The Horizon (1993)

by Reeman, Douglas

  ‘And, John . . .’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘It’s not a battalion this time, it’s the whole bloody army. Safety in numbers.’

  It was a lie, and perhaps the lieutenant knew it. But he seemed to cheer up immediately and strode away saying, ‘I’ll bet he did have that champagne, lucky bastard!’

  Harry Payne appeared, seemingly from nowhere. ‘Starter’s orders, sir.’ He handed Jonathan his revolver. ‘We’ll be at Battalion H.Q. then.’ His eyes crinkled in a sly grin. ‘That should be well back from the firing line, if I’m any judge!’

  They walked down the crumbling slope towards the beach, and the sea.

  The eventual disembarkation of the first troops did not begin until ten-thirty on the night of August 6th. Each company and platoon commander had a fixed mental picture of the bay, opening up ahead of the flotillas of boats with horn-like headlands at each end. At the top of the bay was a strange narrow strip of sand which separated a large salt lake from the sea itself. And beyond that lay the real objective, the line of the Anafarta Hills.

  Yes, they all had it fixed in their minds; but in broad daylight it might seem very different. To the south-east of the bay there was supposed to be a small hill, Lala Baba, which although only shown as two hundred feet high would easily command the beach, as an air reconnaissance had reported that there were strong trenches. Lala Baba was to be the first hinge of the attack. Waring was thunderstruck when told at the very last moment that there had been a change in the plan. All three brigades of the Division were to have been landed on selected beaches on the seaward side of the horn-like Nibrunesi Point. Instead, this brigade was now to be sent directly inside the bay to land on the long sandspit which separated it from the salt lake. There was no consultation, and Waring had muttered angrily, ‘Afraid the Turks will beat them to the hill! They just don’t think!’

  The sea was quite choppy and the Beetles were tossed about like leaves. Jonathan guessed that the boats were overloaded anyway, the men crammed together like sardines, barely able to move because of their weapons and equipment. Occasionally faces lit up in the fierce glow of gunfire while the warships fired at enemy flashes without any knowledge of their accuracy. The southern beaches were laid bare by the brighter glare of shrapnel as the Turkish gunners fired over what were probably prepared and sited positions.

  It took longer than expected to guide the Beetles and their attendant launches with towed supply boats through the entrance of the bay itself. In the first rays of pale sunshine Jonathan saw the huge drifting clouds of smoke, as the landings and the defences showed themselves for the first time. It sounded as if the main landings outside the bay had gone well, and the troops were probably digging in to await the next counterattack.

  The sunshine spilled over the distant line of hills and filtered through the smoke. Jonathan steadied himself and trained his binoculars on the sandspit and at the pale outline of the dried salt lake beyond it. There would be casualties; he could already hear the officers shouting instructions from one of the leading boats, the rasp of steel as bayonets were fixed, with great difficulty with men packed so tightly. But once on that sandspit they could cross and find cover until the next order to move forward.

  Lieutenant Maxted gasped, ‘God, what’s happening, sir?’ A leading Beetle had slewed round and another only narrowly missed colliding with it. Jonathan felt his skin go cold. Something unnoticed, unforeseen, and it was happening right now. The beach could not be reached; the steep shallowing of the water was too much even for these boats.

  Waring blew his whistle and shouted, ‘Signal our boats! Steer south!’

  Breaking away from the original formation of floundering craft, Waring’s flotilla turned heavily and headed towards the beach to the south-east. Jonathan stared abeam and saw the soldiers abandoning their boats and starting to wade ashore, all advantage of cover and speed denied them as sniper fire and machine-guns cut them down in dozens, then hundreds as they straggled onto the sandspit, already exhausted and without proper supervision. But Lala Baba had been taken in the early morning. Later Jonathan heard it was the work of the Yorkshires and the West Yorkshires, who had charged up the hill and forced the enemy to fall back. As the light grew stronger he saw many Turks lying along the shore of the salt lake, cut down even as they retreated. Piles of khaki corpses marked every foot of the fierce attack.

