by Alan Tucker
If Needle was alive and if this war ended today, I’m sure he’d be the first to extend a hearty hand of friendship to Jacko and say, ‘Let’s forget about all the rubbish of the past seven months, cobber. What say I make you a cuppa and we let bygones be bygones.’
As unbearable as the sleet and ice and snow have made our lives, it’s also placed a unique beauty before us. I had never seen snow until recent days. Now it covers everything; No Man’s Land is powdered with a sheet of pure white snow; the hilltops, where the Turks are entrenched (pity them) have caps of snow; the gullies are deep in ice and snow; and every branch of every tree and shrub has a sprinkling of snow and dangling icicles.
Surrounded by such beauty it is impossible to be downcast for long.
‘What are you looking at, Quickie? Jacko’s the other way.’
‘Nothing. I’m just thinking.’
‘Dangerous thing to do.’
I laughed. ‘Maybe, but I need to start thinking beyond our day to day existence. For seven months we’ve lived minute by minute, day by day.’
‘We didn’t all live,’ Robbo reminded me solemnly.
I looked him firmly in the eye. ‘True. But we’ll never forget them, will we?’
‘Never.’
We’ve been expecting mail from home for weeks. Most of it will never arrive. We’ve been informed the tug bringing it to the peninsula, has foundered. Not a lot is going right at the moment.
The lads often ask, ‘But are we downhearted?’
They say, ‘Never,’ but in truth the answer is sometimes, ‘Yes.’
Tuesday, 7 December
We continue sitting on our hands while the Turks make merry hell with our lives. They scored a direct hit on one of our hospital tents and killed everyone inside. Some lads have no luck while others of us have plenty.
Water continues to be perilously short. We are now issued one half of one mug per day to clean our teeth, shave and wash our face. We need to shave to minimise areas for lice to breed. At least this frozen snap has killed the flies. The Turks, however, are alive and kicking.
I worked in the YMCA tent again today for a couple of hours. Mr Jessop is upset because he has few supplies to sell to the lads.
‘What pains me even more,’ he told me, ‘is that we’re short of paper. The men can live without their chocolate but they need to write letters home. Expressing heartfelt words to loved ones is good for their souls. And who knows, what they write could be their final earthly words.’
Before I returned to my dugout I sat quietly alone in the tent. I tried to forget the war going on around me and remember my family back home. I realised I was terribly homesick. Our daily life here is so predictable and monotonous in so many ways that we live only for the present.
I can’t wait to go home and plan a future.
I sat until the cold got to me and roused me from my daydream. I looked down at myself. I haven’t washed or changed my clothes or socks for a week. It’s too cold even to remove my boots. I must stink. We all must stink.
Why would a peace-loving man such as Mr Jessop volunteer to come to this ungodly hellhole and work amongst broken men such as us?
Wednesday, 8 December
The official word’s gone around that every man must be prepared to embark at short notice. The Big Brass want us to rotate on and off the peninsula throughout the winter. That sounds good for those on Leave but perilous for those who will have to man the trenches with even less support than what we’ve got now.
We’ve all lost confidence in off-shore ‘leaders’ who make plans that we have to live with. Their stupid plans cost us our dear lives.
Later
You can’t afford to drop your guard for a moment around here. I was angrily expressing frustration to Robbo about the latest plan and WHAM—a bullet went clean through my hat and grazed my skull. I could’ve been dead as easy as that. The impact bowled me over.
Robbo escorted me down to the Casualty Clearing Station to get a dressing. I’m quite a sight with a bandage wrapped around my scone.
‘That white colour makes you an easy target,’ Robbo joked. ‘If you like I can sew some candles around the bandage so your head’s an even easier shot.’
‘I’ll be wearing my hat over it,’ I reassured him.
Back at the trench the lads had stuck my hat on a bayonet with a note saying, ‘This space to let. Temporary position only.’ I laughed and laughed until my sides hurt.
