Gallipoli

by Alan Tucker

  We are in a desert where very few plants grow. I hope you have made a little garden on Torrens Island.

  Your ‘gut’ friend, Victor

  Wednesday, 27 January

  Our training has intensified. Day by day the distance we march, the weight we carry in our packs and the urgency of the drills, increases. It’s hard on everyone and offers few light moments.

  Thursday, 4 February

  Action at last, even though it occurred several miles from here. The Turks attacked the Suez canal yesterday. They were easily driven back into the desert. Retreat would have been a nightmare, especially for the wounded. Not that I feel pity for them. The Germans and their allies deserve everything they get.

  Our officers are no doubt keen to provide our battalion with battle action. In recent weeks too many of the lads have got themselves arrested by the military police when they drink too much and run amok. Even the threat of being shipped home does not deter them.

  ‘You can’t blame them for getting up to a bit of horseplay,’ Robbo said. ‘Some of the chaps have never known a mother’s love and a father’s boot up the backside. They’re just behaving as they’ve always behaved.’

  ‘That doesn’t seem right.’

  ‘War’s not right either, Quickie, but it happens.’

  Friday, 12 February

  Another of our men died yesterday, this time of pneumonia. I can understand people getting pneumonia in Moonta in mid-winter but not in Egypt at this time of the year.

  ‘It seems unfair for a fellow to die of illness before he had a chance to fight,’ Fish said.

  ‘Yeah,’ Needle replied. ‘Especially considering he was probably fitter than he’s ever been in his life.’

  The physical demands on us grow greater every day. I’m impressed at how well the men work together. We are developing our individual fitness and our ability to work as a well-organised fighting force.

  The most exciting training sessions involve full frontal attacks. To see and hear hundreds of men attack a position at full speed with bayonets thrust forward, is thrilling. It is not so much fun, of course, when you are in a trench and subjected to the charge. We practise using the bayonet (‘cold steel’ the instructor calls it) on straw dummies. I hope I am never called upon to bayonet a human being.

  Sunday, 14 February

  Dear Mother and Father,

  The Chaplain gave us a lecture on self-discipline this morning. You’ll be disappointed to hear, as he was, that forty men from my battalion were shipped home yesterday because they proved incorrigible.

  Needle said it’s for the best because if they’re not reliable during training, they probably won’t be reliable when we’re in battle—and if our lives depend on their actions then we’re better off without them.

  Let me reassure you that the other 960 men in the battalion are first-class soldiers and fellows and I’m proud to serve alongside them. You can be confident, Mother, that my life is in safe hands.

  Rumours regularly spread about a possible date for our departure to France but each date comes and goes and we are still here.

  I will write again soon.

  Your impatient son, Victor

  PS. As well as being superbly fit and very brown-skinned after two months training on the desert sands, I have grown a small moustache. Robbo said I am quite the ‘dapper chap’ but Needle and Fish were less complimentary. They joked that my top lip was infested by ‘a half-plucked caterpillar’. They suggested I shave it off sooner rather than later.

  Saturday, 27 February

  Mail was distributed today.

  Dear Victor,

  We received your Christmas letter and thoughtful wishes yesterday. When I saw how long it took for your letter to travel between there and here I sat straight down to write back. I am hoping you are still at the Mena camp and have not been moved to the frontlines somewhere in France. If that is the case then this letter may never reach you.

  We had a lovely but lonely Christmas. Father went out of his way to make the day special. He knew I was pining for you and Hans.

  I am travelling to Adelaide and then on to Torrens Island this week to see Hans. I have baked a small pudding and wrapped it in cloth and will deliver it to him with some of his favourite biscuits. The authorities have granted me only one hour to speak to him. It seems so unfair and costs so much money for so little time but Father says I should go. The money we receive from your army wage is paying for the trip—I am sure you would be happy to see your earnings used in such a way.

  Father and I are delighted that the YMCA have provided such an outstanding service for you soldier boys. It is always a noble thing to do something for others and expect nothing in return. We are also pleased that Chaplain Frank is approachable. You may well need a steadying, mature influence in the months to come when you are confronted by the dangers of the frontlines.

  I must stop writing now—the sooner I post this letter the sooner you’ll get it. Oh how I hope you are still at Mena.

  Please, write back and tell us you are well and in good spirits.

  Your most loving and concerned Mother and

  Father

  Sunday, 28 February

  Mother’s letter arrived just in the nick of time. Immediately after breakfast we were ordered to break camp. An excited buzz rolled around the tent-lines where we went immediately to work packing belongings. Our tents remained for the next battalion.

  As we marched out of camp towards Cairo we were cheered heartily by the 1st and 2nd Australian brigades. Our heads were held high and I sensed great pride in the men of my battalion, the mighty 10th Battalion AIF.

  We are accommodated in military barracks tonight and will move to the port tomorrow morning. And from there? The high command knows our destination but we do not.

  I saw Chaplain Frank in the mess hall. He told me he will travel with us to the frontlines. ‘I am not permitted to carry or use a weapon, Victor. I will be there in a peaceful role so you know someone is looking over you.’

