Gallipoli

by Alan Tucker

  ‘Goodbye, old chap,’ they said as they prepared to run for their lives.

  He apparently replied, ‘Smiling may you go, and smiling come again.’

  They turned and ran and left him to shoot it out with his countrymen. He was quickly overrun. They hoped he was shot dead rather than taken prisoner. As a prisoner he’d have been punished severely and killed cruelly.

  These two incidents, coming on top of the slaughter of 19 May, indicate how feelings between the two lines of soldiers are mellowing. We still kill one another daily but do so with less hatred in our heart.

  Another indicator of a growing respect for the enemy can be heard in the way the lads refer to the Turks. Until this week they were simply Abdul but in recent days I’ve heard men refer to them as Jacko or Johnny (short for Johnny Turk). I’m not sure how those names originated.

  My friends have even thrown cans of bully beef and biscuits over into the Turkish trenches in recent days.

  ‘Some of their fellows looked like they needed some decent tucker,’ Robbo said.

  ‘You can’t call those hard biscuits good tucker, mate. Those poor blighters will snap their teeth unless they soak them for a month of Sundays.’

  ‘If they’re smart they’ll use them as bullet-proof shields next time they attack,’ Robbo suggested and Needle roared with laughter.

  The Turks responded by throwing back a tin of figs with a note attached. Needle picked it up, read it and said it was meant for him alone.

  ‘Why? What does it say?’ Fish asked.

  ‘Take with pleasure our heroic enemies. I’m the only hero amongst you lot so I’ll just stash this tin away for my private use,’ Needle said with a cheeky grin.

  ‘Like hell you will,’ said Fish taking the bait.

  Needle laughed and handed the tin over to be shared.

  Evening

  The frontline has been very quiet since the slaughter. The Turks must be in shock. I don’t blame them. My friends and I were shocked by the amount of bloodshed even though we weren’t on the receiving end: we didn’t have to watch our friends needlessly mowed down.

  As I sat here tonight watching the sun set over the ocean and gazing at the faint outline of peaceful Greek islands on the horizon, I realised I care less about the war and more for the people who suffer because of it. We soldiers are all victims of its brutality, whether we’re Aussie or Turk. We are more the same than we are different.

  ‘Robbo?’

  ‘Yes, mate.’

  ‘You said the Turks are Muslim.’

  ‘Yes, mate.’

  ‘So, when they pray, who do they pray to?’

  ‘Allah.’

  ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘God, mate.’

  ‘Is he the same God as ours but with a different name?’

  ‘Very likely, Quickie, but you’d best ask one of them.’ He pointed at Jacko’s trenches then grinned. ‘But it might be safer to wait till this stoush is over before you do.’

  Thursday, 3 June

  We have been ordered to create a diversion tonight. Our commanders call it a ‘demonstration’.

  ‘What that means,’ Robbo said sarcastically, ‘is that we leap up out of our trenches, wave our bare bums at Jacko, then dive for cover when he gets over the shock and opens fire. And we hope like hell we aren’t killed.

  ‘Meanwhile, at the southern end of the peninsula, our British comrades attack their Turks without the possibility of our Turks running south to reinforce them.’

  Later

  Our mates from the 15th Battalion are the first Australians to be relieved since the fighting began. They’ll be taken off the peninsula under cover of darkness and shipped to Lemnos for Leave.

  Am I jealous? Hardly. Those lads have had it worse than us. The main position they hold is called Quinn’s Post. It’s well-known to be the most dangerous post on the line: it’s only a few yards wide. As well as living less than ten yards from the Turkish trenches and being wedged between steep gullies back and front, the boys from the 15th are under constant fire from higher ground.

  ‘They’re hanging on by the skin on their teeth,’ Needle acknowledged. ‘If you find it unpleasant here then transfer to the 15th and you’ll find yourself well and truly in hell.

  ‘They have regular bomb-throwing competitions with the Turks. One side throws a bomb with the fuse alight into the other’s trench. Someone there picks it up and throws it back and so on until someone’s hand or head gets blown off. And as if that’s not bad enough, last week Jacko tunnelled under their trench and blew it up killing several men.’

  ‘You wonder how men stay sane under such shocking living conditions,’ Robbo mused. ‘Maybe they don’t,’ he added sadly.

  Sunday, 6 June

  This morning the first combined religious service was held on the peninsula. Word was passed around the trenches yesterday to meet near the intersection of Pope and Monash gullies. I arrived early and joined a small party, including the Chaplains, in removing empty shell cases and bodies from the site. There are bodies everywhere. As quickly as they’re removed for burial in the cemeteries, more men are killed in the same spot or on the ridges above and their bodies slide down into the gullies.

  The site chosen for the service was only 150 yards from the frontline. There were a couple of hundred men present and the service was short. The less time spent in a large group, the better. The men and Chaplains knew it was unsafe to congregate but most of us had never had a greater need to pray than now.

  I gazed around the congregation. It was very different from the one I’d grown up amongst in Moonta. There were no women of course, and the men, instead of presenting themselves in their Sunday-best, were in rough battle dress, had grimy haggard faces (mostly unshaved) and blood-shot eyes.

