by Hilary Green
In a brief lull in the fighting Luke heard another sound, the clatter of loose stones from ahead of him.
‘Wait!’ He waved the men following to stop and they crouched in the shelter of a rocky outcrop. The noise came closer. He could hear boots striking rocks and men panting. Several people were heading in his direction, but were they friends or foes? Then someone slipped and he heard a very recognizable expletive.
‘Shit!’
Luke raised his head and called, ‘Don’t shoot! We’re the Wellingtons. Who are you?’
There was a stunned pause, then a voice came back: ‘Bloody Kiwis! What the fuck do you think you’re playing at?’
There was a scuffle of boots and a small landslide of loose stones, and six men in Australian uniform scrambled into the shelter of the rocks.
‘What are you playing at?’ Luke retorted. ‘We’re supposed to be going up, not down.’
‘Good luck, mate!’ was the response. ‘There’s a sheer precipice a couple of hundred yards further on. The only way off this effing ridge is back down.’
It was almost dark now. Luke’s throat burned with thirst and dust and he was suddenly aware of how exhausted he was. He looked at his men and saw that they were in the same condition.
‘If we try to get back in the dark we’ll end up wandering round in circles or falling to our deaths. We’ll rest up here for the night and start back at first light.’
The Australians decided that this was good counsel, so they all settled down in the lea of the rocks. Luke tipped the last dregs of water from his canteen down his throat and opened his emergency rations. Several of the others had already eaten theirs, so they shared what was left amongst them. With darkness the sniping from above had stopped and they could hear occasional shouts from other areas of the broken terrain. In one or two places they could see lights from torches moving, but no one came close to them. Far below, they could make out fires lit along the beach and the riding lights of the ships that had brought them.
‘What happened to your officers?’ Luke asked the Aussies.
‘Captain was shot before we got across the beach,’ one said. ‘Gawd alone knows what happened to the others.’
‘What a bloody shambles!’ Luke grunted and there were mutters of agreement all round.
Now the sun was down it turned very cold. They huddled together for warmth and tried to sleep but none of them was sorry when the dawn came. Cautiously, Luke raised his head and peered round. Immediately a bullet whistled past his ear and ricocheted off the rock.
‘Bloody hell!’ he muttered. ‘Those Turks are sharper than we reckoned.’
It was agreed that there was no point in trying to continue up the ridge, so they began to scramble back the way they had come. In the valley they met up with some of their own men under their colonel, Malone.
‘We’ll try that ridge to the south,’ he said. ‘I sent up a scouting party and they say it leads to a kind of plateau.’
It was the beginning of three days of hell. In that parched and desolate landscape there was neither food nor water. Twice small provisioning parties reached them, but they never carried enough water to slake the raging thirst they all suffered. In the face of unremitting fire from above they fought their way up on to the plateau and made another attempt to gain the high ground. Men fell to left and right of Luke, a bullet grazed his cheek and another ripped through his trouser leg, but he was unharmed. For two more nights he crouched with the others, shivering, and waiting for the firing to start again at dawn. Finally, on the fourth day after they landed, a runner reached them. The attack had failed, and they were to withdraw to the beachhead.
Eleven
Early in May Luke and the rest of the Wellingtons were transferred from the chaos of what had become known as Anzac Cove to another landing beach on the far side of Cape Helles, where a second beachhead had been established. Their new objective, they were informed, was the village of Krithia, which stood between them and the mountain called Achi Baba. From the top of Achi Baba, the allied forces would be able to command the Dardanelles and enable the British and French fleets to enter the Black Sea. On the day after their arrival, Luke was summoned to the tent occupied by Colonel William Malone, the Wellington’s commanding officer. Luke liked Malone. He was a strong leader, who could appear domineering at times, but he understood soldiering and his men trusted him.
Malone came to the point without preamble. ‘Lieutenant Franklin tells me you’ve been here before.’
