by Roland Perry
At his makeshift tent headquarters just three kilometres from the action Chauvel was receiving worrying reports. The battle seemed to be going the Turks’ way too quickly. He was tempted to bring in the reserve and Light Horse Brigade, which was waiting outside Romani for the order to join the fray. Chauvel sent urgent orders that every commander in the field had to hold his position. No matter how astute the commander, it was the sort of order delivered more for morale than for any acute appreciation of the real situation. No matter what was directed now, the sheer superiority of the Turkish numbers was beginning to tell.
After 2 am the battle was Gallipoli all over again, except it was a shifting encounter. The two opposing forces were just thirty-five metres apart, warring in the dark. Shanahan continued to work Bill hard up and down the line, firing and protecting his men as they eased back. The Australians were under strict orders to avoid hand-to-hand fighting, much to the chagrin of many of the troopers. But that sort of engagement would have been fatal for them. Shanahan was galloping close to make sure none of his men broke ranks and charged forward. The darkness afforded him a thin blanket of security, although at times he could not tell his men from the enemy. At about 2.20 am two Turks rushed him, trying to pull him off Bill, who skipped away. Shanahan turned Bill and fired from a few metres, killing one soldier and wounding the other.
‘Major!’ a trooper called as he galloped up. ‘Our west flank has been penetrated heavily. We need reinforcements.’
Shanahan turned Bill around and made a dash west, calling troopers to accompany him.
Shanahan arrived at the westernmost Light Horse outposts to find them swarming with Turks. There were no troopers in sight. He galloped into the post areas with two others of his mounted force only to find Tasmanian Light Horsemen strewn about, all of them apparently lifeless. Despite the gunfire close by, Shanahan and the two troopers with him dismounted to make a quick check of the twenty or so men. They were all dead. Shanahan ordered that his two-man force remount and search the area briefly for survivors before they too could be captured.
The west flank outposts were being pulverised as hundreds of Turks filtered into the area now and Shanahan was about to order the others to fall back when he heard Australian voices. He turned Bill in their direction and called: ‘Tassie troopers!’
They responded, but so did the Turks, who cut off Shanahan’s gallop in their direction. He was forced to manoeuvre behind a small dune and reload his revolver, with his two companions close at heel.
‘Sounds like a few survivors,’ one said breathlessly. ‘What to do, Major?’
‘I’m going back into it,’ he said. ‘You follow but at twenty yards, and cover me with fire. I’ll see if I can find those men and get them out.’
‘They won’t have their mounts, Major. How—?’
‘Just do as ordered and let me worry about rescuing them.’
Shanahan took off again at a full gallop with the two following troopers firing either side of him. He called for the Tasmanians again and had a fifty-metre gallop before they responded. Four men hustled out from behind a dune, their revolvers at the ready. They were all on foot. Shanahan yelled for the troopers to come to him. ‘Here, all of you!’ he commanded just as several Turks rushed them.
Shanahan urged Bill to go hard. The great horse responded with one of his charges straight at two of the enemy who were trying to surround the troopers. They did not see him coming. One was hit with such force that he was carried forward five metres. He collapsed like a rag doll, either dead or unconscious. The other Turk felt hooves crash into his rib-cage. He dropped his rifle, fell to his knees and clutched his chest. The breath had been knocked out of him, his ribs crushed. Dying or not, his war was over.
Shanahan looked around for his two support troopers. They had been caught by Turks coming from different directions. He yelled for them to retreat and they did so, wending their way back to the main body of Light Horsemen, who were gradually pulling back.
‘C’mon, you blokes!’ Shanahan yelled to the beleaguered Tasmanians. ‘Mount him!’ He slipped his boots from the stirrups. ‘Take a stirrup each! C’mon!’ Two of the troopers slipped a boot into a stirrup either side. The other two, with Shanahan’s help, clambered onto Bill. The horse now took the weight of five men—about 380 kilograms. He had only ever allowed one man on him for any length of time, now the huge Waler had another four ‘foreign’ bodies that individually he would jettison. Bill was steady during this furious multiple mounting, his only sign of impatience being a loud grunt each time he drew breath.
