by Alan Tucker
Some of the lads stalked and captured a sniper the other morning. How they spotted him I’m not sure because when they hauled him past us back to headquarters, he looked like a walking bush. He was draped in netting and had leaves and branches attached to him. The Intelligence officers wanted a live prisoner to interrogate. They hoped he’d blab and give them information about the Turkish defences, troop numbers and location of their artillery.
Men sometimes refuse to take prisoners because we don’t have enough food and water for ourselves. Also, there aren’t enough transports to take away our wounded comrades let alone accommodate prisoners of war.
‘Any space on a lighter has to be allocated to an Australian soldier, not a Turkish one,’ I heard one chap fiercely say.
Other blokes are more blunt in their refusal to take prisoners.
‘I signed up to shoot the enemy. I’m not paid enough to put my life at risk trying to take them alive.’
Friday, 7 May
Our third batch of reinforcements arrived today. I’m sure they’re good lads and well trained but they can’t truly replace the lads we’ve lost: no-one can.
We ‘old-hands’ have been dug-in for less than a fortnight but the fact we’ve survived proves we’ve learned a lot about survival.
‘Or been damned lucky,’ Needle reminded me.
‘I trust our good luck will continue,’ Fish added.
‘There’s a bullet with each of our names on it,’ Robbo said harshly.
‘True, but if I kill the Turk whose got my bullet in his barrel then I live to fight another day,’ Needle replied with a cheeky grin.
Later
I’m off duty in our dugout. I’ve thought more about our earlier conversation. When I stepped ashore I was an innocent young man. No longer. I’ve killed several Turks. How many? I’m really not sure because we’re often shooting in the dark at shadows or voices or we’re firing at the same time as hundreds of other fellows and can’t be sure who shot whom.
There is one man I can confirm as my ‘kill’. That sounds shocking doesn’t it because it implies I’m a killer. I am, I guess—at least that’s the way I see what I did. I’ve heard others describe with great glee the number of Turks they’ve shot and then pass it off as of no consequence by saying, ‘I shouldn’t boast, I’m just doing my job.’
I need to write down how it happened that I killed a man. It’s one way of easing my guilt. I don’t want to talk about it with my mates.
I was on sentry duty two nights ago and became aware of movement ten or fifteen yards out from our lines. I heard someone shuffling forward and could just make out a slow-wriggling silhouette. I took aim, waiting until he was too close for comfort, (all the time hoping he’d turn around and move back to his trenches), then fired. One shot only. I heard the thud as the bullet struck his body. I maintained my gaze over the barrel in case more bullets were required but there was no movement.
I thought little of it until the next morning when I took up my position in the trench and could see the body. The man’s face was looking my way. I shook all over. He was dressed in a Turkish uniform but his face was not distinctly Turkish. It certainly didn’t look like the face of an enemy, whatever that looks like. It looked like any human being’s face that you see on any given day. One glance told me that my enemy was as human as me. He was a young man with a mother and father and brothers and sisters and grandparents and friends and, they’d all miss him now he was dead.
It’s only nine or ten months ago that I decided I could do whatever I wanted in life, as long as I didn’t kill my neighbour. And now I’d done it. I knew I had to live with what I’d done and move on if I was to survive.
Sunday, 9 May
Last night a small party of our lads raided the Turkish trenches opposite us. They drove them out, grabbed anything that might help our Intelligence then were driven out by a Turkish counterattack. Some did not make it back. This risk is known when men volunteer for a raid. Whereas I hesitate to volunteer, they do so freely: they face death with a smile.
I have grown somewhat callous in the two weeks since we landed. I am surrounded by bodies day and night but I was upset this morning when I saw how the Turks disrespected our dead comrades. They stacked their bodies in front of the trench to add height to their parapet. Those poor, forsaken men.
Wednesday, 12 May
The Turks threw pamphlets wrapped around rocks into our trenches. Their message addressed us as Colonials and Kangaroo shooters and promised we’d be well treated if we surrendered.
‘I’ll make them hop like kangaroos,’ Needle joked, ‘if they’re silly enough to step out of their trenches.’
Their trenches, according to the lads who raided them the other night, are far more comfortable than ours. They’re deeper and covered over with logs in many places. The logs are pine. On the ridge above their trenches are the stumps of dozens of pine trees. For some reason the Turks left one tree standing. Our lads refer to it as ‘the lonesome pine’. Even our naval bombardments have failed to fell it. I see that as a positive sign and the tree as a symbol of hope. In the early morning light it is silhouetted boldly against the dawn hues. It is one of the few things in this foreign land which offers me a connection with the simple country life I enjoyed eight months ago.
Friday, 14 May
It is late spring here in the northern hemisphere and water is becoming scarce. We spend much of our time behind the frontline, carting water in heavy metal boxes from the beach, up Shrapnel Gully to our reserve trenches. If we are unable to push the Turks back and conquer the peninsula before the heat of summer, our survival here will be precarious.
I shouldn’t complain too much. I’m alive, many others are not. We just heard that the Turks torpedoed the battleship HMS Goliath yesterday. 150 men were rescued but more than 550 went down with the ship.
