by Alan Tucker
Thursday, 8 July
We were roused, and happy to be so, at 3.30 am. We went down to the beach with great anticipation. We sang as they ferried us out to the waiting ship then cheered when the anchor was raised and we sailed west over the ocean blue.
Sunday, 11 July
Dear Mother and Father,
We are on Leave on a Greek island. Two and a half months ago we would have thought life here is normal but compared to how we live on Gallipoli, this is paradise. I cannot explain how happy I am to be free of the frontline. I wish we’d never met Johnny Turk.
I agree with Robbo that war changes everyone but I realise that the reverse is also true—peace changes everyone. After three days of uninterrupted sleep, good food, relaxing swims, warm baths, new clothes and a liberal amount of fresh water my battalion look like new men.
On that bright note, I’ll say goodbye.
Your refreshed son, Victor
Sunday, 18 July
We’ve been back in the firing line for several days. It’s very quiet. It’s almost as if Jacko’s lot and our lot have come up with an arrangement: each side fires off just enough bullets and shells to keep our officers happy but not enough to do too much damage.
The big news today came from the New Zealand camp. They’ve sentenced a fellow named Dunn to death for sleeping at his post. Every Aussie I spoke to was very angry. They said commanders have no idea what the ordinary fighting man is going through.
‘I’d like to line up some of the Big Brass,’ Robbo commented angrily. ‘I bet half the blokes on the peninsula would volunteer to be in that firing squad.’
‘Bloody oath,’ Needle responded. ‘The poor sod was no doubt exhausted. But I blame his mates for letting an officer catch him out. What are mates for but to look after one another.’
I went to Chaplain Frank’s service. The singing was uplifting and energetic. Mind you, it had to be, to be heard over Turkish shells and the shouts of Maori fellows shifting iron water tanks on the slopes above. They seemed to have only one volume when they spoke—LOUD. They’re big, burly blokes so no-one dared ask them to be quiet. At one stage the Chaplain simply paused mid-sentence then continued when they quietened down. On another occasion he ducked as a shell exploded nearby. It’s a good thing he did because a hunk of shrapnel whizzed through the air at head height in his direction. He straightened up, looked to the heavens with a smile, then continued his sermon.
Saturday, 24 July
We ‘Stood to’ awaiting a Turkish attack yesterday but it didn’t eventuate. Many of my comrades, despite our recent Leave, are not in good shape. Dysentery is spreading rapidly. Sufferers lose precious fluids, and that, coupled with the intense heat, leaves them dehydrated. They collapse and have to be stretchered down to the beach, given fluids then shipped to Lemnos or Alexandria. We’ve heard both hospitals are filled to capacity, more with sick men than wounded.
Gallipoli is a particularly unhealthy place at the moment. Before we warring armies moved in, I imagine it was a very beautiful place to live. I hope the resident farmers and shepherds escaped with their lives. When and if they return, their farms and grazing lands will never again be the same.
Tuesday, 27 July
Men’s physical health continues to deteriorate. Acute dysentery is the culprit. Two hundred and fifty men were evacuated yesterday alone. They reckon that brings the number of sufferers to 1,200. It’s a sad fact that a fellow’s far more likely to be brought down by disease rather than a bullet.
News has filtered through of yet another slaughter. I thought those days had passed. The New Zealanders, at the northern end of the line, were on the giving end of the bullets. They provoked Jacko by detonating explosives in saps (tunnels) under his trench.
The Turks must have reasoned that they’d sooner die fighting than have their legs blown off while sheltering in a trench. They rose like a swarm of angry bees and charged the New Zealanders’ trenches. The Kiwis cheered—then mowed them down in their hundreds.
Thursday, 29 July
I tidy up a few graves every time I pass to and from the beach but today I volunteered to be part of a cemetery fatigue. Chaplain Frank had collected bits of broken planks with which we constructed and repaired crosses.