  Gasping for breath, the marines abandoned their boats and dragged themselves below the cover of Lala Baba. If the hill had not been captured, it was unlikely that any of them would have lived. Dazed and wheezing like old men, they watched the havoc on the sandspit until more covering fire from the ships forced the enemy to fall back again from their defences. Snipers still marked their targets, and many more men fell before the rest of the division could dig in or find cover.

  In short, shambling rushes they eventually crossed the salt lake, while shrapnel burst overhead, cutting down some of the men who had never been under fire in their lives.

  And all the while, more and more soldiers and supplies were being landed. The sun rose higher, and the attack lost its impetus. Men fell asleep; exhausted, they lay like the dead around them despite the humming drone of sniper-fire, the bang of shells. Eventually a runner found Waring, his eyes red-rimmed, his hands cut where he had thrown himself down to avoid an enemy rifle.

  Waring snapped tersely, ‘From Brigade. We’re to attack the enemy’s position here . . .’ He unfolded his map and sand drifted from it like dust. ‘Hill Ten. A strong position apparently.’ He peered round for his own runner and added scornfully, ‘The army have fouled it up again!’

  It took another hour for the changed instructions to be passed to Waring’s company commanders, all of whom were found except one whose Beetle had received a direct hit from some light artillery and capsized. It was unlikely that there would have been any survivors. The weight of their packs and ammunition would have seen to that.

  ‘We shall go around the other side of the salt lake, Blackwood. Longer but firmer.’ Waring pointed suddenly, his voice furious. ‘Stop those men drinking all their water! Take their names, you dolt!’

  The distant gunfire intensified by the hour. It was probably from Anzac where they would be trying to break out through the enemy lines, the other prong of the attack which would cut the Turkish army into halves.

  Jonathan lay among the rocks and levelled his binoculars on the distant hills. All the names he had learned by heart, with their rolling objective bathed in sunshine: beyond reach, without hope.

  It was dusk of that terrible day before they had reached a position where they could fire on the enemy redoubt. Hours of running and ducking when some hidden marksmen probed the ground for them, or shrapnel exploded and tore around them like deadly hornets. By this time the battalion had lost two officers, a sergeant and a hundred killed and wounded, the latter abandoned until help was sent. If it ever came.

  Jonathan saw another side of warfare at its most savage. A corporal caught sight of a sniper, wrapped in rags, and lying by an overturned waggon like a pile of rubbish. With a scream the corporal, normally a quiet man, flung himself at the hidden Turk and before the others realised what was happening impaled him on his bayonet. He saw some of the young marines including a few like Geach, who still grieved for his dead friend, display a similar madness as they surrounded the writhing sniper, stabbing him repeatedly until long after he was dead, and their bayonets were red from point to hilt.

  Eventually they were all concealed and Waring snapped, ‘A Company will attack – the rest will supply covering fire. Then B Company.’ He peered at Jonathan and bit the chin stay of his sun-helmet. ‘Then our H.Q. platoon.’ He added dryly, ‘C Company will remain here to cover the retreat – that is, if we get that far!’

  The rattle of machine-gun fire and the crack of rifles were directed at the other side where the British infantry were pinned down, and had, according to the terrified runner, suffered many casualties.

  Duri
ng a brief lull when they guessed the infantry had fallen back to gather their remaining strength for another attack Waring said, ‘When they advance, we shall begin!’ For a moment his eyes looked tired and he muttered, ‘Give me a division and I’d soon show the bloody army!’

  On either side of him the crouching marines shifted their arms and gripped their weapons more tightly as the firing began again.

  Waring put his whistle to his lips then hesitated, and shouted, ‘Remember this: you are Royal Marines, not a bunch of mothers’ boys! Colour-Sarn’t Grensmith!’

  ‘Sir!’

  ‘You go across with B Company in the second attack! I want that flag up there where everyone can see it!’

  ‘Understood, sir!’

  Waring blew sharply on the whistle, and while their newly acquired light machine-guns crackled from either flank, the marines charged like madmen up the slope.