Sunday, 16 May
Intelligence reports a build-up of Turkish reinforcements all along the line. They predict an attack any day so we have been ordered to be vigilant.
One fellow who didn’t obey the order is Major-General Bridges. He was careless and copped a bad one in the leg. He’s not expected to live.
Tuesday, 18 May
I have regularly wished for peace these past few weeks and an end to the constant firing of rifles, machine-guns and artillery but now that my wish has come true, I am frightened. The Turkish guns have been silent for more than an hour. I should be able to relax but I cannot. I fear this is the calm before the storm. I am not the only one feeling uneasy. Everyone’s nerves are tingling and their tempers on edge. Fish and Needle, who are usually both quite casual about our circumstances, snapped at each other while we shared a cup of tea.
The news of Major-General Bridges’ death added to our high anxiety levels.
Wednesday, 19 May
It is afternoon and very quiet but it is the quiet after the storm. The Turkish attack earlier this morning was worse than a storm: it was an avalanche of death. Turkish soldiers stormed out of their trenches at 3.30 am and flooded downhill in their thousands towards our trenches. Thank God for machine-guns and for the courage and steadfast character of my comrades. They stood their ground and fired until the barrels of their rifles were red hot.
It was a slaughter. We mowed them down wave after wave for hour after hour all along the front. No exaggeration: we must have fired a million rounds.
Every attack was heralded by shouts of ‘Allah’, every lull with the moans of their wounded. Our battalion had casualties too but I’ve heard they were light: about a dozen killed and two dozen wounded. The Turks lost thousands and thousands of men.
It is sunset and the eerie quiet of the guns continues: so do the cries of the wounded. The earth is carpeted with dead and dying Turks.
I have seen thousands of dead mice littering the ground after a plague and Father has spoken of thousands of dead rabbits around dried-up water holes when he was a boy, but what I am confronted with are human beings—and many of them
are not dead. They soon will be if they do not get first aid. But how is that possible? Stretcher-bearers from either side would be shot if they rose from the trench.
‘We mowed them down like grass,’ Needle said without intending to gloat.
‘I’ve never had much success impressing the ladies when I try my luck shooting ducks at the Shoot-’em-Down gallery, but today even I couldn’t miss,’ Fish added.
‘They didn’t stand a chance,’ Robbo said with sadness. ‘One thing’s for sure, no commander from either army will ever again order a full-frontal assault against troops in trenches.’
Saturday, 22 May
We were issued with our first periscope a week or so ago. It proved so popular that men have been ordered to manufacture them around the clock. Another team is making bombs in jam tins. Dozens of those are distributed every day.
The periscope allows frontline observers to watch the enemy trenches in relative safety. I say ‘relative’ because Turkish snipers target the periscopes and observers risk broken glass fragments being embedded in their scalp—or worse, their face and eyes.
The day was hot and the pong of bloated bodies unbearable.
Late in the day someone shouted, ‘There’s something doing. Some Turk’s waving a flag.’
An officer ordered Cease Fire then raised a periscope to take a look. Every periscope in the trench was doing likewise, and no-one was talking. It was slightly disturbing.
‘He’s holding up a big white flag with a red crescent on it.’
I was dying to see for myself but dared not raise my head above the parapet, even though no-one was shooting.
‘Someone’s coming over the top.’
‘He’s unarmed. Hold your fire,’ the officer shouted.
‘He’s either a fool or a very brave man,’ Fish said as he handed the periscope to me.
I scanned the enemy trench line until I saw him. He was slowly moving towards us, flag held high, head bowed. He was no doubt scared stiff and rightly so. One of our lads could tumble him at any second.
I can’t describe the admiration I felt for him. He was humble but proud and so very brave. I know true bravery now for I have seen men perform the bravest of tasks. Many have been killed for their efforts: a few have been nominated for the highest honours.
This man will attract no medal but he was truly worthy of one. I watched mesmerised by his unhurried stride, fearing one of our lads would open fire on him. None did, thank God.
I heard a rush of footsteps behind me. The colonel arrived with an interpreter who called to the Turk in his language. He stopped. Our colonel rose from the trench to meet him: one of their officers did the same.
Machine-gun bullets raked the air above them. They ducked and made back to their lines but turned around when the burst of gunfire stopped. A small party from each side moved to the middle of No Man’s Land.
They held a discussion, aided by the interpreter. When talks ended, our men saluted, their men bowed, then both parties returned to their trenches. Soon after that the firing recommenced. Our enemies were our enemies again.
Monday, 24 May
An unarmed Turkish staff officer visited our lines yesterday as a result of the parley on Saturday. Following further negotiations, a truce has just commenced. Soldiers from both sides are free to bury the bodies strewn across No Man’s Land. The smell from the dead is foul. It will be a relief to be free of it. Both sides are under strict orders not to fire.
We put down our rifles and climbed out of the trench. We carried the Turkish dead closer to their trenches and they did likewise with ours.