We pulled weeds, tidied up the stone borders around graves and touched up faded names with a lick of paint. The borders remind me of Hans’ garden beds at home. The cemetery is large and growing daily. The number of inhabitants increased late in the day when a fresh batch of bodies arrived from the morgue.
We set to and dug a fresh batch of graves. The ground was rock-hard and the sun oppressive but we knew the importance of our job. By the time we’d finished digging and Chaplain Frank returned to say a few words over our comrades’ remains, we were filthy dirty, dripping with perspiration and shirtless.
To turn up to a funeral back in Australia dressed as we were, would provoke calls of ‘shame’ but here it is perfectly appropriate. Tears and perspiration ran down my cheeks as the Chaplain said a few final words.
‘They may not have been perfect but they made the supreme sacrifice. There will be many sad hearts back in Australia when news of the death of these brave men is made known to their families.’
I looked around at the names. Some I knew, some I did not. The saddest looking graves were those with crosses but no name, only the inscription Unknown Soldier. Some men are so badly injured by artillery shells that their bodies cannot be identified.
Saturday, 31 July
‘Johnny Turk’s about to cop a hiding,’ Needle told us confidently.
‘What do you know that we don’t?’ Robbo asked.
‘I spoke to a Tommy down on the beach,’ Needle replied, ‘and he said fresh troops are about to land north of here at Suvla Bay. There’ll be 20,000 Aussies, New Zealanders, Indians and Tommies. The Big Brass have planned the biggest offensive of the campaign.
‘All we’ve got to do is keep the Turks in front of us busy so they don’t rush north to oppose the landing then, when the Suvla lads have taken the high ground (he pointed to the big hills less than a mile to the north), we stroll across and claim Jacko’s trenches.’
‘What will Jacko do while we’re strolling?’ Robbo asked.
‘He’ll run as soon as our boys are up there (he pointed again) and can fire on him from the high ground. We all know Jacko’s heart’s not in this stoush, so as soon as we get the upper-hand, he’ll be out of here in a flash.’
‘Our heart’s not in this two-pot campaign either,’ Robbo commented, ‘but we haven’t run just because Jacko has the high ground. What makes you think he’s going to act less courageously than us? So far he’s given every indication that he’s every bit as stubborn and prepared to die as we are, maybe even more so. This is his patch of dirt remember. I know I’d fight to my last drop of blood if I was fighting invaders of my country.’
‘Too right,’ Fish said in support. ‘I’d die to protect Australia,’ then added with a smile, ‘mainly because I don’t want to share our good-looking Aussie women with anyone, especially foreigners.’
Needle had some other news too. Barrels of wine, believed to be from the Triumph, washed ashore yesterday.
‘You lads will be pleased to know I’m not just a pretty face. I managed to fill a water container before an officer came along and put the kibosh on us.’
‘You little champion,’ Fish cried excitedly.
‘What vintage is it?’
Needle was about to give a terse reply when he saw the grin on Robbo’s face.
‘It’s a 1915 Jacko Estate Claret, old chap.’
‘Not a good year, nor a very reputable winery,’ Robbo said in a fake British officer’s accent.
‘Well it’s all we’ve got in stock, sir,’ Needle replied. ‘Your companions and I would be delighted if we did not have to share it with you.’
‘Count me in, cobber,’ Robbo quickly replied.
Needle poured everyone a share.
‘To ou
r health,’ he said raising his mug. ‘Long may we live.’
I participated in the toast most heartily but took only the tiniest sip.
Wednesday, 4 August
Needle’s rumour was on the money. A big push is just a day or two away. It’s make or break time. If the new forces at Suvla can push Jacko off the high ground, the last 102 days (that’s how long we’ve been here), will have been worthwhile.
We’ve been issued a fresh supply of jam-tin bombs plus respirators in case of a gas attack. That’s a horrible possibility. I hope our Intelligence boys don’t know something that we don’t. Of all the horrid ways to die, suffocating because of a lung full of burning gas would have to be the worst.
