Casca 32: The Anzac

by Tony Roberts

  The others looked at each other. One, a lance-corporal, laughed. “You’re a crazy gala. But it’s a mad enough idea that might work. Hey, Bluey, go take Jack and bring us some tins. And don’t eat the bloody contents!”

  Bluey and Jack scuttled off, grinning. The others waited, sheltering from the almost constant rifle fire, until the two returned, arms laden with tins. The lance-corporal scowled. “I didn’t mean you to bring an entire bloody banquet! Well done.”

  Casca picked one up and weighed it. It was fairly heavy but he reckoned it would do. He looked at the others. “Anyone else wants to give it a go? Suppose we throw three?”

  The lance-corporal picked up another two, and dropped one as being too light. He threw the one he’d kept to the square-jawed man. “Here, you’re a bowler. Bowl this beaut at those bastards.”

  The soldier grinned maliciously. “I’ll give them a beamer right between the eyes!”

  Casca stepped back and looked at his fellow thrower. “Ready? When we throw these, get ready to charge. We’ll have one chance.”

  The lance-corporal pushed the others into readiness and nodded at Casca. “Right. Do it.”

  Casca and the other soldier took a couple of paces back, then wound their throwing arm back and hurled the tins hard towards the spot the enemy were grouped around. The Turks saw the objects hurtling towards them and cried out in fright. They ducked back out of sight as the two tins struck the trench walls close to them. One burst open and the contents of fruit and juice splattered out everywhere. The lance-corporal yelled the attack and burst out of cover, followed hard by the rest. Casca and the square-jawed Anzac grabbing their rifles and following hard on their heels.

  It took a couple of seconds for the Turks to realize they’d been fooled. They bellowed in outrage and shame and rushed back, but they did so all at the same time and got in each others’ way. The Australians reached the corner at the same time as the Turks and there was no room to shoot. Instead they resorted to using the bayonet, rifle butt and their hands and teeth.

  Men grappled, teeth bared. Blades flashed in the sunlight and bodies rolled across the earth as opponents sought to get a purchase to gain an advantage in their fight to the death. Casca waded in from the back. One Australian had been thrown onto his back and the Turk who had done so was poised above the helpless man, his bayoneted rifle raised high to plunge down on his victim. Casca’s charge sent his own bayonet point first into the Turk’s stomach. He screamed and was sent backwards to strike the trench wall hard.

  Casca thrust a boot up onto the man’s chest and hauled his bayonet out. The luckless enemy soldier grasped his ruined guts and sank to his knees, his face screwed up in pain, as if he was about to burst out crying. Casca stepped over the Anzac who was scrambling to his feet gratefully, and thrust his bloodied blade towards the next Turk, a swarthy hook-nosed man of Arabic origins wearing a cloth hat that was beginning to unravel untidily.

  Casca was nudged by one of his own side who was furiously grappling with another opponent, but Casca remained on his feet and faced the Arab. Both slashed at each other and blocked with their rifle. Now it was a case of pushing and Casca had the advantage. He shoved his adversary backwards and stepped forward, his bayoneted rifle once more pointing forward.

  But fights never go to plan or proceed in an orderly manner. Two men fell across his path, one with a slashed face, an Anzac, and one raising a knife to slit the man’s throat. Casca rammed his bayonet into the Turk’s side and he screamed shrilly and writhed like a fish on a hook.

  While Casca was trying to pull his blade from the Turk’s ribs, and failing badly, the Arab charged forward. Casca released his rifle and threw himself to one side, the bayonet missing his chest by inches. Now Casca was inside the reach of the weapon and his hands closed around the Arab’s throat. He threw himself forward and knocked the Turkish soldier off his feet. Casca pressed hard against the struggling man’s throat and squeezed hard, teeth fixed in a death’s head grimace that was the last thing the unfortunate Arab ever saw.

  Someone fell across his back and a booted foot planted itself inches from Casca’s face. “Come on Sandy, you lazy bastard,” Jeb said from above, “stop sleeping and help us clear the bloody Turks out of here!”