‘If Jacko’s shot had been an inch lower,’ I said through tears, ‘you could have advertised for a permanent vacancy.’
Robbo and the lads laughed too then Robbo said, ‘Don’t let them get you down, cobbers. Are we downhearted, lads?’
‘Never,’ they chorused as another round of artillery fire threw clods of dirt and bits of torn sandbags over us.
‘Steady on, Jacko,’ Robbo called. ‘We’ve got enough problems without you having a go at us.’
Thursday, 9 December
There are strange things happening and rumours flying. The two are bound together. The rumours all centre on one thing: we are to be evacuated before Christmas. The strange happenings are what started the rumours. Everyone has something to offer.
‘You know how they told us we’re to be rotated on and off the peninsula, well some of the lads have noticed there are more of our chums going off than coming on.’
‘And the lads who do come ashore join other groups going off under cover of darkness.’
‘It’s all a con to make Jacko think we’re increasing troop numbers when we’re actually decreasing.’
‘Within a week or so there’ll be no-one left here but a skeleton force.’
‘Haven’t you noticed them trialling those drip guns? You haven’t? Talk to some of the lads up at Quinn’s.’
‘They’re bloody ingenious. They drill a hole in the bottom of a kero tin and suspend it directly above a second tin that has string tied to the trigger of a rifle. Do you follow me?’
‘No. But go on. I might catch on.’
‘Don’t like your chances, mate. You don’t look too bright.’
‘Anyway, as I was saying. The water drips from the top to the bottom can and the string grows tighter on the trigger until BANG. Another Turk bites the dust.’
BLAM. BLAM. BLAM.
A succession of shells caused us to bite the dust then disperse before Jacko got our range and lobbed one right on top of our heads.
Saturday, 11 December
The evacuation rumour grows stronger every day. Since we heard it I’ve visited the beach on two occasions so I can observe the goings-on after dark. They definitely are moving a lot of blokes offshore as well as artillery, horses and mules.
It’s obvious we’re moving out. I’m worried that if our lads have cottoned on, it’s only a matter of time before the Turks do too.
‘If we’re undermanned and Jacko attacks, we’re going to be in a spot of jolly bother, old chap,’ Robbo said in his mock British officer voice.
‘The leaflets the Turks have thrown over,’ said Clem, opening one and reading it, ‘say that if we surrender we’ll be well treated and sent to live in comfort in Persian gardens.’
‘Yep, just as we send their prisoners to Buckingham Palace to sip English Breakfast tea with King George.’
Clem was momentarily convinced then realised he’d been had. ‘You’re pulling my leg.’
‘That’s better than some Turk blowing your head off when you throw down your gun and raise your hands in surrender.’
‘They wouldn’t do that, would they?’
‘Probably not,’ Robbo replied. ‘Jacko’s hard but fair.’
Monday, 13 December
‘They’re no longer unloading supplies,’ Harry reported.
‘I saw them. Well, I didn’t see them. You know what I mean.’
‘And we can’t post letters home,’ Clem added.
‘Maybe we’ll be able to hand deliver them,’ Robbo suggested then laughed. ‘I’d happ
ily volunteer for that fatigue.’
‘I’ll be in it too,’ I agreed.
Our frontline has become fairly safe from snipers since Robbo conducted his personal war on them a few weeks back.
Nothing has stopped the Turkish artillery, however, from regularly shelling us. And now that the ground is wet, our trench walls collapse quite easily when subject to a nearby blast.
Our big naval guns come to life occasionally and give the Turks some of their own medicine. The Tommies use spotter planes and balloons to locate the Turk’s artillery but despite the knowledge gained they’ve been unable to silence Beachy Bill since we landed nearly eight months ago.
I spoke to Mr Jessop tonight. Things are quiet in the YMCA tent. He’s also heard the rumours about the evacuation.