Shanahan leant forward. ‘Okay, Bill . . . move!’ he said firmly, close to the horse’s ear.
Turks ran from every direction but were kept at bay by the four troopers, who fired their revolvers at the encroaching shadows in the now thin, occasional moonlight. Shanahan urged the horse on. Bill dug his hooves into the sand and began to canter, which was just about the limit of his pace at first. The two men straddling Bill’s massive hindquarters hung on and managed to aim revolvers at the Turks following on foot. Their aim was not steady, but their firing had the desired effect of making their pursuers cautious. They soon fell back, unable to keep pace as Bill reached a rise and bounded down the other side. He ploughed on, digging hard and groaning with every stride in the soft sand.
‘Go, Bill! Go, cobber!’ Shanahan encouraged him as they reached a less undulating run of two kilometres. They heard the pounding hooves of a horseman following, then another.
‘Are they ours?’ Shanahan asked anxiously.
‘Dunno!’ one of the troopers called as they squinted into the blackness. Artillery fire lit up the sky and four horsemen could be seen in hot pursuit.
‘Might be Turks!’ one of the troopers said.
‘We can’t outrun them, boys,’ Shanahan said, ‘so let them get closer and then shoot. Aim well!’
It was a tall order given that the four troopers were hanging on gamely to courageous Bill, who was frothing at the mouth so hard that the wind was spraying it back towards them as he pounded on.
‘Which troop are you with?’ one of the Light Horsemen on Bill’s rump challenged as a pursuing horse was within twenty metres. The answer came swiftly when a bullet hit the sand and sent phosphorous light searing across in front of them.
‘Get him!’ Shanahan ordered.
The trooper fired and missed but the pursuer dropped back when two more bullets whizzed by him from the others on Bill. He stopped, turned and disappeared into the gloom. Soon all four Turkish attackers, who had commandeered Australian mounts after massacring the Tasmanian troopers, dropped back. Bill had a clear run now as he built to a fast clip on the last kilometre into the Australian headquarters at the village of Et Maler, a kilometre in front of Romani. A hundred metres out, Shanahan slowed Bill to a stop and let the four troopers dismount. Each one patted or hugged Bill. He wasn’t used to such enthusiastic human affection but was too fatigued to object. Each trooper thanked and praised Bill, aware that the mighty steed had saved them when all seemed lost.
‘You both deserve bloody VCs for this,’ one of the troopers said, overcome with emotion. He soon joined his mates as they scurried off to see if they could find another four mounts in order to return to the battle.
A littler further on Shanahan dismounted and walked Bill to a water trough near the animal sick bay. He patted his neck and stroked his mane, saying: ‘You are a marvel, my mate, an absolute bloody marvel!’
Vets were working on injured mounts at the sick bay. Some horses hobbled, others had wounds from bullets, knives and bayonets. One limping horse was highly distressed. A vet examined a fetlock, took out a revolver and shot the animal in the temple.
Shanahan looked at his watch. It was after 2.45 am. The noise of battle was at its peak and his men were temporarily leaderless. He waited while Bill drank from the trough. He was not normally a big drinker, but this time he lingered, pausing now and then before taking in more.
‘You’re like a
damned camel tonight, Bill,’ he said, ‘but with good reason.’
With that, Bill proceeded to urinate, forcing Shanahan to jump clear. When the horse was done, Shanahan mounted him and waited for a reaction. Bill seemed unperturbed. He had already recovered.
‘Jesus, mate,’ Shanahan mumbled, patting and stroking his head, ‘you’re not a horse of war, you are a horse of iron.’
He felt certain that Bill would object if he was not ready to go again, but instead of protesting, he pawed the ground in a manner that Shanahan knew well. It meant he wanted to move, trot, gallop and even charge. When horses were being retired, injured or fatigued, out of the battle every few minutes, Bill was wanting to get back into the thick of it, if his master so directed. Shanahan began at a trot, built gently to a canter, then settled into a steady gallop as they headed into the battle zone once more.
