Kal

by Judy Nunn

  Following the landing at Gallipoli, British Commander-in-Chief Sir Ian Hamilton’s instructions had been simple. The troops were to dig in. ‘You have got through the difficult business,’ was his encouraging signal from the Queen Elizabeth. ‘Now you have to dig, dig, dig until you are safe.’ So dig they did. The great holes torn out of the chalky soil by the shells from their own battleships formed a good basis for many of the dugouts which would eventually reach a depth of thirty feet or more.

  Three days after the landing, on the night of the 28th of April, the front-line troops were relieved. Whilst the battle raged on for the men of the 3rd Brigade, those of A and C Companies of the 11th Battalion who had led the attack, were instructed to rest for twenty-four hours on the beach where the stores were being unloaded and the wounded relayed back to the ships. Then, two days later on April 30th, the 11th Battalion was paraded. The tally showed 378 either killed, missing or wounded, 617 still in action.

  Again, the orders from Sir Ian Hamilton were simple. The Australian and New Zealand Army Corps were to continue their advance. They must attack and overtake each of the Turkish positions. The fact that the Turks’ elevated positions afforded them a vastly superior field of fire seemed immaterial to Sir Ian, and the fight to gain the higher ground became not only desperate but suicidal.

  The men knew it. As they scrambled up out of the trenches and over the parapets they did so with the knowledge that they were going to die. Waiting for the signal to advance, many said goodbye to each other; many left farewell notes pinned with their daggers to the sides of the trenches, some even left their wedding rings. Then each man charged into the hail of gunfire to meet his death in his chosen way.

  Some dodged and ducked as if they were on a football field. Evading the enemy and staying alive even a few minutes longer was a triumph in itself. Others roared their defiance as they ran. Being the first to fall was their triumph: the early fallen took the bullets for the men behind. And some simply blanked their minds, followed their bayonets and ran to their death in silence.

  Through sheer determination, many made it to the enemy lines. And once there, having survived that fearful distance, they threw themselves into the trenches and fought like tigers, each man seemingly with the strength of ten. They could see what they were fighting now. They were confronted with the flesh of their enemy and, after the helpless exposure of No-Man’s-Land, there was a hideous relief in the thrust and twist of their bayonets.

  Sometimes they won. Sometimes they lost. And when, with a sense of bewilderment, a man found himself alive after such a battle, he thought of his comrades who’d fallen beside him and prepared himself for the fact that tomorrow it would probably be him.

  The wholesale slaughter continued until a brief respite was called on the 24th of May. A formal truce had been organised between the Turkish and British headquarters in order to bury the dead and a line was fixed midway between the two fronts. For nine hours from 7.30 am the Turks were to bury the dead on their side and the Australians and New Zealanders on theirs.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ Jack exclaimed to Tom as they surveyed the scene. ‘I thought Jacko the Turk was winning.’

  The reaction was the same from all the Aussies. They had presumed they were the only ones being decimated but the hundreds of Turkish dead far outnumbered the Australians and New Zealanders.

  ‘G’day, Jacko. I’m Ben, this is me brother Bill.’ The Brereton boys were shaking hands with a couple of young Turkish soldiers.

  Rick looked around and noticed that many others were doing the same. Before long, the men of both armies were grinning and lighting each other’s cigarettes and swapping souvenirs, displaying a camaraderie born of relief that, for a few hours at least, there would be no killing.

  Then followed the gruesome business of collecting the dead. The stench was horrific and the sticky, greenbacked flies which plagued the men in the trenches were clustered inches deep over the rotting corpses.

  ‘Give me a hand, Tom.’ It was Jack Brearley who found Tony Prendergast. He’d been searching for him among the dead. Three days previously Jack had been beside Tony when he fell. At the time, amidst the cacophony of battle—the whistle of shells, the blast of dynamite and the constant crack of machine-gun fire—one explosion was no different from another. Some a little closer, that was all. But suddenly the Welshman running beside him had been flung four feet into the air and Jack had presumed he’d been blown to pieces. Dodging and weaving and yelling like a banshee, Jack had run on and lived through the charge.