  Shots flashed from the hidden parapet and several fell, including Major Vickers, the company commander. The others scrambled forward, yelling like men beyond help and reason, while the enemy were held down by the rapid fire from their companions.

  Waring shouted, ‘Ready Company B!’ He blew another blast and the next line charged from cover.

  Waring was staring wildly, but managed to say in almost a normal voice, ‘It’s not the first time in their history that the Turks have had their artillery pointing the wrong way.’

  He stood up and took out his revolver, his eyes fixed on the bright colours of the flag as it floated lightly in the last of the sun’s rays.

  ‘H.Q. Platoon advance!’

  There were no more shots from the parapet, and when they clambered over to be greeted by the gasping but jubilant marines Waring said curtly, ‘A flare for the infantry, Sergeant! Tell them they can come in now!’ He gazed impassively at the flag, still gripped in the colour-sergeant’s dead hands where he had planted it in a sandbagged emplacement even as he fell.

  Jonathan saw the carefully dug defences suddenly laid bare by the signal flare. Only the dead lie here. As they had on that other ridge. He turned as Waring said, ‘Better have a look round before the general gets here, what?’ He gave his braying laugh. ‘The Turks don’t drink, do they? Pity!’

  A deep bunker was abandoned, two lamps still showing in the gloom. Waring sat down and laid his revolver on a wooden table. ‘Not what one might expect to see here of all places, what?’

  Jonathan heard Harry Payne whistling outside the entrance and turned to see Waring’s discovery. It was an English Bible.

  He heard himself yell, ‘No – don’t!’ His voice sounded like a scream. Then Waring opened the Bible, and even as Jonathan flung himself to the ground the book exploded with a tremendous bang. Metal and fragments from the walls and table cracked around him and he heard Payne calling his name through the dense smoke, then his words were lost in deafness.

  How long he lay there he could not tell. Seconds, a month? But his hearing was returning, and when he moved his body very slightly there was no stab of agony.

  Someone brought a light and he retched as he saw Waring, still slumped at the punctured and splintered table. The front of his uniform was shining red in the lamplight. Jonathan felt Payne holding him even as he was trying to drag himself away.

  I command now. It was like a hammer beating out the words in his brain. Waring was still sitting here. But he was headless.

  Boots clattered in the entrance, and an army lieutenant-colonel stared past them at the hideous corpse as if he thought it was a trick of the light.

  Then he said slowly, ‘You can fall back and rest your men, Major. We’ve been reinforced. After what you did . . .’ He could not go on. He tore his eyes from the corpse. ‘Lose many?’

  Sergeant-Major McCann called from outside, ‘Seventy, sir!’

  The army officer was staring at Jonathan.

  ‘Was he a friend of yours?’

  Jonathan wiped his eyes with a dirty handkerchief. ‘Hardly that. Always making remarks about my family’s decorations. Well, he’ll get a Victoria Cross for what he just did. He’d like that.’ He pushed outside in the gathering darkness, which came so suddenly here, and was glad his young marines could barely see his face, or know how near he had been to breaking down completely.

  The other officer offered helpfully, ‘I’ll detail some men to take your wounded back with you.’

  He shook his head. ‘The Royal Marines take care of their own.’ And for one wild moment he thought he could hear Waring’s last braying laugh.

  At the end of a week’s fighting the forces landed at Anzac and Suvla managed to join their line. But that was as far as it went, and no further advances could be made in the face of fanatical Turkish opposition. The marines had grown dazed and depressed by the savage change of circumstances. To the soldiers in general there came a hopelessness which made every elusive objective unimportant.

  There was so much stupidity, so much incompetence. Men driven half-mad with thirst wandered down to the beach from the firing-line, oblivious apparently to the real risk of snipers and shrapnel fired from inland. The water lighters lay close to the beach, but nobody had considered supplying any receptacles so that when water was pumped ashore from the lighters the men found they were expected to direct a hose of some four inches in diameter into water bottles with quarter-inch holes at the spout. More water was wasted than drunk, and some of the thirst-maddened infantry, their blackened tongues hanging out like dead men’s, hacked holes in the hoses and drank deeply rather than stand in an endless queue.