  I was comforted by what he had to say.

  Wednesday, 3 March

  We are aboard the Ionian but have no idea of our destination. We know by interpreting the position of the sun that we’re steaming in a northerly direction. If we were being transported to France, we’d be heading west. Perhaps we are to attack Turkey.

  Sunday, 7 March

  We’ve been in the port of Mudros on the island of Lemnos for two days. The 9th Battalion disembarked yesterday but we’re still on board—and the rumour is we may have to live on board until we sail. No-one’s happy about that. We’d prefer to be on shore where we can mix with the locals and buy little luxuries.

  I guess we’ll cope if our confinement is only for a few days but any longer and we’ll lose the fitness we’ve worked so hard to develop.

  The ocean is a beautiful aqua blue. Brightly painted fishing boats float gracefully between us and the attractive Greek houses on the shore. It is hard to believe that we are at war and that any day our peace will be shattered and lives lost.

  Monday, 15 March

  Dear Mother and Father,

  I don’t have much news so this will be a short letter. We’re on board a rusty ship anchored in a beautiful harbour. Accommodation is basic but the company is good and the views are pleasant.

  Our time here is dragging on. We were wonderfully excited a fortnight ago when we steamed out of port in convoy but since we dropped anchor here, our life has been unexciting. Will we ever be allowed to do what we enlisted to do—fight?

  Your frustrated soldier boy, Victor

  Sunday, 28 March

  We’re still living on the Ionian but we’ve been ashore several times in recent days to conduct punishing route marches and sham battles. In those, each of the three battalions not only had to follow a specific attack plan, but also coordinate their movement forward with the battalion alongside. In this way the frontline could advance smoothly and leave no flank unprotected. This strategy proved dif
ficult to implement, however, because 3,000 men had to remain coordinated. We need to get it right before we go into battle. Our lives depend on it.

  An equally challenging practice activity was the trial landing at Telikna Point. It rained heavily and communication broke down. Worse still, some of the boats carrying men ashore drifted off target. If that happens when we conduct the real landing, those men will be captured or killed by the enemy.

  Tomorrow is a first: we’re camping ashore for two nights. Everyone is looking forward to being free from the restrictions of the ship.

  Thursday, 1 April

  The time ashore was refreshing. In total we marched fifteen to twenty miles over three days but apart from that we enjoyed a more relaxing pace than in previous trips ashore. We even experienced our first bit of luxury in seven and a half months of army life: a bathe in the historic hot springs of Thermia.

  ‘Maties, this is the life,’ Needle sighed, his eyes closed and his head floating back in the warm water. ‘I could cope with a bath like this every day of my life.’

  ‘I suspect this is the calm before the storm,’ Robbo replied. ‘They’re pampering us before they drop us on some God-forsaken beach and tell us to fight our way ashore.’

  ‘The way I feel at the moment, they can do whatever they want with me. I’m in heaven.’

  ‘If this really was heaven,’ Fish responded, ‘I’d be surrounded by angels instead of you ugly drongos.’

  ‘Sticks and stones will break my bones…’ Needle said in a dreamy voice. But before he could complete his sentence Robbo added, ‘But artillery will blow me to pieces.’

  ‘Do you think the Turks have artillery?’ Fish asked. ‘I’ve heard their army is old-fashioned and out of touch with modern weapons.’

  ‘They’ve got access to German munitions so who knows what they’ve got.’

  ‘Who said we’re fighting the Turks?’ I asked.

  ‘The 9th Battalion boys have heard from the local Greeks that we’re only fifty miles from the Turkish coast. British and French naval ships are already bombarding the coastal fortifications, softening up resistance before we step ashore. We’re going to fight our way into Turkey all right.’

  If Robbo is correct and this is the calm before the storm, we will soon be tested against the Turkish troops. I hope they’re as ill-equipped and untrained as some of the lads think they are.

  Later

  We had a welcome surprise soon after we returned to the Ionian: a large shipment of mail from Australia was distributed. Men, who are usually active, loud and exuberant, suddenly went quiet. We each retreated into the little worlds inside our heads as we read and re-read each letter and postcard and carefully unwrapped parcels.

  The contents of most letters remained private but the contents of packages were passed around. Men shared chocolate, biscuits, dried fruit and even hand-knitted scarves and socks with their mates. The feeling of unity was stronger than I’d ever experienced.

  Mother’s letter revealed a less appealing side of human nature.

  Dear Victor,

  Hans sends his love and told me to say you are a ‘gut boy’. He was very emotional when he first saw me. He wept and wept and could not speak. His accommodation is very basic. The internees sleep in tents much as you had at Morphettville. Tents are fine for healthy young men but not for arthritic eighty year-olds. Hans was unwilling to talk when I asked him questions about how he’s treated by the guards but one of his friends did not beat around the bush.

  He told me that ‘the guards are mean and show no sympathy for the old and sick. They treat everybody the same—badly! It is a disgrace. Everyone imprisoned here isa good Australian citizen.’