  Grumbling, Casca rose from the charnel house, shedding bodies and limbs like some zombie rising from the dead. Blood smeared his uniform. He groped for his rifle and tugged it loose from the corpse of the man he’d speared. “How’s everyone?” he asked.

  “We lost six; they lost the lot. Can’t go any further, the Turks have got machine guns posted in two places to cover us if we try.”

  “We’ll have to wait for further orders,” the lance-corporal added, wearily wiping sweat from his brow.

  “I’m dying of thirst,” Bill said, sitting down wearily. “How long we’ve been fighting?”

  Casca checked the sky. “About thirty minutes. Take a drink now; you don’t know when you’ll get another chance. You see Archie?”

  Bill nodded, his water bottle to his lips. He swallowed and re-corked it. “Last I saw he was being led back across no-man’s land.”

  Casca was relieved. He hoped the wiry soldier would survive. He wiped his bayonet and checked the bullet situation. He reloaded and took a breather. Shots were still rattling out all round and it was clear there were isolated pockets of resistance in plenty of places. The initial charge had carried most of the front line and over half of the second, but now they were being pinned down and losses were mounting.

  A captain and more men came up, moving purposefully and with intent. Casca feared he would order a frontal charge. The officer listened to the lance-corporal’s report then nodded. “Very good. We’re to press on and clear the next line. Intelligence says the enemy are massing for a counter-attack. If we can knock out these two machine guns then we have this sector secured. Get ready to attack. Half of you are to shoot at the machine gun crews, the rest are to rush them.”

  Casca’s heart sank. It was a suicidal order but the men would do their best. Faces set hard and grim, they were divided into two groups. The first group, the ‘shooters’, tensed themselves and looked at the captain. Casca was in the second group, the ‘chargers’.

  On the order the covering fire was begun, the rifles blasting away in rapid repetition. Then Casca and his comrades were given the order to attack and they ducked under the rifle muzzles of their comrades and out into the exposed line of fire.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Alison leaned over the pale and sweating figure of Rocky. He was in an area under the canvas cover of the beach hospital given over to victims of dysentery, kept apart from those wounded in action. She wiped the sweat from his forehead and looked at him sadly. Too many young men were falling ill. Too many were dying; it was such a waste. Rocky’s eyes slowly opened and he looked round until he caught sight of her, then smiled. “G’day,” he croaked. “You’re Sandy’s girl.”

  Alison smiled and nodded. Not strictly true; she was nobody’s ‘girl’, but she wouldn’t argue that point with a sick man. But it was important to keep Rocky from blurting too much to that little Welshman who was sniffing around far too frequently. “Listen,” she said softly. “That man with the glasses, who wants to know about Sandy; tell him nothing. Nothing. Don’t tell him I know Sandy. Don’t tell him about his wounds healing fast. You made a mistake, alright?”

  Rocky frowned. He didn’t know why she was asking him this, but he felt it was important. “Alright, I’ll say nothing,” he said. He would do anything she asked, in fact. He thought her the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, a goddess. What she saw in that man Sandy he didn’t understand. But he knew he would do as she asked. He felt too tired to think much, and his stomach felt as if someone had ripped it to pieces. It was too much effort to move, so he lay there in the heat of the afternoon.

  Something bothered him until he realized what he was hearing. “Nurse, is that firing?”

  Alison nodded. “The big attack.
They’ve gone over the top against the Turks. The attack is to keep the Turks occupied while they land further north and try to break through there.” She fought as hard as she could from letting her emotions show; she was scared sick that Sandy would be killed. What was certain was that they would very shortly be overwhelmed by casualties.

  “I’m missing it,” Rocky whispered, ashamed.

  “You’re too ill to do anything. Lie still!”

  Just then she caught sight of that irritating man Clark making his way over to them. She stood back, disapproval written over her posture. “This man is very ill, Mr. Clark. I don’t think he’s in a fit state to be questioned yet.”

  Clark dismissed her with an irritated wave of her hand. “I’ll be the judge of that, nurse. Haven’t you got other patients to see to, or is this man special in any way?”