  Now, as he bent to pick up his friend, he noticed that Tony’s right leg was several yards away from his body and that there was a tourniquet tied to the stump of his thigh. Jesus, Jack thought, how long had the poor bastard been conscious?

  He heaved the body over his shoulders in a fireman’s lift and, as he did, he heard a sound. The faintest, dry, husky whisper. ‘S’trewth,’ Jack said to Tom Brereton, ‘he’s alive.’

  There were a number of men in Tony’s condition. Men who, by all accounts, should have been dead. They were laid out on the beach to await medical attention and transferral to the ships but little hope was held for their chances. Most died as they lay there on the sand.

  The doctor shook his head. ‘Don’t reckon your cobber’s going to make it, mate, I’d say my goodbyes now if I were you.’ And he moved on to the next casualty.

  Jack stayed for as long as he could, bathing Tony’s face and keeping the flies away but, by the time he had to report for duty, the Welshman showed no sign of regaining consciousness. Jack took the doctor’s advice and said his goodbyes.

  AS SAPPING AND tunnelling was the most effective method of gaining ground with minimum casualties, the men of Company C of the 11th Battalion, coming as they did from the goldfields of Western Australia, were inevitably detailed as tunnellers. Their digging and mining experience made them experts. The ‘saps’ were deep, narrow trenches directed towards the enemy line. The Turkish army occupying the higher position, the Australian and New Zealand Army Corps, now affectionately known as the ANZACs, had literally to burrow forward in order to keep the distance of open attack to a minimum. The saps had various operational uses. A number of them might be linked to form a new front-line trench or, from the sap heads, tunnels might be dug and explosives placed under enemy lines. These ‘mines’ not only inflicted damage, they created diversons during which the ANZACs stormed the Turkish trenches.

  The men of the original 11th Battalion were by now under severe strain. Their numbers had been halved and their reinforcements were ill-prepared. Many of the recruits, newly arrived from Egypt, were picked off by sniper fire whilst training on the beach and never saw battle at all. Three months after the landing, the battalion found it necessary to shorten the hours of duty. Forty-eight hours in the line, the same in support and reserve.

  ‘Cripes, the brass is getting soft,’ Tom Brereton remarked. ‘It’s a bloody holiday.’ But, despite the responsive laughter, the men of the original 11th were exhausted. Physically, mentally and emotionally.

  Immediately following the forty-eight hour limit, orders came through that the battalion was to storm and capture the line of Turkish trenches directly in front of ‘Tasmania Post’, as a section of the Allied trenches was nick-named, and that C Company was to lead the attack.

  ‘Some holiday, you stupid geezer.’ Jack punched Tom’s arm. ‘They must have been bloody listening.’

  ‘Crikey, mate, it’s an honour, can’t you see that?’ Tom rubbed his corked bicep. ‘It’s a bloody honour. I can’t wait, I tell you. I just can’t wait.’

  The cocky bravado of Tom and Jack invariably helped raise morale and soon the men of C Company were joining in their good-humoured larrikinism. It was the Aussie way of getting through the day. There wasn’t much point in doing otherwise, most thought. No sense in dwelling on things you couldn’t change.

  The operational plan was basic. From each of the four sap heads, tunnels were to be dug and explosives pla
ced beside the Turkish line. On the night of the 31st of July, when the signal was given, the Engineer Company was to detonate the explosives, and the men of C Company were to storm the Turkish trenches.

  As the moon rose in the night sky, they waited. In the sap heads, the four columns of men, bayonets fixed, hearts pumping and bodies poised, waited for the signal. There it was. Behind them. The red flare glowing on the parapet of the Allied trenches. A second or so later, there was an explosion. Then another. A few more seconds. They waited for two more explosions, but they didn’t come. The two centre mines had hung fire. No more time to waste. The order to advance was given and the four columns stormed over the parapets and charged across the intervening ground towards the enemy.

  Jack Brearley was amongst the forerunners. A dozen or so men were in front of him and beside him were the Brereton brothers. Screaming like banshees, all three of them, as loud and as long as their lungs would allow. They always did. It was infectious. And Jack screamed along with them.

  The landscape and the mass of charging men were suddenly illuminated as the Turks fired flares into the air in order to see and target their enemy’s approach. The light was unreal. Vivid, cartoonlike, it etched and highlighted the madness of battle.