The Turks had assembled a flanking force of some 8000 infantry. They charged the almost perpendicular slopes of Mt Meredith, which overlooked Et Maler, Romani and the sea. It was now pitch dark. The fire from atop Mt Meredith indicated that a small number of troopers were shooting Turks who were clambering up, sending bodies tumbling down the wall of sand. But a flanking attack saw a thousand Turks climbing to the crest. The defending troopers backed away and abandoned their position. It was 3 am. Mt Meredith was under enemy control.
Shanahan’s squadron was exposed on both flanks. He arrived to take charge again. Too many of his men were dead or wounded. His instinct was to pull back, but he had to hold the line and wait for another squadron to withdraw to them. By 3.15 am casualties were heavy as Shanahan’s squadron was assailed on three sides. He was forced to concede ground. By 3.30 am his men had been pushed back to the waiting horses. The Turks, with bayonets fixed, kept coming and closing in on the Australians and the horses. A few troopers were taken prisoner.
Shanahan kept his receding squadron steady in the chaos. His troopers were mounted and picking up wounded men where they could. They pulled further away from the enemy’s staggered but steady advance. It was important for the Light Horse to reform, pull together and give the Turks pause. Shanahan galloped along his jagged line calling the order: ‘Sections about— Action Front!’ This caused his troopers to turn and close in together. Their reaction heartened Shanahan and the other commanders. At the most critical moment so far in the middle of what was literally the darkest hour, the troopers had shown unparalleled discipline in battle. This lifted the confidence of the outnumbered force. At intermittent points, troopers dismounted and scooped out holes in the sand to create makeshift trenches. They took up positions, lined up their rifles and waited for the enemy encroachment. Word swept the lines of mounted troopers and those who had entrenched: reinforcements would be there soon.
Dawn was just two hours away. Every minute was now vital. Enemy pressure mounted. Turks on Mt Meredith swept the Australian lines below with machine-gun fire. Shanahan galloped about firing at Turks and inspiring his men. Other officers doing similar work had collapsed many mounts and were taking fresh horses, up to eight times in the night. The overweight South African Brigadier-General ‘Galloping Jack’ Royston, who commanded the 1st Brigade, was destined to go through eleven mounts in the night. But Bill, who would do more work than all those horses collectively, was still running hard when required.
At the make-or-break moment in the battle, in which holding the line was paramount, ‘the Bastard’ was coming through with a supreme, unmatched performance, without complaint. Shanahan kept checking him, realising that even his monumental strength was being tested in conditions no man or horse could really prepare for.
Minutes ticked by. Everyone wondered when Chauvel would commit his reserve 2nd Light Horse Brigade to battle and relieve the 1st Brigade, which had already gone far beyond the call of duty and levels of fatigue acceptable to any human or animal in any encounter. But Chauvel was not going to be pushed, nor would he be panicked into a decision. He preferred to hit the Turks with his reserve force at dawn. He believed his one big chance to win would occur when the sun grew menacing and Turkish water bottles emptied.
At 5 am the battle had been raging for three hours. The Turks believed it was theirs to be won. After taking Mt Meredith their main attention had shifted west, where the strong Turkish left flank was driving between Mt Royston and Et Maler. It was heading for the railway behind the main British base at Romani. At the same time the enemy on the east had outflanked the entire 1st Brigade, including Shanahan and his shrinking squadron. He was down to about half his force, with the balance killed, wounded or captured.
16
SHANAHAN TAKES
A BULLET
At dawn, Chauvel waited until sunlight bathed the entire battleground before he mounted at the head of the 500-strong 2nd Light Horse. Royston, on his eleventh horse, was behind him. In full view of the beleaguered 1st Brigade and the Turks, the long column wound its way from Et Maler. The troopers in the field and on the defending plateaus and ridges cheered.