  Alison felt her cheeks going red. This beast was rude beyond words! “I shall speak to the surgeon about your comments,” she said and turned away, outraged beyond words.

  Clark ignored her. She was far too unimportant to worry about. He had much better things to do, and this patient here would appear to be his best bet yet in identifying the mystery man he’d known as van der Laang. “Listen,” he said quietly in Rocky’s ear. “This is very important.” He emphasized each syllable clearly, his sing-song Welsh accent very strong. “There is a man wanted for murder. He is a big man, scarred, burned on his face and upper body. He joined your battalion in Alexandria. We know that much and we know he’s here in Gallipoli.” He pronounced ‘here’ as ‘yer’, as any native of south Wales did, but Rocky understood every word nonetheless.

  “I can identify him on sight, but I need to know where to find him. You said his name is Sandy. Sandy what? And what unit is he in?”

  Rocky closed his eyes and groaned. He felt really weak and listless, and even trying to talk was an effort. Clark repeated his question again, but got no response. He stood up, frustrated. “I’ll return when you’re better. If you know this man you had better not withhold it, or you’ll be charged as an accessory. Think on that, soldier.”

  Clark moved off, angry at himself and at the Australian. He was torn between completing his long search, as much to satisfy his own need to finish what he’s started, and trying to be a good medic. So far he’d failed at both. It was this damned search that was making things tough for him. He desperately wanted to finish it all, one way or another. He also wondered what that nurse had been speaking to the patient about before he got there. Maybe he’d ask her.

  As things turned out, he didn’t have to wait long. He was accosted by her near the back of the hospital where the stores were located. “That man is too ill to be bothered by your questions. That’s not the way a man in your position should behave.”

  “That’s none of your concern. But I have a feeling you were talking to him before I arrived. What was it you were saying to him, nurse?”

  “That,” she said with relish, “was between that young man and me, and is nothing of your concern.”

  Clark hated having his own words thrown back at him, particularly by this junior nurse. She was getting too big for her boots; it was time she was brought down a peg or two. “I think you should be posted to Imbros, nurse. I understand there are plenty of places to be filled there; the hospital is desperate for trained staff to cope with the numbers of patients.”

  “You wouldn’t,” Alison said, horrified.

  Clark practically laughed with glee. “I’ll personally arrange it. You might as well pack your belongings. By the time I’ve finished speaking to the surgeon, it’ll be a done deal.”

  “You unspeakable beast!” Alison gasped and ran out of the tent, sobbing.

  * * *

  The machine gun swung its black muzzle towards the sprinting men. Casca kept to the right, hoping to hell the covering fire from the boys at the corner was enough. The Turkish crew chattered excitedly as they caught sight of the onrushing group of seven men. Bullets flew past their heads as they ducked behind the gun and centered their aim on the charging Anzacs.

  The second machine gun, posted at the other end of the length of the cross-trench, couldn’t shoot because of the covering fire from the Anzacs still in the communication trench and they also feared they would hit their own men.

  Casca dived as the Turkish gun chattered into life, spraying bullets at the knot of men. Flesh was shredded and screams of those hit filled the trench. Casca landed hard and went up on his elbows, cursing the stupidly suicidal task they had been given. Bullets scorched above his head as the crew gunned down the last of the six others who had nowhere to go.

  Casca aimed at the head of one Turk crouched low over the gun and drilled a shot through his skull. The Turk pitched backwards, his brains splattering his colleague behind the gun. As the Turk turned the gun on Casca, one of the Anzacs giving covering fire got him, the bullet sending him spinning round to lie sprawled over the gun legs. Casca scrambled to his feet and pounded the last fifteen feet to the unmanned machine gun and vaulted over it. Two Turks were making their way along the line towards the position and stopped, raising their rifles. Casca blasted the first aside and flung himself to one side as the second man fired, missing him by inches. Not giving the man a second chance, Casca launched himself at the man, wrenching the rifle out of his hands, flinging it over the parapet and pushing the man back against the wall. He sank a fist into his stomach and then slammed the other into the unlucky man’s face. The Turk sank to the ground, his nose pulped and his eyes turning up in his head.