  Closer and closer to the Turkish line. They were there now, ready to throw themselves upon Jacko Turk. In the light of the Verey flares they could see the enemy clearly. The Turks were in disarray. Some were fleeing, some falling to the flashing bayonets of the men of C Company who’d got there first. Jack and the Brereton brothers screamed even louder. Then the world exploded.

  Jack staggered as the force threw him to one side. Tom fell to the ground. But it was Ben and Bill Brereton who suffered the full impact of the blast. The explosives were right beneath them.

  As if in slow motion, Tom Brereton watched his brothers fall headlong into the trenches. He lay powerless on the ground as he watched them, in the garish light of the flares, being buried alive. Even as he hauled himself to his knees, dirt and debris continued to fall all around him, but he had no mind for the surrounding chaos as he clawed at the freshly created grave.

  ‘Tom!’ Above the din he heard Jack’s voice and turned in time to see the glint of the Turk’s dagger. He threw himself to one side, the dagger slicing through his upper arm, and then the weight of the man’s body was upon him as Jack’s bayonet found its mark. Tom heaved the body aside and once again started clawing at the rubble.

  ‘Leave it, Tom! Leave it!’ Jack was yelling and trying to pull him away.

  ‘Our own bomb, for Christ’s sake!’ There was hysteria in his voice as he dug frantically. ‘We blew them up with our own bloody bomb!’

  ‘It wouldn’t do any good, even if you could get them out!’ Jack shouted. ‘They copped the full blast; they’ve had it, mate!’ The hysteria in Tom Brereton died as quickly as it had manifested itself. ‘They’ve had it,’ Jack repeated.

  Tom nodded, picking up his rifle and bayonet. The Turks had fled the section of the trench which had been directly hit by the explosives but there were whole pockets of resistance where the battle raged on. Jack followed Tom as he charged into the fray.

  THE DAY’S FIRST light revealed the full success of the attack. Only one portion of the enemy line remained in Turkish hands. Relief forces were called in to build a barricade across the trench and further barricades across communication saps leading back to Turkish positions. The relief forces continued to repel any Turks attempting to return and the victorious men of C Company had been retired to safety behind the lines.

  Tom Brereton leaned against the dugout wall, his left arm hanging limply by his side. Blood dripped from his fingers and his face was deathly white. Any minute he was going to faint.

  Jack stuffed the letter he’d barely read into his top pocket and crossed to his friend. ‘We need to get you to the iodine king, mate.’ He tried to sound as hearty as he could although he felt sick himself at the memory of the Brereton brothers and their moment of death. No time to think about that now.

  ‘Look at it.’ Tom thrust the envelope he clutched in his right hand at Jack. ‘Just look at it, will you? “The Brereton Boys”, that’s what it says. Bloody stupid. That’s Dad. He thinks we’re all going to make it through this war, the stupid bastard. It’s a miracle the three of us got this far.’ He swayed and would have fallen had Jack not caught him in time.

  ‘Give us a hand, will you?’ Jack turned to the nearest man for help. Rick Gianni was immediately by his side. ‘We have to take him to the beach.’

  ‘Sure. I’ll get a stretcher.’

  ‘No.’ As Rick turned to go, Tom’s voice stopped him. ‘No stretcher.’

  He wouldn’t let them carry him although he was so weak he could barely walk.

  ‘Lean on me,’ Jack insisted, hitching Brereton’s uninjured arm over his shoulder and holding him firmly around the waist.

  Tom staggered as he tried to pick up his kit.

  ‘It’s all right, mate,’ Rick grabbed the rifle and backpack, ‘I’ve got your kit, don’t worry.’

  Three times during the trek to the beach he nearly fell and eventually Rick and Jack took a shoulder each and virtually carried him. He didn’t seem to feel any pain from his injury, although Rick was covered in the blood which flowed anew from the exertion.

  ‘Hell of a thing to happen, eh?’ Tom talked continuously as they went. ‘Copping it from your own bomb.’ He gave a derisive snort, as if the whole incident were some shockingly tasteless joke. ‘I mean, being smudged is one thing, but being smudged by your own bloody bomb! Hell of a thing to happen.’ He looked at the letter, now a crumpled blood-stained mess, still clutched in his hand. ‘The Brereton boys! The Bloody Brereton boys! Hell of a thing to happen.’