  I mentioned to Robbo that I’d never seen such an unkempt congregation.

  ‘The stress of war strips away the non-essentials, Quickie. Men become more honest and open. At moments of greatest stress we can read each other’s soul.’

  ‘Strewth!’ Needle replied. ‘I don’t want you blokes seeing what’s inside me. It’s bad enough having to expose my backside to you on the open latrine without getting even more personal.’

  ‘Talking of the latrine,’ Fish interrupted. ‘A sniper’s been targeting blokes as they go about their business, so take care.’

  ‘How much worse can this place get?’ Needle asked. ‘You risk being blown sky high every time you wash in the ocean and now you risk having your brains splattered while squatting over the long-drop.’

  Later

  Dear Mother and Father,

  Another short letter which I’ll post today with another two. I apologise for how crumpled and dirty they are—they’ve been folded in my pocket since I wrote them. Things are settling down here. A mail delivery system is finally set up and will operate as regularly as space on lighters and supply ships allows.

  We go about our daily routines almost as if a war is not raging all around us. This morning we had our first joint religious service and sang our hearts out. I felt, and others obviously did too, the need to whole-heartedly express myself. With so much nasty business going on around us, any peaceful activity is to be treasured.

  Your devoted son, Victor

  PS Pardon my rudeness. I have not asked after your health and happiness nor that of Hans. Please write and tell me all is well. Good news is vital in this place at this time.

  Thursday, 10 June

  How much worse can conditions get? Well, despite their fear of the sniper, men gather in greater and greater numbers at the latrine. Why?

  The summer heat plus countless dead bodies has resulted in millions of flies hatching out—and flies quickly spread disease. Diarrhoea is rampant and it’s rumoured that men have been evacuated with dysentery. As Needle said, ‘We’re more likely to die of fly-poisoning than lead-poisoning.’ The Big Brass are taking that threat very seriously and have ordered us to tighten up on hygiene. If dysentery becomes wide
spread our strength as a fighting force will be considerably weakened.

  Nearly everyone has been wracked with severe stomach cramps in recent days. The pain forces sufferers to lie down and curl up in a ball. That’s not the ideal position to fend off a Turkish attack.

  Lice are a continual problem. If we attack them regularly we can control their numbers but not eliminate them. My friends and I sit in a circle like a troop of monkeys then pick the nits and their eggs out of each other’s hair. Our hair is cut as short as possible to give the miserable so-and-so’s less area to breed.

  Once heads are done we remove our shirts and shorts and squeeze the hems and joins between our fingernails. These thicker sections are where the lice congregate and lay their eggs. The final step, apart from washing the clothes which can happen only rarely because of water shortages, is to run a candle flame around the seams to fry the survivors.

  Despite thorough purges, we cannot defeat the lice army.

  Sunday, 13 June

  Turkish spies were caught wearing the uniforms of dead Australians. One man’s final words before he was shot were, ‘Surrender, Australian. Do not die for your English masters. Surrender or the Turkish army will drive you into the sea and take no prisoners.’

  Despite our brutal conditions, I am often struck by the beauty of the peninsula. This evening the sun was setting and the blue waters of the Aegean sparkled under the soft orange clouds. I dropped my guard and allowed my senses to soak up the peaceful moment.

  A barrage of Turkish shells brought me back to reality with a bang. Shrapnel burst over the men bathing in the ocean. Some swam on unharmed but others dropped dead in the gentle waves or splashed around in great agony. Blood stained the blue waters red.

  A treat was issued with the evening meal—bread. We hadn’t tasted bread since we landed six weeks ago. It helped to fill our bellies and reminded us of home. My mates and I shared a tin of jam to add to the moment. It’s amazing to think that such a simple meal can make men feel so good.

  Friday, 18 June

  The shelling of ANZAC Cove has continued all week. The Turks are probably trying to destroy the new pier. Until now every man, food supply, piece of ammunition and building material has had to come ashore on a temporary pier. The shame of the increased shelling is that it makes even more dangerous the simple act of bathing and denies men one of the few pleasures available to them in this hellhole.

  The concentrated shelling of the beach made it slightly safer to move around elsewhere. I visited the cemetery and paid my respects to our dead. I also spent time tidying up the graves, righting crosses that had been blown down and fixing rock borders around the plots of men from my battalion.

  Sunday, 20 June

  It’s hard enough digging trenches and dugouts but now there’s a push on all along the front to dig tunnels out under No Man’s Land. It’s not a job I want. Father once took me underground in Moonta. There the shafts are large and men can stand up: here they are shallow and narrow and men have to wriggle on their stomachs to get into a digging position. Safety precautions are minimal and there’s always the possibility that the percussion of an artillery shell overhead will send the roof crushing down, burying men alive. The men who volunteer to work underground on this peninsula are brave indeed.

  Once each tunnel reaches the Turkish trenches, the tunnellers fill the end with explosives. When the time is right they’ll be detonated then the Turks entrenched above will be blown sky-high.

  ‘Seems like a lot of dangerous work to achieve what one well-placed naval shell could do,’ Needle commented.