  Casca grunted in satisfaction and swung round to the machine gun. Pulling the corpses of the two gunners off the legs, he knelt behind it and pointed the barrel at the other Turkish gun, still being pinned down by the Anzacs. There were two handles, one with a trigger. Casca squeezed and the gun bucked in his hands, chattering madly, sending a hail of bullets down the narrow passage. The Turkish gun position was struck repeatedly and Casca had the satisfaction of seeing the gunners topple over, shredded by the hailstorm.

  The gun then jammed. “Shit,” Casca muttered and saw that the belt had warped, something common with this type of ordnance. That’s why they had a second man acting as loader, feeding the belt as it was greedily consumed by the gun.

  But he’d done his bit. The area was free of Turks and the Anzacs came flooding out of the communication trench, far more than had been there when Casca and the six others had dashed out. Casca left the machine gun, picked up his rifle and went to examine the six men who’d been gunned down. Two were dead, and two more were probably heading that way. The other two were hurt but not too badly. Bullet wounds to legs and arms.

  “Stay with these men,” the captain ordered, sizing up the situation. “Get a medic to see to them.”

  He led the rest off down the trench. More shots came in rapid succession and Casca twisted round to see what was going on. Jeb came scuttling back. “That silly bastard will have all of us killed if he carries on. Bill’s coming back too. He’s not our platoon officer, thank God.”

  “Yeah.” Casca saw Bill making his way to them, head down. Somewhere close by someone was putting up a heck of a fight. It could be anywhere, the way the network of trenches turned and twisted. “Come on, let’s get these poor bastards back for some aid.” He picked up one of the two badly hurt men while Jeb did the same, putting them over a shoulder and moving back down the communication trench. Bill got the two walking wounded up and they staggered in their wake, he helping both the injured men.

  They got to the covered trench and found someone had set up a first aid post there. While they were putting the wounded men down, another of their platoon called them over. They were directed to another spot, further across to the right. Things had become very confused with units being mixed up. Now they had paused for breath, soldiers were being redirected to where they should be.

  Casca and his two companions threw themselves down gratefully amongst the men of their own platoon. They were sadly depleted. Only
twelve remained out of the twenty-eight who had launched themselves over the top only an hour before. They broke out rations and gulped them down, not knowing when they’d have another chance. Water bottles were drained.

  “No chance of a refill, then?” Jeb commented sourly, holding his bottle upside down and critically examining the top. Nothing dribbled out.

  “Fat chance,” Casca said and closed his eyes, glad to get a brief respite from the insanity of it all.

  A lieutenant was busy rounding up more men and checking to see they had sufficient ammunition. “Anyone low on bullets?”

  “We’re low on water, Lieutenant,” Casca said loudly.

  “Can’t stop the enemy with water, but you can with bullets,” the officer retorted, looking at Casca with irritation. “They’re going to launch a counter-attack any moment and we’re the reserve. Wherever they attack, we’ll be sent, so be ready and make sure you’ve got enough ammo!”

  “Fuck,” Casca groaned. “They’ll charge suicidally at us. We’ll have to kill hundreds of them before they get the idea.”

  “Grab as much ammo as you can, then,” Bill said and reached for the open packs of bullets, grabbing a handful and stuffing them in one of his jacket pockets. The others did the same.

  A few moments later shooting broke out close by and shouts came down the narrow dug out line. “Turks are trying to break through just ahead!”

  The lieutenant waved his arm. “Come on then! No hanging about, we’re off to help the boys up ahead! Go!”

  Muttering, the men stood up and began trotting along the trench, still dotted with corpses, making their way towards the increasing volume of shooting. Bullets were striking the trench wall and suddenly they came out to a junction where three trenches converged. The junction had been hastily turned into an outpost with sandbags having been torn down from the lip of the trenches to block enemy soldiers, and to give the Anzacs cover. Boxes littered the area, some with bullets in them, others lying cast aside once they had emptied.