‘Not here, exactly, sir,’ Luke replied. ‘But inland, above here. I was with the Bulgarians in 1912, when they were trying to push the Turks into the sea.’
‘In Krithia?’
‘No, sir. Krithia was always in Turkish hands.’ But as he said it something flickered in Luke’s memory. He had heard the name of the village before.
‘And you speak the local language. Is that so?’
‘Yes, sir. My grandparents came from near here.’
‘Could you pass for a local?’
Luke drew in his breath. Instinct told him to say ‘no’, but there was a quiver of excitement in the pit of his stomach that urged otherwise. ‘Possibly, sir.’
Malone had been pacing around the tent. Now he stopped and fixed Luke with his eyes. ‘What I am asking, Pavel, is this. We desperately need more information about the Turkish dispositions. Would you be prepared to go in undercover and try to find out as much as you can about their numbers and type of armament, position of guns etc.? It’s asking a lot, I know. But it could save lives when it comes to the attack.’
For a moment Luke struggled to take in what the request implied. Then he said, ‘I’ll do my best, sir.’
As darkness fell, Luke, clad in rough peasant’s clothing whose provenance he thought it best not to question, made his way to the forward trenches. The night was still and clear, with no moon, and the cloudless sky was brilliant with stars. As he crouched listening for any sign of movement a nightingale began to sing from somewhere above him on the hillside. The landscape was very different here from the cliffs above Anzac beach. Reconnoitring the area through glasses earlier, he had seen grassy slopes, dotted with orchids and rock roses. The village itself was set in a slight valley among mulberry and oak trees and surrounded by orchards of apricot and almonds.
Everything seemed quiet, so he hoisted himself up and wriggled on his stomach over the edge of the trench. Keeping low, he worked his way forwards until he was several hundred yards from the allied position. Then he stood up. He had decided that if he was challenged he would say he was a shepherd searching for a lost goat. He was guessing that the defending troops were not local and would not be able to recognize that he did not belong to the village. It was a gamble, but one that seemed worth taking. He kept moving up hill, pausing every now and then to listen, until he heard low voices speaking Turkish and knew that he was close to the first line of trenches. Making use of the cover provided by bushes and outcrops of rock he worked his way to his left, trying to establish how far the trench system extended. It seemed to be continuous until it ended in a steep drop into a ravine. Luke edged his way down the slope but, in spite of his care, loose stones rattled away from under his feet. Above him a voice shouted a challenge and he froze, until a second voice spoke. The tone was derisive and Luke understood enough Turkish to interpret it as ‘Relax! It’s only a goat!’ He stayed still until he thought the Turks would have lost interest and then crept down the last few yards. The bottom of the gully was choked with prickly undergrowth, which made progress difficult, but he managed to work his way uphill until he became aware that the head of the valley was blocked by a looming dark shape. Crouching by a rock he made out, silhouetted against the stars, a sandbagged gun emplacement.
Luke backtracked a short way and then climbed cautiously out of the ravine on to the open hillside. He was now behind the Turkish lines and he wondered if this might be a possible route by which an attacking force might bypass the defences. A moment’s thought
brought the realization that troops could only advance in single file and to do so in silence, in the dark, would be impossible. Once detected, they would be sitting targets for fire from the trenches above and the guns at the top of the valley. He squatted under an olive tree and peered along the contour of the hillside. The Turkish trenches seemed to extend right across the peninsula, resuming again on the far side of the ravine. Any attack would entail a frontal assault, straight into the teeth of the enemy guns. Luke bit his lips and wondered whether he should now attempt to return and deliver that gloomy message. It seemed a pretty pathetic outcome to the expedition. Surely, he thought, there must be some more useful information to be gleaned. He looked up at the sky and realized that the short summer night was almost over and the sky in the east was paling towards the dawn. If he was going back, he would have to hurry. On the other hand, if he stayed he might see something that would be more helpful to the commanders planning the assault. He had seen that the villagers still went about tending their fields and their flocks behind the Turkish lines. There was no reason why he should not pass for one of them.
