by Alan Tucker
I also spent time helping Mr Jessop in the YMCA tent. He’s been scrounging sandbags, timber and sheets of iron to make the tent safer from bombardment. Although the tent’s set up in a fairly protected section of a gully, he knows no-one’s safe anywhere.
We put the finishing touches to the structure today and cleaned the floor where water and mud had gushed under the sides. If the weather permits, Mr Jessop plans to ship in comfort foods every day and distribute them from the tent. He hopes to sell a selection of cakes, buns and scones as well as fresh fruit and vegetables. They’ll keep the Barcoo Rot at bay.
Our rations have improved in the past couple of weeks to help combat the Rot. The Big Brass are concerned about the number of men shipped off the peninsula every day because of ill-health. It almost seems that getting shot by Jacko is the least of our worries.
Monday, 25 October
Dear Mother and Father,
We’ve been here six months today. We’re going nowhere fast. We can’t push forward and Jacko can’t push us back into the sea.
When I return home I never want to think about Gallipoli again. The men who have been maimed or crippled for life will never be able to do that.
There is one feature of my time here that I will always treasure: my mates. To ensure I never forget them I took a chance late this afternoon, crept to the lonesome pine and collected a pinecone. I’m sure you’ll have read about the lone pine in the papers—it’s where we fought and had success some months ago.
I’ll bring the cone home with me then one day, when the time is right, I’ll collect its seeds and plant lonesome pines around Moonta.
I got the idea from you, Mother. You said tending Hans’ garden reminds you of him and in nurturing it, you gain great pleasure.
I’ll carry the pinecone as a good luck charm until I get home. It is only by luck that any of us survive each day.
Robbo says I’m lucky to have such loving parents. He sends his regards.
Your lucky son, Victor
Thursday, 28 October
After all my kind words about Jacko, he’s turned nasty on us. He’s got new bombs that we call ‘Aunties’. They’re not your nice auntie, let me tell you. They look like a giant lollypop. The bombs are attached to broomstick-size handles which allow the Turks to fire them over into our trenches like sky rockets. When they lob they explode and blast iron cubes in all directions. They do terrible damage to our lads.
Robbo was not amused. ‘Oi, Jacko, he yelled. ‘If you shoot any more of those sky rockets in our direction, I’m taking you off my Christmas card list.’
Jacko’s response was immediate.
BANG. BANG.
‘That’ll teach me to open my big mouth,’ Robbo said with a smirk.
Monday, 1 November
One year ago today we caught our last glimpse of Australia. We steamed away from Albany with high hopes of a great overseas adventure. Our service to the Empire has turned out to be a tragic misadventure.
Friday, 5 November
It’s Guy Fawkes day and Jacko celebrated the event with us. We copped visits from his Aunties all day and on top of that suffered a horrendous shelling from Turkish artillery. My ears are aching and a tooth that’s been a tad sensitive for several days has been shaken up and turned nasty. With every explosion, I suffer shock waves through its nerve. The way it’s throbbing I won’t be getting much sleep tonight.
Monday, 7 November
We were relieved last night. I made my way straight from the frontlines to the dentist. We have top doctors and surgeons here but the dental staff are a different kettle of fish. The fellow I saw this morning proudly told me he’d been a blacksmith before he enlisted. He had forearms the size of my thighs. He could rip my head off if he chose.
‘That tooth’s got to come out,’ he told me. ‘It’s got a cavity the size of a shell hole.’ Then without asking if I was willing to have an extraction, he grabbed my head in a bear grip, took hold of the damaged tooth with pliers and ripped it out. The side of my head is more swollen now than when I copped the periscope injury.
‘You can keep it as a souvenir,’ he said with a smile and shoved the tooth into my jacket pocket. ‘Next,’ he yelled in my ear which added to my discomfort.
I didn’t sleep for two or three nights before the tooth was pulled and the way it’s throbbing, I don’t reckon I’ll sleep for a couple more.
Wednesday, 10 November
My face blew up like a balloon after the extraction and nearly closed my eyes so I was sent to the casualty tent on the beach to do light duties and fatigues until the swelling goes down. I’m not able to accurately site my rifle at the moment.
The break away from the usual routine did me good. I was given fatigue in the cemetery which sadly, grows bigger every day: and I’ve been able to help Mr Jessop in and around the YMCA tent. He’s getting supplies shipped in quite regularly. They need to be unboxed and made ready for sale. The purchasers line up as soon as fresh Comforts arrive. Every man here is eager for some small taste that might help him feel in touch with everyday life beyond this blasted peninsula.
Saturday, 13 November
The biggest of the Big Brass paid us a visit: Lord Kitchener, the British Minister for War. Word spread like wildfire and men ran from everywhere to welcome him with three rousing cheers. He looks exactly like his pictures: he has a red face and walrus moustache. He spent two or three hours inspecting the lines from Walker’s ridge to Lone Pine. Today was my first day back on full duty. It was marvellous to know that such an important man knew we existed and wanted to see how we were faring. He made a short speech in which he passed on a message from King George.