Even though we were engaged in the unpleasant task of moving hideously swollen bodies, the atmosphere was more pleasant than usual. We were free of the confines of our trenches and the terrible business of killing. A gentle rain and a slight breeze cooled us as we laboured. It felt good to be doing something humane for a change.
Our officers were happy for the truce to continue for some time because it gave them a chance to have a good look at the enemy trenches.
Before each burial we identified our comrade’s body and passed on the name and rank to the medical personnel. Chaplain Frank worked flat out saying the necessary words over each dead man.
Between burials men chatted briefly with the enemy. Language often failed us but by the use of signs, gestures and the exchange of souvenirs, we communicated and showed goodwill to one another.
The Turks had many more dead to bury than we did, but we allowed them a dignified amount of time to conduct their burials. The grief the Turkish soldiers displayed when they found a friend’s body was terrible to see. I realised as I witnessed their pain that they had human emotions like us.
‘They’re not just upset by the loss of their friend, they’re also worried about his soul,’ Robbo told us. ‘In the Muslim religion a dead man must be buried within 24 hours.’
When our job was done we returned to our trench and discussed our feelings, something which even a month ago we would never have done.
‘That was the worst job I’ve ever done,’ Needle told us, ‘and believe me I’ve done some shockers. I worked in an abattoir once but that was a walk in the park compared to moving those bodies. I know most of them were only Turks but…’
‘But you felt for them,’ Robbo added.
‘Yeah, I did, cobber. But it wasn’t hatred. That’s what the army’s told me to feel for eight months now and I have. Since we landed I’ve shot to kill and used the bayonet with savagery. But…’ Again he went quiet.
‘They’re just fellows like us, aren’t they,’ Fish added.
‘They’re just doing their job. I looked at some faces and thought I’d probably have a beer with them if I met them in a pub.’
‘They’re Muslim. They don’t drink alcohol,’ Robbo corrected him.
‘Well, you know what I mean,’ Fish concluded.
‘Do you know what one of them told me?’ Robbo asked.
‘I heard you yabbering away in their lingo. How’d you learn to speak Turk?’ Needle asked.
‘It was French, pigeon-French to be correct. He told me that many of their officers are German and the Turks hate them as much as we do.’
‘Then why are we fighting them?’
‘That’s the sad thing about war,’ Robbo replied. ‘Sometimes there seems no reason to fight but we follow orders. Anyway, he told me his countrymen are fierce fighters who are prepared to die to drive us from their country but the Germans doubted their bravery and ordered machine-guns trained on their backs as they attacked the other morning. They were dead men whether they went forward or back.’
‘Poor bastards,’ Needle said with great sympathy.
Weeks ago, Robbo told me war changes everyone. I know it’s changed me.
This evening, when we were relieved and sent behind the lines, I attended the funerals of some of our lads. It was a totally different experience from the funeral at sea. Then, peace reigned. Today, despite the solemnity of the occasion, Turkish bullets and shells continuously whistled and boomed overhead. Once or twice the burial party nearly needed a funeral of its own. Shells exploded close by showering us with dirt.
I attended the funerals partly out of respect for my dead comrades and partly out of my need to come to terms with my own actions.
I, like every Australian along the frontline yesterday, shot and killed or maimed dozens of Turks. I shot until the barrel of my gun was too hot to touch. I know it was a kill or be killed situation but, in hindsight, I take no pride in what I did and need to forgive myself.
I prayed for the dead men’s souls and for my own.
Tuesday, 25 May
Dear Mother and Father,
It’s a month since we landed—it seems an eternity. War is not how l imagined it. It has a devastating effect on men. I don’t just mean the injuries and deaths but the inner pain it causes. I am hurting inside and I’m sure others are too.
But do not worry about me. I am in good spirits overal
l—and in good company. We cheer each other up despite our unpleasant circumstances.
Your son who is growing up the hard way, Victor
PS I will post this and another letter in the one envelope when mail is dispatched from the peninsula—which should be soon (hopefully).
Sunday, 30 May
I am saddened by two incidents affecting our Turkish opponents. The first I witnessed only this morning, the other I was told happened a day or two ago.
Every day since the truce an old Turkish fellow, a soldier of course, has come out of his trench unarmed to collect firewood. He’s so game that no-one bothers to pot him. We’re not going soft on the Turks but since the slaughter we have gained some respect for them.
Anyway, ‘Ernest’ as we call him, had the privilege of wandering around No Man’s Land unharmed. At least he did until this morning when we were reinforced with troops straight off the ship. One of them, keen to down his first Turk, potted Ernest before anyone could explain the special rules regarding the old man.
The other incident happened at the northern end of the Australian trench line. Some of our boys raided the Turkish trenches. They retreated with a prisoner when the counterattack became too hot. They were slowed, however, because they were assisting their wounded as well as guarding the prisoner.
Turkish soldiers got too close for comfort so they dived into a shell hole. While sheltered there, their Turkish prisoner suddenly started talking English. He said he was only part-Turk and had been forced into the army.
The situation became very dangerous when the Turks moved forward to surround them so the Australians decided to make a run for their trench line. Their prisoner volunteered to cover them—if they handed him a rifle. For whatever crazy reason, they trusted him.