‘I can’t confirm them, Victor, but I’ve witnessed a lot of night-time activity along the beach and out on the piers. And there’s been a noticeable drop-off in the number of men using the tent,’ he told me, ‘which confirms my observation that there are less men about.’
‘The lads really appreciate that you’re here,’ I told him feeling slightly embarrassed to speak for others.
‘The military authorities have been very supportive,’ he replied. ‘They gave me permission to be here in the first place then provided shipping space for the supplies I bring in.’
‘It’s pleasing to hear a good word about the Big Brass,’ I told him. ‘The lads don’t have a kind word to say about them.’
‘We each have our roles: they have a war to run and I have men’s spirits to care for. Many of the men I speak to have brilliant promise, Victor. Part of my role is to encourage them to stay positive despite the horrors they confront here every day. You and your cobbers are the future of our nation. I tell every man I speak to that I want them to survive this war, and our young nation needs them to survive.’
Wednesday, 15 December
I’m anxious but trying to stay cheerful. Others are feeling the strain too. Our numbers diminish daily.
‘They vanish like ghosts in the night,’ Robbo commented.
‘They’re the lucky ones. They’re safe now.’
‘True,’ Robbo replied. ‘But think of us as being in a privileged position. We were part of the ‘originals’ who landed in April and we’ll be among the last to leave in December.’
‘Unless Jacko cottons on and then we’ll be overrun and either killed or captured. I’ve seen the condition of Turkish soldiers: if that’s how they treat their own, I hate to think how they treat prisoners.’
We’re back into the firing line tomorrow. Meanwhile, we have fatigues. We have been busy getting rid of the spare gear. Supplies we broke our backs to carry up the hill, now have to be carried down. On one trip my foot slipped in the slush and I did a triple somersault down the slope until I crashed into a shrub.
When Robbo saw I wasn’t hurt he announced loudly, ‘Roll up, roll up. The circus is in town.’
‘The whole bloody army is a circus,’ an anonymous voice said in response.
I struggled to my feet. My clothes and face were covered in mud. I retrieved my box of supplies and followed the men down to the beach. Mr Jessop was carrying a box along the beach too. We fell into stride. I was shocked by what he told me. He is leaving—immediately.
‘The Chaplains, Red Cross staff and I were given four hours’ notice to leave.’
He put down his box. I followed his lead. He looked me firmly in the eyes.
‘One day, Victor, in your own way, you’ll make sense of this war.’
‘Thanks, cobber,’ I replied softly.
‘I’m honoured you call me that.’
He put his hand in his pocket and gave me some seeds.
‘They’re wattle seeds. I brought them from Australia to plant near the graves of our dead. With such short notice to evacuate I didn’t get around to it. Please plant them for me.’
I assured him I would. ‘Gladly.’
We shook hands, lifted our boxes and went our separate ways.
Friday, 17 December
My faith, if there is any left, suffered a major setback at dawn. We were in the frontline trenches and suffering the usual barrage of artillery and Aunties. We had sentries and observers posted. My platoon and I were chatting and taking bets about who could most closely predict our time and day of evacuation when an explosion occurred nearby and catapulted a section of duckboards through the air.
Someone shouted, ‘HEADS!’ but the call came too late and the end crashed into Robbo’s skull with a sickening THUD. He collapsed unconscious. Blood streamed from the wound but also, more frighteningly, from his ears and mouth. I dropped to his aid while someone called for stretcher-bearers.
‘He’s breathing,’ I cried with relief and moved him into a comfortable position. Minutes later he was carried off but we remained at our post. I tried to stay focused but my thoughts kept wandering. I couldn’t bear to lose the last of my three friends, especially within days or perhaps hours of evacuation. My pulse raced. I felt so hopeless.
‘Why him? Why not me?’ I thought.
The dawn sky which only minutes before had appeared so glorious, appeared blood red.