‘The King says you have done splendidly.’
‘Splendidly,’ Robbo said with a shake of his head. ‘Our situation is hardly splendid.’
‘You should feel proud that the King and Lord Kitchener have heaped praise upon us,’ replied Clem.
‘If they want to show us how much they care, they can order us off this rotten peninsula.’
‘Unless we’re trained to walk on water,’ I added, ‘I don’t see how that’s possible.’
Wednesday, 17 November
We are learning to walk in water, not on it. And we’re learning to sleep while squatting on our haunches because our dugout is flooded again. The rain has been relentless.
A huge storm struck without warning. Shelters and awnings designed to protect us from sun and rain were whipped away by strong wind gusts. The trenches have three inches of water running through them and the steps to the beach are almost completely eroded away.
To carry our water rations back up the hill today required a massive effort. Men slipped and swore and spilt the precious liquid. If you did manage to stand up, the wind caught you and knocked you down again. We get storms straight off the sea in Moonta but none as fierce as this.
The craziest thing is that despite the downpours, they’ve cut our water rations. The wild winds and crashing waves have smashed the pier and so the barges bringing fresh supplies of water cannot land.
Thursday, 18 November
Dear Mother and Father,
Winter has set in early. It started raining yesterday and the deluge has continued non-stop. Everything is flooded and everyone is soaked. When this storm ends, Mother, I’d love to have a hot shower, pull on some warm clothes and be served a bowlful of your wonderful homemade soup. I can but dream. Our winter uniforms are yet to arrive. We needed them weeks ago. No wonder men are suffering poor health.
The Turks along the line have been as quiet as us these past two days. They must be taking shelter too. I’ve come to realise that men from both sides suffer in war.
You’ll be amazed to hear that we had a visit from Lord Kitchener. He spent half a day wandering around the trenches. He proved very popular with the troops. He looks just like he does on his posters. What a shame he didn’t inspect the trenches today. He’d have seen first-hand how terrible conditions can be.
; You are probably experiencing days where the temperature is in the mid-90s. How l would love weather that warm and to be able to enjoy a peaceful swim after work. ‘Beachy Bill’ still shells the beach here and any swim could be my last. There are times when l take that risk, so desperate am l to feel clean.
Your son who dreams of home and warmer climates,
Victor
Later
My morale hit rock bottom this afternoon. I visited the cemetery when I went down to the beach on water-carrying fatigue: Needle’s grave has been washed away. Several others have gone too, ripped open and their contents removed by the surging waves.
I feel so useless. I promised Needle’s mother I’d look after him. I allowed him to be killed and now I’ve been unable to protect his remains. He is lost forever and I feel responsible.
Friday, 19 November
To add salt to my wound, Beachy Bill has shelled the beach continuously for the past few days and I have been unable to search the shoreline for Needle’s remains. It’s almost as if the big gun is mocking my loss.
Every day I feel we have less and less hope of surviving this campaign. The Turks’ fierce capacity to fight, coupled with his endless supply of shells and bullets, leaves them in a good position. Our lads are good fighters too but if the rumour is correct, we only have food supplies for another two days. The water situation is dire too. Rations are at an all-time low: we’re now issued one mugful a day.
My woes worsened when I received a letter from home. It contained bad news.
Dearest Victor,
Hans is very ill. I have not seen him for months which adds to my worries. He has a lung infection. The authorities have moved him to the Royal Adelaide Hospital. As soon as I get information, I will write again.
Father has been very understanding. He insists I travel to Adelaide and visit the poor old chap. I am making plans to go and can only hope that I will be allowed to sit with him in the ward.
I am well—apart from the worries about my ‘boys’. Father does not worry as much as me. Maybe he is better at hiding his emotions.
Please do not get hurt, Victor. I need you alive so very much, Mother
PS Richard and William have finally been accepted into the army. The government is struggling to get men to enlist since the thousands of names of the dead and wounded at Lone Pine were published in the papers. They are now prepared to bend the rules for volunteers. They eagerly accept men who do not meet the health, height and age restrictions.
There is NO WAY Father and I would give you permission to enlist if you asked us now. The endless casualty lists reduce me to tears.
Tuesday, 23 November
The battalion’s on Lemnos. The Leave couldn’t have come at a better time for me. I’d become totally dispirited on the peninsula. Robbo noticed the signs and kept a close watch on me during our last hours in the frontline. We ‘old-hands’ have all seen men who give up the ghost. Such a state almost always ends in the chap copping a sniper’s bullet. You must never drop your guard. Thank goodness for our cobbers. Robbo became my guardian angel when I needed one: I’ll forever be in debt to him for that.
Thursday, 25 November
My mind feels somewhat rested in this peaceful place but my body is still suffering. The island has little vegetation to protect us from the howling winds. I have clean, dry clothes and many layers of socks and scarves but still I’m chilled to the bone. Winter, as such, doesn’t officially start till next week. How cold will it be by mid-winter? I do not dare to imagine.