  ‘Yes, but naval guns can’t get the correct trajectory to lob shells into a trench and do maximum damage,’ Robbo explained. ‘And besides, digging tunnels is better than sitting around doing nothing. We’ve got to do something different to get us out of this pickle. At the moment our situation is a hopeless stalemate.

  ‘It seems to me,’ he continued, ‘that if the Brass Hats had got their planning right earlier this year, they’d have known the Turks were well entrenched on this part of the peninsula. Knowing that, they could have landed us in some less fortified location and used our fighting grit where it had some chance of success.’

  About 200 blokes attended this evening’s service and sang their hearts out despite Jacko’s attempts to silence us. Hymns are always sung with great volume and feeling here on the peninsula. Such raucous singing would raise the roof off the church back in Moonta and would no doubt be considered bad taste by the good church-goers.

  Monday, 21 June

  Today was the best day since we bathed in the warm springs at Thermia two months ago: a store ship unloaded canteen supplies. Our battalion was resting behind the lines and able to get on the queue before the swarm arrived. My friends and I varied our purchases to ensure we bought something of everything: pickles, sauce, tinned fruit, biscuits, milk powder and chocolate. We feasted and laughed like we did in the old times back in Adelaide.

  Later

  More joy was to come: a two months’ supply of mail was distributed. I pitied the lads in the frontline who didn’t have time to immediately read their pile. Some blokes received as many as six letters. I received a package and letter and then retreated to a shallow squat.

  I sat alone, with my back pushed into a hollow in the hillside and my body facing the view. But it wasn’t the view I was interested in: it was the news from home. I read and re-read Mother’s letter.

  Dear Victor,

  We do hope you are safe. We have read such heroic and horrible reports about the Gallipoli landing and battles. When Father and I signed your enlistment form we had no idea what we were getting you into. We wish we had not signed it—but we did and now all we can do is pray for your survival and the success of the ANZAC campaign. Please write so we know you are alive and well.

  On the surface, life goes on as usual here in Moonta, but underneath everything has changed. I fear for your life every moment of every day.

  Please write and please tell us you are uninjured. One injured man in the family is one too many.

  Your very worried Mother and Father

  PS We find it hard to get information about Hans. I am frustrated and sad that two of the most important men in my life have been taken from me by this war.

  Tuesday, 22 June

  Dear Mother and Father,

  Good news—I am in one piece. And well. And in good company. I am amongst the ANZACS. Indeed, I am an ANZAC and proud to be so. You may have read the word in the paper. It stands for Australian and New Zealand Army Corps. That’s how the British High Command labelled us on the day of the landing—and it’s stuck. We’re stuck too. We’re dug-in and the Turks are dug-in and the result is a stalemate.

  I have better news: supplies regularly arrive so we now have bread and a store to buy small luxury food items. And the Chaplains have been given permission to hold religious services every Sunday.

  I will post this letter immediately but who knows when it will leave the peninsula. I wish that I could accompany it back to you.

  Love to you both, your battle-hardened son,

  Victor

  Saturday, 26 June

  Dig, dig, dig. All week we deepened trenches, enlarged dugouts and created extra terraces on the steep hills behind the lines to accommodate reinforcements. On top of those fatigues we were ordered to help build a section of an artillery road further down the valley.

  We worked very hard under a scorching sun. The water shortage, coupled with the millions of annoying flies, added to our discomfort. When we saw a change blowing in over the ocean, we were delighted. What it brought, unfortunately, was a massive dust storm. We were hit by a sudden wind that picked up rubbish and newspapers and blew them across into the Turkish trenches. Sadly, some men lost precious letters that had not been stored safely.

  The Turks became spooked by the storm, especially when lightning strikes and thunder added to the atmosphere. They probably feared we’d attack under cover of the du
st so they opened fire with everything they had. Their shellfire added to a most unpleasant day.

  They wasted their ammo. We’ve got nothing planned. Our inaction is a sore point. The men are frustrated by the lack of an offensive plan.

  Thursday, 1 July

  We’ve been relieved by the boys from the 9th Battalion. We’re in the reserve trench and this time next Thursday we’ll be on a ship bound for three days Leave on the isle of Imbros. We can see it silhouetted on the horizon each evening at sunset. It represents paradise on earth.

  Now that we’re out of the firing line we can hear the boom of artillery to the south where the Tommies (British soldiers) are still trying to break the Turk’s stranglehold on Cape Helles. A handful of our lads died in the Monday demonstration trying to distract ‘our’ Turks from reinforcing their Turkish brothers against that main offensive. Why can’t we swap places with the Tommies and see some real fighting instead of playing cat and mouse here? If we’re going to die, at least let us die having a real go.

  Wednesday, 7 July

  ‘I’ve got itchy pants,’ Needle commented, ‘and it’s not just from the nits. I just want to keep out of harm’s way and board that ship tomorrow in one piece.’

  ‘Do you think there’ll be any women on Imbros?’ Fish asked.

  ‘If there are I’d keep my hands and eyes to myself,’ Robbo warned. ‘Greek fathers and brothers are notoriously protective of their womenfolk. If they come after you, you’ll wish you were back here playing with Jacko.’