Reinforcements arrived late today. I feel sorry for them. Their first day or two in the frontline will be a baptism of fire. They look so young and unworried. They’re nervous, of course, but their faces aren’t lined with fatigue and stress lines like we ‘old-hands’.
I wonder what I look like. I haven’t seen my face properly for weeks. The only mirror available is small, cracked, chipped and dirty. It’s almost impossible to wash and shave properly with our paltry issue of water.
Thursday, 5 August
We go over the top tomorrow. If Needle’s right and everything goes to plan, the Suvla offensive will grab the initiative and the high ground to the north and the Turks opposite us will be caught between their flanking fire and our frontal attack.
If all goes to plan. So far not much has from the moment we landed.
If all goes to plan we’ll have captured Lone Pine by this time tomorrow.
Just in case things don’t go to plan I intend to get my affairs in order tonight and write a letter home. Needle, Robbo and Fish are doing the same. None of us feel much like sleeping.
Dear Mother and Father,
Tomorrow we go over the top and attack the enemy in a full frontal attack—something we have not done since the day we landed. The Turks attempted a similar attack a couple of months ago with devastating results. I hope we are more successful.
I left home a boy but after what I’ve been through here, I have grown rapidly into adulthood. We live and die and conduct relationships here, man to man. There is no other way to survive.
I am determined to return but if I do not, rest assured I died gamely believing that you could not have been more loving or better parents. I hope I do survive so that I can return and tell you this face to face.
Your son, Victor
Friday, 6 August
The order’s come through. The first wave hops the bags at 4.30 pm. My lot are in reserve but everyone feels the tension. The day has dragged. I’ve sharpened my bayonet and dismantled and cleaned my rifle several times. I’m more nervous than I was on 25 April. I guess that’s because I’ve now seen what guns can do to a fellow.
To the south, the Cape Helles lads are into the Turks already. There’s been heavy rifle and artillery fire for two hours. This waiting, after three months of inactivity, is gut-wrenching. Or maybe that’s the diarrhoea. My innards haven’t been right for weeks. These nervous hours of waiting aren’t helping them to settle.
Our machine-gun section will be into the action from the start. Their job is to protect the northern flank as our infantry move forward. If Turkish machine-gunners are allowed free range they’ll make mincemeat of our boys.
The tunnellers will do their bit too. The noise, dust, craters and confusion they’ll cause when they blow their explosives, should give our lads some cover during their frontal assault. In the minute or so it takes the dust to settle our boys will hopefully have dashed across No Man’s land and be into the Turks with cold steel.
BANG BANG BANG.
A series of explosives shook the Turkish trenches and immediately our lads went over the top.
I was able to follow events through a periscope. A large number of our brave lads made it across the open ground, up onto the Turkish parapets then down into the trenches. Their intrusion prevented the Turks from firing as heavily at our second wave and within an hour a gold signal flag indicated we’d won the first trench.
Holding it is likely to prove a very bloody business.
Saturday, 7 August
Reports coming back tell of savage hand-to-hand combat, cold steel and no quarter given. The Turks held their ground and fought for every inch of every trench but gradually they were pushed back. Barriers were quickly thrown up to prevent counterattacks. The barriers, however, did not stop a barrage of bombs being thrown over the top. Men positioned themselves on both sides of the barrier to catch the bombs and throw them back. I desperately hope that phase of the stoush is over by the time my lot are called to action. My nerves couldn’t handle that.
Not that any man is ordered to perform such a dangerous task: they volunteer. The pluck of the average Australian fighter is unbelievable. The ‘good’ people at home will never believe how nobly behaved are lads who they would see as larrikins and no-hopers. I am honoured to serve with such men.