Chauvel did not order a gallop. He was content with a steady canter through the sand, keeping the horses fresh and the troopers ready, if impatient, for battle. Yet the unhurried non-charge had its own menace for the Turks. They had slogged through the night only to be met at first light with a demoralising sight. They themselves were in need of relief and water. Neither was forthcoming; there was only the promise of a brutal sun, diminishing food rations, reduced ammunition and ferocious opposition. The Turks had the numbers and much of the high ground but now the prospect of victory was no certainty. Chauvel’s tactic had changed the battle dynamic. His column advanced steadily towards Wellington Ridge directly in front of Et Maler, the last bastion before Romani.
Chauvel rode up to Lieutenant-Colonel Meredith on the ridge just as a Turkish infantry contingent reached a ridge in front of them. He wasted little time in ordering Royston to send two regiments (384 troopers in each) to shore up defences to the west. The first hour of dawn would now decide if the Turks could be held.
Shanahan was at the bottom of Wellington Ridge with his and other regiments trying to stop the enemy onslaught above them. The Turks opened up with artillery. He saw a fellow officer shot dead a few metres from him. Shanahan fired at his assassin but was caught in an ambush close to the foot of the ridge. He was shot in the thigh, but kept fighting for another hour, protecting and covering his troopers as they withdrew. Then he slumped unconscious on Bill. When the horse realised his rider was not directing him, he took off at a canter, building to a light gallop, through the lines, heading for Et Maler. Had he bolted at full stride, he may well have caused Shanahan to slide off.
Bill galloped the two kilometres to Et Maler and stopped outside the vet hospital area at about 6.15 am. There was so much activity with injured animals that Bill was not noticed for several minutes. Shanahan was found unconscious, his left leg soaked in blood. A vet led Bill to the soldiers’ hospital tents. Shanahan was laid out next to a long line of wounded men waiting to be seen by a medico. His leg was dressed and he was placed on the critical list along with scores of other men from a battle that was still intense.
Bill was taken to the horse yard and placed with the reserve horses. He was given a long drink at a trough and fed. Sergeant Sutherland was in charge of this modest remount depot of about 3000 horses, the reserve for the 1500 troopers. He knew of Bill’s effort earlier in the day in carrying out the five troopers. He was soon informed that Shanahan was wounded.
‘Put “the Bastard” wi’ the packhorses,’ he ordered an assistant. ‘He is not to be given to anyone for more action. That wee neddie has done enough. He’s earned a break. If Major Shanahan can’t ride him again, Bill’s combat days are over. He’ll become some lucky officer’s best packhorse.’
‘What happens if Galloping Jack wants him?’ the assistant asked. ‘He’s been barging in here every half-hour wanting a replacement.’
‘You don’t let him have Bill.’
‘But the general is so b
loody demanding that—’ ‘You tell him from me that Harry Chauvel has given the order: no one touches Bill the Bastard.’
‘Jesus! Has he?’
‘That’s beside the point, laddie. Anyway, I don’t think General Royston would be stupid enough to attempt to saddle up Bill. He wouldn’t want to look a fool if he was thrown off in front of his men. “The Bastard” will never let anyone mount him for any length of time except the major.’
At 8 am the Turks had taken Wellington Ridge but the British artillery gunners had found their range and were pulverising the position. The enemy was forced to abandon it. After six hours of gruelling battle, the Turks had been halted. With the sun pounding down and no chance of them proceeding, Chauvel called for reinforcements. As he feared, the British infantry, sitting in outposts, would not help the Light Horse unless General Lawrence ordered them to do so. But communication lines to him were down. Chauvel now had an anxious wait for help from the New Zealand Mounted Infantry (Light Horse), British cavalry, another Australian Light Horse brigade and English cameleers. With the slow communications, these forces would not arrive until early afternoon. That left Chauvel galloping up and down the lines with Royston, exhorting his men to make extra efforts to hold out right along an extended front running ten kilometres almost to the coast.
