by Tony Roberts
The voyage was uneventful, apart from the seasickness from a number of the luckless soldiers. But after five days they came to a halt and the anchor rattled down and plunged through the clear top of the Aegean Sea. They gratefully tumbled out of their hammocks and climbed up blinking into the sunlight to see a rocky shore and the olive trees of an island.
And even better, to the east, the red roofs and white walls of houses, taverns and churches of a village.
CHAPTER SIX
The soldiers wandered around the village, staring at the narrow streets, the climbing, winding alleyways and the haphazard whitewashed walls bright in the early spring sunshine. The locals stayed in their homes or on their doorsteps, watching warily as the khaki clad Australians and New Zealanders clomped along the stone surfaced walkways. Casca declined the invite to explore the village, having seen many such places in his time. He preferred the harbor area where the tavernas were to be found. Having a few coins in his pockets thanks to his first pay in the Australian army was all the excuse he needed to stock up on alcohol, and his knowledge of Greek, even the dialect of the islands, soon resulted in a tall bottle of retsina being deposited on his small table.
Jeb and Tom were with him, also having decided the lure of the taverna was more appealing than walking up steep streets and getting sore feet. “What’s that?” Jeb asked, suspiciously wrinkling his nose as the aroma of the wine reached his nose.
“Retsina,” Casca grinned, tipping the bottle and pouring some of the amber liquid into a far from clean glass. The two Australians had empty glasses in front of them. “A kind of wine, but flavored with pine resin. You might not like the taste.”
“We’ll see about that!” Jeb said, thrusting his glass forward. Tom picked up his glass too, but a little more reluctantly.
Casca smirked and slopped some into each and then picked up his glass. “Salutas!”
The other two muttered the word uncertainly, then sniffed the drink again. “Smells like a tin of paint thinner,” Jeb said.
Casca chuckled, then threw half the glass down his throat. The others did likewise, and Casca almost burst out laughing at their expressions. Tom looked like he was going to throw up, while Jeb swallowed it and screwed his face up. “Jeez!” Jeb finally said, “that’s appalling! How can you drink this stuff?”
“You get used to it,” Casca said, smacking his lips over the resinous flavor. He looked at the two men sat with him. “Okay, maybe you’ll prefer ouzo.”
“Jeez,” Jeb said, his face showing the doubt he felt. “If it’s anything like this then that’s not bloody likely!”
Tom was sticking out his tongue and trying to get rid of the taste of retsina. “Ouzo? Don’t much like the sound of it, Sandy. You stitching us up?”
“No – it’s got an aniseed taste but gets you absolutely legless in no time; you could dilute it with water if it’s too strong for you,” the Eternal Mercenary added, a challenge in his voice.
“That’s a challenge I’m willing to meet,” Jeb said loudly. “Hey, waiter, some ouzo!”
A Greek waiter came trotting over, a once-white cloth draped over one arm, and a couple of glasses of a clear liquid on a small tray balanced on the palm of his hand. He smiled, white teeth flashing beneath a thin mustache, and placed the ouzo before Jeb and Tom. Casca dropped a couple of coins in the waiter’s palm.
The Australians sniffed the drinks, then picked them up. “At least it doesn’t taste like paint thinner,” Tom said in relief.
“You throw it down in one go,” Casca advised them. “It’s very strong.”
The two did, and began gasping and choking. “God,” Tom managed, “that’s got a kick!”
“Too bloody right,” Jeb added. “Two more!”
Casca placed more coins in the waiter’s hand. “Signeur, this is too much for the drinks,” the waiter pointed out.
“I think we’ll be here a long time,” Casca grinned. “How much for an all-day drinking session?”
“Ah, ten drachmae. You want girls? I can get some for you, good girls for another fifty.”
“I don’t think these two will be fit for that after an afternoon of ouzo,” Casca said, watching as Jeb and Tom began challenging each other as to how fast they could down a glass of ouzo. “But I might be interested.” He placed most of what money he had into the waiter’s hand. It vanished in no time.