My mates openly weep when they see wounded comrades carried back through the trenches. Even the wounded are unbelievably brave. One man had shocking facial injuries but was singing as the stretcher-bearers carried him past. Another, whose legs were riddled with bullets, joked that, ‘It’s raining death over there boys so take an umbrella.’
After hearing such optimism in spite of terrible pain, I am ashamed of my whinges about minor discomforts. I am resolved to stick this game out and show the same pluck that my comrades display.
Sunday, 8 August
What a bloody mess! By that I mean this trench and the great Suvla offensive. I am tired of things military. Surely the God of War has had his fill of the slaughter by now.
I’m in Jacko’s trenches and he’s not happy. His big guns are shelling us mercilessly. When their heavy BOOM BOOM BOOM stops, we immediately hear cries of ‘ALLAH’ as Turkish infantry charge our position.
It’s bedlam. We don’t know what’s happening on either side of our line. The signallers regularly run lines of communication back to our trenches but Turkish shells quickly blast them (and often the poor signallers) to pieces.
I don’t know how the demonstration at Cape Helles is going but if it’s as savage as this, the Tommies will be at their wits’ end.
I’m hoping the big Suvla offensive to the north is successful but as yet there’s no sign of our lads occupying the high ground. If they were in position the Turks would have let up on us by now. But they haven’t, so Suvla must still be in the balance.
Thank goodness I have mates whose bravery is matched by their initiative. In the confines of the trenches individual soldiers do whatever has to be done to secure our position. They don’t wait for an officer to give an order, they act on instinct.
If enough officers survive to write reports, I’m sure many men from the battalion will be recognised for their bravery and selfless actions. If they don’t survive, we, their mates, know of their heroic deeds and that’s all that really matters.
Monday, 9 August
Shells continue to rain on us but the Turkish counterattacks have subsided. It is nearly impossible to bring food supplies up to us or to carry our wounded back for treatment. As a result we take food rations from dead chums and Turks and can do little to comfort our dying mates. Those who have been killed outright are better off.
This is war at its most primitive.
I feel like a wild beast.
We do not hesitate to drag dead Turks along our section of the trench and throw them on top of the barricades and parapet. I was appalled when Jacko did that to our dead and now I am doing exactly the same thing.
Despite our beastly actions I am entrenched with some of the best men I’ve ever known. Men who do not know me would lie down their lives to save mine and they would expect me to do the same. We live and die as one. They face death with a smile and whinge about nothing.
I surprised myself last night. I acted more bravely than I imagined possible.
The Turks know their old trenches backwards and used that knowledge to their advantage. They pinned us down with deadly sniper fire then sent a patrol into a barricaded communication trench. I was dozing in a dugout nearby and didn’t hear two men climb the barricade or bayonet our guards. Maybe they’d nodded off: we are all exhausted. Whatever the reason, their lapse proved fatal.
Some instinct woke me and possibly saved my life. I grabbed my rifle and bayonet and stepped out into the trench where I tripped over the dead guards. I looked left and saw two intruders moving stealthily along our trench. Before I could fire upon them I heard a noise to my right: two more Turks were climbing over the barricade. I had to act quickly.
I yelled a warning then fired at the fellows on the barricade. Both screamed and fell, one fatally. The other staggered on toward me with bayonet in hand so I fired again. He fell facedown with a thud. Before I could catch my breath, one of the two intruders rushed at me from behind. We engaged in hand-to-hand combat. In the narrow trench we crashed into walls and tripped over corpses. We were soon covered in blood, our own and that of the dead. Luckily I gained the upper hand and finished him off with my bayonet.
Two more Turks were coming over the barricade so I picked up my rifle and fired until I saw no more heads or hands trying to climb over. I relaxed slightly and as I did so a rifle fired behind me and a body crashed into me at high speed, knocking me to the ground and falling on top of me.
‘You all right, Quickie?’ Robbo asked.
He lifted the dead Turk off me and I climbed gingerly to my feet.
‘I don’t know,’ I replied. ‘I think so.’
