liam’s platoon was detailed to accompany that party in their attempts to reach the forward line. They had to cross the open field, while shells screeched and thudded beside them. Knowing the Turks had the range wrong did not ease that nerve-shattering dash. With no casualties, they reached the body of men in command of a young lieutenant, from there wriggling forward on their stomachs until they reached the scrub at the field’s far edge. From there it was a steep drop into the gully below.

  At the far end of the next spur, they came across another remnant of the 8th, with only one surviving NCO. Hard pressed in that advance from the beach, they were exhausted. Someone asked whether they had eaten: in the heat of battle food had been forgotten. Again, as had happened with Liam, the combination of food and friendly faces put new life into them. After a short spell they set to work digging themselves in.

  It was essential to keep on the alert, but apart from the shells still screaming overhead, it was a surprisingly quiet afternoon. Liam found himself counting the salvoes, pitying the men still holding the ridge behind them, for the Turks knew exactly where they were. Detailed for this party, he had been convinced he would not survive that dash across the field; but he had, and this was a better position. But it seemed a strange sort of battle to him, a series of mad dashes with no more than rifles and bayonets, against an enemy entrenched with artillery and machine-guns. As yet the Australians had neither.

  At about five o’clock, large numbers of Turks were seen on the skyline, advancing from their positions on the highest ridge, towards the pine-covered spur immediately in front. Silhouetted against the sky, they were a perfect target, but as yet too far off to be reached by rifle fire. Suddenly shells scre
amed over from one of the warships, but although many men went down, more continued to come on. The joint company prepared themselves for action, and within the half hour, as the Turks crept through a line of pines across the little valley, they opened fire. Heavy and continuous, it was also unexpected, and the enemy fell back; elated, the Australians yelled and whooped for joy. The young lieutenant leapt to his feet, directing fire, and at once a Turkish bullet felled him. Wounded in the chest, for a while he could barely speak, but insisted his company held on until nightfall. Determined to hold back the Turkish advance, they did so, but it was a costly, exhausting action.

  His hands blistered from loading and firing, Liam wondered how much longer they could hold on. But then, as the light began to fail, the attack ceased. He could hear isolated battles going on all around, but it was impossible to tell friend from foe. At last the noise faded away, and after dark the runner who had gone to report their situation, returned with orders to retire to the ridge overlooking the wheatfield.

  Liam had never envied an officer, never wanted to be one of them. In his mind they were associated with Robert Duncannon, and as such to be held in some sort of contempt. But that day he conceived an admiration for this man, no more than his own age, who had kept his head under terrifying conditions. More than that, the young lieutenant seemed to know what to say and when to say it. Despite his wounds he had, in effect, held the men together.

  After the unremitting ordeal of a day which had begun some twenty-hours before, they were each on the point of collapse. Some had simply fallen asleep in the shallow trench, rifles clutched beside them. With the return of the messenger, Liam went forward to their acting commander, a corporal he remembered from Cairo. He was a big, muscular Queenslander, and a badly broken nose testified to more than one vicious pounding from fists as big as his own. But he and Liam were of a similar height, bigger than most of the survivors; it seemed only sensible that they should carry the lieutenant between them.