An hour later the sun came up and he heard movement and voices. From the reserve trenches the smoke of cooking fires rose into the still air, and he saw the tops of Turkish fezes moving backwards and forwards as watches were changed and the men on night duty were relieved. He tried to estimate numbers but all he could reasonably deduce was that there was a large force in occupation. A movement in the vicinity of the village caught his eye and he saw a group of women filing along to the rearmost trench, bearing baskets of what he took to be freshly baked loaves. Soon they were followed by men carrying hoes and bagging hooks and boys leading small flocks of goats and sheep. Luke got stiffly to his feet and sauntered as casually as he could towards an orchard on the slope ahead of him. From there, he reckoned, he would be able to look down directly into the trenches.
He was strolling through the trees when a voice stopped him in his tracks.
‘Who are you?’
Luke looked up. A boy of about twelve was sitting in the branches of a mulberry tree. The language was the Macedonian Serb he had learned from his grandparents but a glance told him that the boy was dressed in Turkish style. He cursed himself for a fool. He knew that although the village was part of the Ottoman Empire the population was a mixture of Serbs and Greeks, with a few Bulgarians for good measure. But he had forgotten that some of them were ethnic Turks.
He forced a smile and responded, ‘You haven’t seen a stray goat, have you? She’s brown and white, with a slight limp.’
‘Whose goat?’ the boy asked suspiciously.
‘Mine, of course.’
‘You’re not from round here.’
Luke gritted his teeth. He had reckoned on passing as a local if challenged by the soldiers but had not expected hostility from the people in the village.
‘No, that’s right, I’m not. But you know what goats are like. They can wander for miles if the fancy takes them.’
‘Where are you from, then?’
Luke racked his brain for the names of nearby villages and came up with nothing. He waved his hand vaguely inland. ‘Back there.’
‘I’ve never seen you before.’
‘No, well, I’ve been away. I was in the war. Not this one, the last one.’
‘Which side were you on?’
Luke struggled for an answer, then inspiration struck. ‘Ours, of course.’
The boy was not fooled. ‘I think you’re a spy. I’m going to tell my father. He’s the mayor.’
He was starting to climb down and Luke knew if he let him go he would bring the whole village out in search of him. He had to make a snap decision. As the boy’s feet touched the ground Luke jumped forward and grabbed him.
‘Don’t be silly. If you go rushing off and tell everyone I’m a spy you’ll just make yourself look a fool . . .’ He was improvising frantically and the boy struggled in his grip, shouting, ‘Let me go! Let me go!’
A man’s voice cut across the tumult. ‘Let the boy go! Put your hands above your head and turn round.’
Luke did as he was bid and found himself looking down the barrel of a shotgun.
The inside of the small hut was dark and smelt of animals. Luke heard the bar that held the door shut slotted home and a brief investigation convinced him that there was no other way out.
The man with the gun had turned out to be the boy’s father and he had been accompanied by two others holding bagging hooks, so there had been no point in resisting. Luke had been marched up to the village and into the square, passing small groups of local people, mainly women and children, who stared at him with as little expression as cattle. One or two of them wore Turkish costume but the majority were dressed in the full skirts and bodices and headscarves of Serbian peasants. Once he thought for a second that he recognized a face in the crowd but when he looked again the woman had turned away.
He had been kept standing in the square until an officer arrived from the military camp to interrogate him. He tried to bluff him with the same story but it was useless.
‘You are a spy! Who are you working for? The Serbs?’
It struck Luke that Serbia was a long way off and if he was working for them his captors might feel that they could execute him with impunity. On the other hand, the British forces were close at hand and might be expected to take revenge if he was harmed.
He said, ‘No, not the Serbs. I’m a New Zealander.’ The Turk stared at him blankly and he realized that he might as well have claimed to be a Hottentot or a mountain gorilla. ‘I’m British,’ he amended, nodding his head seaward. ‘I’m with the British forces down there.’