  The same man told me Hans sleeps on a straw mattress and has only two thin blankets to cover him. His friend told me he cannot get up in the morning without assistance. His limbs seize up in the cold night air. It is shameful to treat an old man so badly.

  I have told you as it was told to me, Victor, so you can see that our people can also act in ways that we find uncivilised in our enemies.

  I probably should not write such statements or I too will be interred!

  I am sorry I do not have better news for our ‘gut boy’.

  Your loving Mother and Father

  Friday, 2 April

  We attended a special Good Friday service. The Chaplain’s sermon focused on why God allows good men to die. The message hit home to each and every man in the congregation. ‘We must not fear death, men. God is with us and will catch us as we fall.’

  ‘I don’t know about you blokes but I’m not convinced,’ Robbo commented later. ‘I think I’ve got one shot at life. When I bite the bullet, someone will tip me into a hole, cover me with dirt and that’s my lot done.’

  ‘You’ve got to believe more than that, cobber,’ Needle replied. ‘I mean, if that’s my lot too and my only reward is to be sent to Turkey or France to be shot, then I can’t see the point in living.’ He gazed across the water at the gently rolling Lemnos hills then added, ‘There’s got to be more. I really believe that.’

  ‘So do I,’ piped in Fish. ‘I’m happy to die and spend eternity surrounded by hundreds of beautiful angels. Heaven is my idea of paradise,’ he said and laughed madly at his own joke.

  Monday, 5 April

  We’ve heard a frightening rumour. The Turks captured the crew of a British submarine, tortured them savagely then killed them. The men in my battalion are understandably angry and keen to do battle and inflict revenge.

  Thursday, 15 April

  Dear Mother and Father,

  The tension and frustration builds daily here. We’ve been stuck on this ‘floating prison’ for six weeks now. We go ashore regularly but only to train. The fellows are longing to get under fire. Anything is preferable to this endless waiting.

  The lads are fed up with military commanders and politicians who urge men to enlist then leave them sitting around for months, miles from frontline action.

  I am sorry I did not reply to your last letter more promptly but as you can see from the above, there is nothing new to report. Besides, what you told me of Hans’ mistreatment, upset me terribly. He deserves so much better. HE is the GUT person, not me.

  Anyway, enough of my bellyaching. They can’t leave us here much longer. There’s a war on you know and troops are urgently needed at the front!!!

  Your desperate-for-action son, Victor

  Later

  Our unit colour patches were handed out this afternoon: they’re purple on top and saxe-blue underneath. We spent a few minutes sewing them onto the upper sleeve of our tunics. My needle and thread skills are not great but they’re better than Fish’s so I helped him get his patch level and in the correct position. The patches help officers identify men from their unit which is particularly important under battle conditions.

  Monday, 19 April

  Practise, practise, practise, day after day after day. Needle suggested it may be high command’s plan to frustrate us so badly that when they let us loose on the Turks, we’ll charge into them fearlessly, preferring instant death to endless boredom.

  We climb down the sides of ships on rope ladders into lighters (they’re like lifeboats), then back up again. We do it time and time again and are clocked by our officers. With fifty men allocated to each lighter, it’s quite a feat to get the last few lads seated.

  A variation on this drill is to climb down, find your position in the lighter, get towed ashore, leap out into the shallows, charge up the beach into the hills then dig in in such a way that we maintain the battalion line. No trenches are allowed to be too far forward where their flanks will be exposed to the enemy. Maintaining communication along the length of the line has proved difficult.

  ‘If we’re having this many problems communicating,’ Robbo pointed out, ‘when we’re under no pressure from hostile gunfire, shelling and counterattacks, how on earth will we maintain communication and hold the line when all hell’s breaking loose and men are f
alling down dead or wounded or simply cowering with fear?’ He paused. ‘If we don’t get this right now, lads, there’ll be holes in our frontline that the Turks will charge through.’

  I knew that much of what Robbo said was true but hoped we could do what we had trained to do when the day of action arose.

  Tuesday, 20 April

  It’s happening! We’ve been told we leave port tomorrow. We’re part of a landing force on a Turkish peninsula named Gallipoli.

  The peninsula is only a few miles wide. Our battalion’s job on the first day is to push two miles inland to the top of the third ridge and dig in so we establish a beachhead behind us where supplies and reinforcements can safely land. Once we’ve secured our frontline, we’re to push on across the peninsula.

  The ease of our progress, of course, depends on the strength and quality of the Turkish forces who oppose our landing. They’re reported to be inferior fighters. If that’s true our losses will be minimal. I hope that’s the case. I don’t want any of my battalion killed or maimed, especially my friends.

  My pack is fully loaded: iron rations, cans of bully beef, hard biscuits, jam, 250 rounds of ammunition, entrenching tool, overcoat, medical kit, empty sandbags, two grenades, a water canteen, and enough firewood tied on top to cook meals for three days.

  I double-checked the contents of my pack and triple-checked the battle readiness of my rifle and bayonet. Afterwards, I sat and wrote a letter.