  And the dying who lay out in the open all day could neither be reached nor treated. Not even a Red Cross flag could save the stretcher-bearers from the many hidden marksmen.

  Into September, the weather already showing signs of deteriorating. Advance, gain a few yards at a terrible price only to lose the blood-soaked land in the next enemy counter-attack. And at each dawn they could see the same span of the Anafarta Hills, as far away as they had been on that first morning.

  By the end of the month Jonathan wondered how much longer the bloody stalemate could continue before a decision was made to evacuate the peninsula. Even in these bitter days there were those who found the time to censor every letter that the disheartened troops tried to send home, and he was convinced that nobody in England knew the true situation here. Perhaps nobody cared.

  The battalion was reduced almost by half, either dead or wounded, and on every front it was the same. It was rumoured that Sir Ian Hamilton was to be recalled, and another general sent out in his place. Nobody knew any more how many had been killed or wounded. There were so many different units, so many nationalities. Even Maoris had been thrown into the cauldron of war.

  On the first day of October, less than six months after the first landings at Anzac and Cape Helles when all their naval guardians had been there to protect an army, Jonathan was slumped in the command dugout, still dazed from an attack the previous night. On the left flank the infantry had beaten the Turks back, and had charged on to retake some high ground which had already changed hands a dozen times.

  A Royal Engineers signals section, wearing their familiar blue and white brassards, were sharing the line with the remaining marines, and one dashed into the dugout. ‘One of the ships has opened fire on that ridge, sir!’

  Jonathan stared at him. Like that last time and all the others when shells had fallen short, or been fired by mistake at their own men.

  He ran to the field-telephone but the soldier said, ‘Cut, sir. Won’t work. I daren’t send a linesman down there with all this lot going on.’

  It might have happened to his own men. He snatched up a pair of yellow and red semaphore flags and saw Lieutenant Maxted staring at him, while Payne put down his rifle as if to protest.

  Without waiting for events to change his mind he climbed over the rear of the trench and said harshly, ‘Fire a flare! Any bloody kind you’ve got left!’

  Then carefully and deliberately he began to semaphore his
signal to the destroyer firing over the beaches. The sea was so calm that he could see her full reflection on the water.

  A signal lamp winked over the gently-moving water and all firing ceased, and with immense relief he was about to turn when a shell exploded somewhere behind him. He was flung face down on the loose rocks, and as consciousness returned he could hear his own cries as the agony closed around him like a white-hot metal trap.

  Men were holding him, but nothing made sense: Harry Payne was wiping the hair from his eyes and muttering, ‘Please God! Not now!’

  He knew Maxted was kneeling beside him and wanted to tell him what to do. All the company commanders were killed. But all he could see now was his own blood, hear his breath rasping in his throat as he tried to breathe. An authoritative voice interrupted, and through the mist of agony Jonathan could vaguely make out the red tabs of the brigade major.

  ‘Who is in command of this battalion?’

  And Lieutenant Maxted’s hoarse reply. ‘I am, sir.’

  ‘Give me an ’and!’ That must be Langmaid, the oafish machine-gunner. McCann was there too.

  But suddenly the pain was too much, and there was only darkness.

  In the weeks that followed he did not know if he would live or die; nor did he care, in those few blurred, terrifying moments of understanding. He became part of a nightmare, where the villains were the hard-eyed surgeons in their bloodied coats, and the only peace was the oblivion of drugs. He lost all sense of time, and waited only for the dreaded agony’s return to torment him: even drugs could not soften the pain of the probes that explored or reopened his wounds where shell splinters had struck him with the force of axes.

  He could not recall being moved, only that he was on some sort of ship with many others on stretchers. He had felt tears on his face, and was angry with himself when a nurse had dabbed them with a cloth. Going home. Going home.

  But after an eternity of pain and the awakened torture when the soiled dressings were changed, he was moved again. Not into an English winter but into sunshine, where he had managed to discern palm trees.