“Signeur speaks our dialect very well; you’ve been here before.” It wasn’t a question; it was a statement. Casca nodded. He knew what the man meant. Not specifically on this little island but on the islands in general. Spoken Greek varied across the Aegean. The island dialect was different to that of the mainland, something Casca had learned in the past. Although he’d spent most of his time when in this part of world before on the mainland, he’d learned the island dialect too and knew when to speak what dialect. It always impressed the fiercely proud inhabitants if a foreigner used their version. “I shall make sure Signeur has the best girl of the village!”
The two Australians hadn’t a clue what had been said, but a bottle of ouzo appeared next on their table and the two men enthusiastically set about reducing the level. Casca slowly downed his retsina, enjoying the fact he could sit in a taverna and drink in familiar surroundings. The locals filed in gradually, glad that the soldiers weren’t a threat, and sat apart from the Australians, discussing politics, island life and fishing. The war was none of their business; their government was swinging back and forth between joining the war and staying out of it. They wanted to see just how things would go before deciding.
A dusky girl dressed in a white voluminous blouse and a patterned black and red skirt weaved her way in between the tables and stopped before Casca. He looked up into dark eyes, jet black curly hair, full red lips and olive skin. “What’s your name?” he asked, snaking out an arm around her narrow waist.
“Alexia.” The voice was husky. Casca liked her on the spot. She sank down onto his lap and slid her arms round his neck. “You stay tonight?”
“Try keeping me away,” Casca grinned.
Jeb and Tom paused in their drinking. “Hey,” Jeb said after a moment of staring at Alexia, “where the devil did she come from? She got any friends?”
“Keep on drinking the ouzo, Jeb,” Casca smiled, “you never know. Pay the right amount and look what may turn up!”
“Shit, this a brothel?” Tom slurred, looking around the smoke-filled interior.
“No, but I’m willing to bet you’ll get a girl if you wave your pay about.” Casca forgot about the two and began sampling the delights of Alexia who was more than willing to return the attention.
Jeb and Tom resumed their drinking competition and forgot about anything else in no time. Their world was revolving about in a disturbing way, but neither was prepared to concede defeat. Casca left with Alexia as night began to fall and the two were still at it. Finally Tom fell off his chair and Jeb declared himself the winner before sinking into a stupor on the table top. The waiter waved his brothers to help him remove the two and they took what money they had left before dumping them in the street outside.
Tom came round first and revived Jeb by slapping him on the face. “Hey, you drongo, get up. We’ve been thrown out! Let’s get back to the boat.”
Jeb mumbled rebelliously but got to his feet, swaying like reeds in the breeze. “Why is this island moving? Is it an earthquake?”
“Nah, you wallaby,” Tom said loudly, “you’re drunk!”
“Drunk? Like hell I am! I’ll show you.” He lurched down the street and plunged headfirst through a rotten wooden fence and stood there, bent double, his head and shoulders out of sight to the surprised Tom.
“What’re you doing in that fence?” Tom demanded, staggering up to Jeb.
“I dunno,” came Jeb’s muffled voice. “Get me out of here.”
“Fuck off,” Tom declared and staggered past.
Jeb ripped himself free of the disintegrating fence and lurched in the wake of Tom. The har
bor was downhill so the two were sure they were going in the right direction. But finding the ship was another matter. The shuttle row boats were not there so the two blundered about looking for one to commandeer.
It being a fishing port the nets were up drying, and Tom toppled into one, falling noisily to the ground, bringing down an entire net and supports over him. Jeb whooped with amusement. “Shit! Biggest fish they’ve caught in these nets!”
“Get me out of here,” Tom wailed.
“Fuck off,” Jeb grinned, pleased to get even. He staggered to one side and lost his footing, falling flat out on his face. It was too much effort to get back up and it seemed comfortable on the soft tarpaulin he’d landed on, and so closed his eyes.