  He was delirious by the time they got him to the medical tent.

  ‘He’ll make it,’ the medical officer said on examination. ‘The wound is superficial but he’s lost a lot of blood. You should have got him here earlier.’

  The officer’s tone was censorious and for a moment Rick thought Jack was going to hit the man.

  ‘Come on, Jack,’ he said, ‘let’s get out of here. I’ve saved my rum ration, I reckon we’ve earned it.’

  Jack followed him automatically and, as they sat on the beach together, Rick handed him the little tin flask of rum from the top pocket of his tunic. The night before a battle, the men were given a rum ration and, not being much of a drinker, Rick invariably kept his.

  They sat on the beach together staring out to sea. A Gianni and a Brearley sharing a drink. Rick wondered vaguely what their fathers would say. Rico and Harry would surely disown their sons if they could see them now.

  He glanced at Jack and realised that Tom Brereton was not the only one suffering the effects of shock. The little tin flask which Jack had placed beside him had tipped over and rum was spilling out onto the sand. But Jack hadn’t noticed. He was staring blankly ahead. His jaw was clenched, his breathing was shallow and fast and a muscle twitched in the side of his neck. Delayed shock. Rick knew all the signs. He’d seen them and suffered them himself. Many times. They all had. Distraction was the answer.

  ‘I got a couple of letters from home,’ he said taking them from his pocket. Better not mention that one of them was from Giovanni, he thought. ‘My sister, Carmelina,’ he said, opening the letter he’d not yet read. ‘You remember Carmelina.’

  The banal chatter distracted Jack and he turned, irritated by the voice. Bloody Enrico Gianni, he thought. Pity it wasn’t him who’d copped it instead of the Brereton brothers. The bastard was only good for playing his bloody concertina anyway.

  He returned his gaze to the ocean, but he didn’t see the waves lapping the shore, or the clear blue horizon. He saw Bill Brereton’s body exploding in front of him. In the gaudy light of the flares, he saw the recognition of death in Ben’s eyes as he was hurled into the trench to be buried alive.

  ‘Who was your letter from?’ The voice again. Jack didn’t answer.
‘I saw you got a letter,’ the voice insisted. ‘Who was it from? Anyone I know?’

  Jack turned, and the images disappeared as he saw Rick Gianni nodding, encouraging.

  ‘Your letter. Who was it from?’

  It was then Jack realised that he’d been hyperventilating. He stared down at the sand and noticed that the rum had spilled from the flask. ‘A girl,’ he said. ‘No one important. Just a girl.’ Jack felt his breathing subside.

  The images would return tonight of course. The death of the Brereton brothers would join the list of hideous images which would haunt his sleeping hours for the rest of his life. There was surely not one ANZAC who did not wake with his own image of the horrors of battle. But Jack’s shock reaction was abating and he was grateful to Rick Gianni’s distraction for that.

  He picked up the little tin flask and wiped the sand from it. ‘I’m sorry about your rum,’ he said as he handed it back. ‘I’ll give you my next ration.’

  Rick shrugged. ‘I don’t really drink much, it doesn’t matter—’

  ‘I’m no bludger and I owe you.’ There was a grudging thanks in his voice. ‘I’ll give you my next ration.’

  ‘Rightio.’

  The Cremorne Gardens stood at the top end of Hannan Street not far from the railway station. In an effort to justify the name, the surrounding ten-foot-high tin fence had been scenically painted with trees and bushes and flowers. In reality, however, the Cremorne Gardens was anything but a garden. On the other side of the tin fence, the ground was gravelled and there was not a tree or flower to be seen, just rows and rows of hessian deck chairs under the open sky. All facing the magic, silver screen.

  Carmelina Gianni loved the Cremorne Gardens. Every Friday, she and her girlfriends would be the first to queue for tickets. They would sit anchored to their deck chairs, eyes glued to the screen, transfixed by the smouldering intensity of Wallace Reid or the exotic sexuality of Theda Bara and, for a precious two hours, they would escape the humdrum life of Kal.