This afternoon I took Robbo to Fish’s gravesite. We stood in silence for such a long time. Sometimes words are not necessary.
Dear Mother and Father,
I am on a Greek island—not just me, the whole battalion. We’re on three days’ Leave. We return to the peninsula tomorrow.
I was very upset after reading the news about Hans and couldn’t bring myself to reply straight away. I’m sure you are praying for him, Mother. I hope your prayers are answered. Write as soon as you have an update on his health.
Winter is well and truly upon us so if you could knit and send me gloves, a scarf, a singlet or a balaclava your efforts will be greatly appreciated.
I have learned to harden up to many things since we landed on Gallipoli but I cannot harden up to this icy wind—it gets to me more than some of the violence.
I said many times in the past that I wanted to work outside in the fresh air but this weather is unbearable.
Your semi-frozen son, Victor
Friday, 26 November
We arrived back on the peninsula to a bizarre situation. We are under orders NOT to fire back at the Turks, no matter what. Jacko’s getting suspicious and a few of their fellows are popping their heads up to see if they can get an idea of what’s going on over in our lines.
Apparently this Silent Stunt, as they’ve called it, is to be part of our battle plan for the next few weeks.
‘Maybe the Big Brass are hoping to lure the Turks out of their trenches so we can mow them down,’ I suggested.
‘Who knows what our fearless leaders are up to,’ Robbo said with a sigh. ‘What I do know is that every plan for the past seven months has failed so why should we have faith in this one succeeding. We’re short on food and water and winter-proof clothing so the truth is we’re probably low on ammunition too. I suspect that’s the real reason we’ve been ordered not to shoot.’
‘The British wouldn’t just abandon us here, would they?’ Harry asked looking concerned.
‘It may be best if they did,’ Robbo replied. ‘I have more faith in Australian initiative than British planning. I’m sure, if left to our own devices, we lads in the frontline could come up with a plan to solve this hopeless stalemate.’
Sunday, 28 November
Things have gone from bad to worse. Last week’s rain and winds were chicken feed compared to the current weather. Snow covers the ground, forked lightning regularly strikes the ridges and rolling thunder rumbles more loudly than Jacko’s artillery. The winds are hurricane strength. Men huddle in their tiny dugouts and burn fires inside trying to keep warm. The small amount of heat brings some relief but leaves men’s faces black with smoke stains. Washing the stain off is impossible because we have so little fresh water.
We have been warned not to collect and drink the water swamping our trenches because it runs downhill across No Man’s Land where hundreds of men are buried in eroded graves.
I don’t know how many times I have written this—things could not get worse.
Tuesday, 30 November
The good news is the blizzard has cleared but there’s a nasty rumour that the Turks have got their hands on some brand new artillery from Germany. The big guns are called Howitzers and apparently they fire with high trajectories which is ideal for dropping shells almost straight down into enemy trenches. If that’s the case, then my prediction that things couldn’t get worse, is very, very wrong.
We lose several men a day under the bombardment from their current artillery. More powerful and effective guns will kill a greater number of our boys.
Later
The death and casualty figures from the blizzard are horrific. Dozens of men froze to death and hundreds are in the process of being evacuated with frostbite to finger, toes and even noses. I can only imagine that Jacko is suffering more. Whenever I see a batch of Turkish prisoners they’re in worse condition than us. The Brass Hats have ordered our guards to treat them well, give them warm clothes and a belly-full of decent tucker then turn a blind-eye so they can escape.
The idea is for the escapees to return to their trenches and tell their comrades how easy we’re living over here. It’s hoped the knowledge will demoralise our foe. Unfortunately, I’ve been told, that no matter how lax the guards are, the Turks won’t escape. They enjoy life as an Australian prisoner more than as a Turkish soldier. Jacko’s existence must be bleak indeed if our conditions are an improvement on theirs.
Wednesday, 1 December
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br /> After I wrote yesterday we received a proper hammering from Jacko’s artillery. It seems the rumour is correct: the Turks have high explosive weapons. We lost twenty-one dead and sixty-seven wounded. We moved our mates down to the morgue then prepared graves for them. The deceased were rigid with cold and quite easy to carry but the ground was almost impossible to dig. It was frozen with frost, ice and snow.
Despite the hours of strenuous digging, I remained cold. I did not begrudge doing the work. I will do anything for my comrades, dead or alive.
Friday, 3 December
Despite the carnage caused by Turkish artillery we are still under orders at specific times not to fight back. It seems unnatural to sit back and take it, to cower in our dugout and do nothing but that’s what the Brass Hats want.
‘It doesn’t come natural to me to turn the other cheek when someone’s having a go at me,’ Robbo said. ‘My old man taught me never to bow down to any man and said that if I was threatened, to give as good as I got.’
Sunday, 5 December
On the rare occasions I can tune out from the stuttering bursts of machine-guns, the ping and hiss of bullets, the bang of Aunties, and the roar and blast of our naval guns and Turkish artillery, I appreciate the beauty of the peninsula I so often claim to hate. In truth, it’s the war I hate, not the peninsula and not even Jacko.