While this was going on Casca was reacquainting himself with the pleasures of a woman, the soft flesh of Alexia providing him with pleasant memories of Greece. She was energetic and he more than willing to rise to the challenge. Later he, too slept, but not from the influence of Bacchus. Rather, it was from the touch of Aphrodite.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Where the bloody hell have you been?” the sergeant bellowed as Casca climbed the gangplank up to the deck of the Derfflinger. “We were going to send out a search party!”
“Sorry, Sarge. Got distracted by one of the locals.”
The men gathered behind the sergeant cheered and made lewd comments. The sergeant wasn’t amused. “Well you can forget that from now on! We’re off to war and you’re going to be sorry you kept us waiting. You’re on special duties, my lad.”
Casca groaned. He cheered up a little when he caught sight of the silent Jeb and Tom, both sat against the railings, their complexions somewhat pale. “Hey, overdid the drinking a little?”
“Shove off, Sandy,” Jeb groaned. “Let me die in peace.”
Casca chuckled and threw himself down on deck and squinted through the rails to seaward. Other ships rose and fell with the swell at anchor; transports, destroyers and even three battleships. The troopships were well protected. It seemed the entire Aegean was full of warships. His blood began to stir. Once again he was going to war. But not a war of blade and face-to-face hacking. His recent experience of warfare hadn’t been too good. Men armed with rifles and machine guns in trenches cutting down unprotected and exposed attackers. Gas, shells and barbed wire. Man was getting more efficient at killing.
Ever since the American Civil War he’d experienced a more deadly form of warfare. Guns were more accurate, had a greater range. You could now kill someone without really seeing them. One man with a machine gun could now hold off an entire company given the right defensive terrain. And Gallipoli was perfectly suited to that. Casca scowled. They’d need a good plan and luck to get through the Turks.
The anchor rattled up from the bottom of the harbor and smoke began to billow from the single stack and the engines started throbbing beneath them. Slowly they heeled round and left the gentle arc of the bay and joined the other ships at sea. Casca could even see one of the new types of warship, an aircraft carrier. It looked like it had been a battleship of some kind, maybe a battle cruiser, but the superstructure had been cut close to the hull and a flat metal runway laid on top. He could see sky through the ironwork of the struts that held it to the hull. A few double-winged planes rested on top and Casca grimaced, remembering his recent experience in one of them over the German trenches. They could keep them. He much preferred terra firma.
His thoughts briefly went to Alexia, and he wondered when he’d next enjoy the delights of a woman. War was like that; boredom, brief periods of terror and action, and then if you were lucky, a roll with a woman before returning to the fight.
It wasn’t long before they were ordered below to pack their equipment and make sure their possessions were accounted for. Jeb and Tom were still feeling the after effects of a heavy night, and they were quizzed thoroughly by Archie and the others. He was put out he’d not found the taverna.
“So where did you lot go?” Casca asked, wrapping the two sandbags he’d been issued with around his entrenching tool.
Archie glared at Rocky, who was ignoring him. “If ye wanna know,” Archie said slowly, his Scots brogue more marked which showed he was angry, “this drongo said there was a really ancient temple on top of the hill we should see.”
“And was there?” Casca asked.
“Yeah, sure,” Archie glared at Rocky who turned his back on the furious man. “A bloody pile of rocks and one sodding fallen pillar! All that after climbing for three hours up through bloody olive groves and over rocks the size of Botany Bay!”
Bill Halloran nodded in agreement. “When we went back down we missed the turning to the village and ended up in some farm with goats and everything. Archie stole a chicken and we were chased away by some bastard waving a bloody great sword at us!”
“Really?” Casca’s ears pricked up. “What sort of sword?”
“How do I bloody know?” Archie growled, “it was bloody big and the bloody joker wasn’t going to tell me what bloody sort of bloody sword it bloody well was!”
Rocky smirked. “It wasn’t a Claymore, that’s for sure.”
“Oh, shut up you bloody smart alec!” Archie snapped. “I dropped me bloody chicken in fright and just about got away with my life!”
The others within earshot burst out laughing.
Casca rooted about on his hammock and lifted up the backpack they’d all been given. There were two large loops for straps. “Seen these?” he waved the pack to the others.