The Turk took a step or two closer and stared into his face for a moment as if he were a rare and fascinating specimen. Then he turned away and said sharply, ‘The colonel will wish to interrogate this man personally. He is away until tomorrow. Shut him up somewhere safe and keep him until the colonel gets back.’
So now he was shut in this little hut and there was nothing to do but wait. He settled down on the floor with his back to the wall and watched the thin line of sunshine that penetrated through a crack in the fabric move slowly across the floor. As the day wore on the heat in the confined space grew more and more oppressive. Luke’s throat was parched and he could feel the sweat trickling down between his shoulder blades. He went to the door and banged on it.
‘Water! Please, I need water!’ He tried in Serbian and Turkish, but the only response was an unfriendly growl from outside. It answered one question, anyway. Someone was keeping watch.
More time passed and then he heard movement outside and a woman’s voice, speaking Serbian.
‘I have brought water and bread for the prisoner. Let me in.’
There was another growl in answer. ‘Leave him be. No one is allowed in.’
‘But if he does not have water he will die. What will the colonel say if he comes tomorrow and finds we have let the prisoner he wants to interrogate die?’
More grunting and then the bar was lifted and a small woman in black slipped through the door carrying a tray. She was wearing a headscarf and kept her head bent so that Luke could not see her face. She went straight to the back of the hut, where she knelt down and set the tray on the ground.
Looking up, she said very softly, ‘I did not think we should meet again like this.’
Luke stared down at her, then suddenly he was on his knees facing her. ‘Sophie! My God, it’s you! What are you doing here? The last time I saw you, you were nursing the Serbs at Adrianople, during the last showdown.’
She reached out and put her fingers on his lips. ‘Quiet! I can only stay a moment but I will come back tonight. There is one thing you must promise me. If I help you to escape, you must swear to take us with you.’
For a moment he could only look at her in silence. ‘Us?’ Who did she mean? Then he had a mental vision of himself and Victoria and Leo in the mess tent of the hospital at Adrianople and oppos
ite them a laughing, round-faced girl and a small dark man. Iannis! Of course! Now he knew why the name of the village was familiar. Iannis came from Krithia. He nodded quickly. ‘Yes, of course. If that’s what you want.’
‘It is vital, if I am to help you. I have your word? You will take us to the British lines?’
‘Yes, I promise. But can you really get me out?’
‘Trust me!’ She rose and moved towards the door, saying more loudly, ‘Eat! Drink! It is all you will get today.’ The door opened and she was gone.
Luke lifted the cloth covering the tray and found a flask of water, a hunk of bread and some goat’s cheese. The water was straight from the well, metallic tasting but icy cold. He took a long swig but forced himself to save some of it for later. Then he fell on the bread and cheese, aware that it was a long time since he last ate.
When his hunger was blunted, he sat back against the wall and thought about what Sophie had said. It was hard to recognize the girl he remembered in the hollow-cheeked woman who had just left him. Iannis was a doctor, he recalled, a Macedonian Greek, and had made his way through the Turkish lines to care for the Serbian and Bulgarian wounded in that first Balkan war. He and Sophie had been engaged. Presumably now they were married. Obviously it would not be safe for either of them to remain if Sophie helped him to escape. It would not be easy to get them back to the British camp but if Sophie could get him out, the rest would have to be left to the inspiration of the moment.
At last the band of sunlight faded and he heard the noises of the villagers settling down for the evening. Children shouted, women’s voices rose and fell, gossiping round the well, he guessed. There was a smell of wood smoke as cooking fires were lit, and then the odour of roasting meat. Luke’s stomach growled in response. He heard voices outside and gathered that his guard was being relieved; then a woman’s voice – Sophie’s, he thought – and the clatter of a knife on a plate, followed by a belch. Finally darkness fell and the sounds died away, to be replaced by the high-pitched susurration of crickets.