Saturday, 18 December
There’s no news of Robbo. I don’t know if he’s alive or dead, on the peninsula or on a ship bound for Lemnos. I feel a failure. I lived while my best friends fell. I would give anything to swap places with any one of them. I want each of them to live so much.
Shells explode, Aunties drop in uninvited, rifle shots whistle past and machine-gun sprays splatter the parapet but I am impervious. I sense nothing can hurt me because I no longer care whether I live or die. My destiny is out of my hands.
The weather is cool but the sky’s clear, the sea calm and the breeze gentle.
Twenty thousand men will be evacuated tonight. Another 20,000 go tomorrow night. I’m in that lot. After we go there will be no Australian soldier on the peninsula, except our dead mates.
I am not afraid to go.
Sunday, 19 December
We knew thousands of men were making their way down to the beach last night, onto the piers then onto lighters and launches and out to the ships. We listened intently between shell blasts and rifle fire but heard nothing.
The lads had been ordered to wrap their feet in sandbags to muffle their footsteps. Blankets and empty sandbags had also been laid on the steps and piers. The men, of course, were ordered to be silent. They were.
Jacko would be none the wiser unless he has other means to know what’s going on. Either that or he knows we’re going and is sitting out there thinking, ‘Good riddance to bad rubbish.’
We’re on our guard but we’re philosophical. We discussed how the people in Australia will view the evacuation: as a brave withdrawal or a cowardly retreat?
We did all that men could do. I hope that’s seen as good enough back home.
The lads have filled their backpacks with supplies and materials but also their souvenirs. Photos, cuttings and diaries are safely stored. Clem, Harry and I collected all the mementoes from our little dugout home. The saddest moment was packing Robbo’s bits and pieces.
For the last two days large fires have burned on Anzac Cove and further north at Suvla Bay. Excess supplies and anything we don’t want Jacko to get his hands on, are thrown onto the pyre. Surely this will alert Jacko to our plans?
Not all the excess stores have been burned or marked for destruction. We’ve been allowed to help ourselves. This evening we’ll cook up a storm. It was eerie collecting supplies from the beach. All the tents are standing (YMCA, hospital, headquarters, etc) but they’re empty.
As I retraced my tracks laden with luxuries for the lads, I detoured via the cemetery to pay my last respects. Despite the chaos on the beach, the graves were immaculate. Many a man has visited here in recent days to do one final tidy-up of his mate’s grave site. I was deeply touched by the generosity of spirit men could muster after what they’d been through in the
past eight months. I’m sure it broke men’s hearts to abandon their cobbers’ graves to the Turks.
I prayed the dead would not hear us marching back to the beach tonight. In their lifetime no-one considered evacuating the peninsula. They died fighting to hold this piece of land.
As I thought of their sacrifices I realised that what our dead comrades think of our evacuation is far more important than what the people back home think.
I bowed my head and stood in silence, the silence one finds between shells, bullets and bombs. I turned to face the sea. Needle, I now knew, had not been washed away. He’d started his journey home. And I felt confident that I’d survive this war and when I returned to Australia’s peaceful shores he’d be standing on the wharf to greet me.
I took the wattle seeds from my pocket and walked slowly up and down the rows of graves dropping seeds as I went. When my pocket was empty I said ‘Goodbye lads’, and climbed back up to Lone Pine feeling less lonesome than when I descended.
As soon as it was dark we were ordered to pull barbed wire barricades across our trenches and set a succession of drip-guns into operation.
We heard heavy fire north of our position and feared that a Turkish onslaught was about to commence right along the frontline but it died down and with it went some of our tension.
We settled down to our ample supply of bully beef, potatoes, bread and jam. We had a feast.
An officer walked past and asked, ‘Having your last meal lads?’
Without thinking I replied, ‘I hope not, sir,’ and we all laughed.
‘You’ll be the last ones ordered out of this section. Don’t nod off and miss the boat.’
‘No likelihood of that, sir. Jacko hasn’t been the best of hosts.’