“Yair,” Rocky drawled. “Odd shape for straps.”
“So that you can throw them off quick,” the sergeant said from his hammock a few yards away. “In case the ship is sunk.”
On that cheerful note they all got back to checking their equipment and rations.
* * *
In Alexandria Ieaun Clark had been ordered to report to the harbor side office that the captain leading the search for van der Laang had appropriated. Clark still wasn’t sure exactly how far the authority of this officer went, but he seemed to know a lot of people and got what he asked for – at least most of the time.
Clark saluted as he was shown into the small office that overlooked the waters of the harbor. The captain was sat behind a desk weighed down under a mass of papers. The captain waved tiredly at them. “Requests to find missing soldiers, desertions and arrest warrants. Most of the latter against the Australian and New Zealander troops! Damned undisciplined bunch.”
“And our man, van der Laang, sir?”
“His name hasn’t turned up. I’m beginning to suspect it’s an alias. No trace of anyone with that name in any unit here, and my telegram to Whitehall hasn’t come back yet, but I don’t expect to get any positive answer.”
“So what do we do, Captain?”
“You’re going on the ship out there, the Charybdis, which is en route to the island of Imbros where they’re going to set up a huge field hospital. They’re crying out for medical staff and it wasn’t hard to find you a post. Here’s your orders and appointment confirmation.” He passed over an envelope full of papers. “All I have been able to find out is that someone bearing a resemblance to our man joined the 1st Australian Division outside of Alexandria the day after van der Laang absconded from the hospital. We think it’s the 1st Brigade, but so far no-one’s told me what battalion. They’re all due to hit the beaches tomorrow, so it’ll be damned impossible to get anyone there until things have settled down.”
“Well that’s progress, sir,” Clark replied.
“Trouble is, the entire brigade has upped sticks and gone to Gallipoli and there’s nothing left here to dig around with. I’ll have to get someone to go there and find out. He’ll contact you when he thinks he’s got something. Code word Eureka. Appropriate, I think,” he smiled thinly.
“Of course, sir. Is that all?”
“Yes. I don’t think we’ll see each other again. I have more than my hands full here sorting out the mess left by the Gallipoli troops, and
your mission is just one of many I’m investigating. Good luck, Clark.”
“Thank you, sir. And you.” The two shook hands, then Clark saluted, wheeled and left. At least he was on the trail again. It gave him a sense of righteous purpose.
* * *
Night had fallen and the engines had died away to a soft murmur. They were off the Turkish coast now and lights had been extinguished. All of them had been handed what had been decided was essential to them to hit the beaches; 200 rounds of ammo, a foldaway spade and sandbags, a backpack with clothing and essentials, a water bottle, two little white bags full of rations – bully beef, tea and sugar and some hard biscuits – and an unloaded Lee Enfield .303 rifle. No shots were to be fired before daybreak.
They had been inspected and told to put their kit down and have a rest until eleven at night when the ships would once again begin moving towards shore and the troops of the first wave transferred to the destroyers. It wouldn’t be Casca and his mates; they were the next wave, due to hit the beaches close to midday. The orders had been clear; no lights, no noise. They would be transferred to tow-boats and sent in on these. The name of the place they were to hit had also been told them: Gaba Tepe. Casca hadn’t heard of the place, but then much of the peninsula was unknown to him. All he knew was that it was sheer, mountainous and would be a bastard.
CHAPTER EIGHT
They hit the beach at midday. The first wave had gone in before daybreak but things hadn’t gone well. They’d drifted too far to the north and an alert sentry had spotted something and raised the alarm, so that by daybreak the ANZACs were wading through increasing rifle and machine gun fire to the narrow beaches. Bodies were beginning to pile up.
Casca gripped his rifle and checked the clip. Four rounds plus one up the spout. He didn’t advise the others to do so, as he had no idea how experienced they were. Listening to their nervous chatter it didn’t sound as though any of them had been in battle before. It made him worry about the mistakes they’d make when the moment of truth arrived.
