The Animal Stars Collection

by Jackie French

  ‘One day this bold Russian, he shouldered his gun And donned his most truculent sneer Downtown he did go where he trod on the toe Of Abdul Abulbul Amir.

  ‘“Young man,” quoth Abdul, “has life grown so dull That you wish to end your career? Vile infidel know, you have trod on the toe Of Abdul Abulbul Amir.”’

  He reached over and stroked the donkey’s nose. ‘I reckon you’re even braver than Abdul. What say thou?’

  The donkey nudged him, his big nose warm and furry. Suddenly Jack was back on the beach, all those years ago, leading that little lassie along the sand. He’d done right, that day. ‘What say tha, Duffy lad?’ he whispered. ‘Think we can do as good today?’

  He headed towards the nearest trench, the donkey plodding after him.

  CHAPTER 13

  The English Lieutenant

  Gallipoli, 26 April 1915

  He was going to die.

  He’d thought he was willing to die for the cause when he joined up. That’s what they’d trained for at school, wasn’t it? Sons of the Empire, bred to serve their country well, even unto death.

  He hadn’t known what death was till last night.

  The first day had been triumph as well as terror. Impossible to get ashore under the hail of bullets. Yet they had done it. Impossible to scale the cliffs, too. But here they were.

  It was only last night, sitting in the hurriedly dug trench, already smelling of urine—the smell of guts too, like when Johnstone down at the farm slaughtered a cow…who would have thought the inside of a man smelled like the inside of a cow?—it was only then that he realised they were trapped, stuck in a hole like a fox with the hounds all around it, waiting to be torn to pieces in their jaws.

  The Turks about them, on home ground. No one could take this place, no matter what the orders were from above.

  It was only then that he really knew he was going to die.

  There was nothing he could do about it. He wasn’t yellow. He wasn’t going to scream or run. He wasn’t going to sit like poor Smiggers either, who’d spent most of last night with his head between his knees, alternately screaming and muttering.

  He would do his duty before he died.

  So when the scatter of shot got him in the leg he kept on firing at the enemy. The blood ran down his shin. The furrowed flesh burned, but somehow the pain was distant.

  He could do this.

  Do your duty. Ignore the pain. Fire. And load. And fire.

  Rockets screamed above them, lighting up the hills to show the enemy where to shoot. Darkness. The streak of light. Shots. Then dark again. Hour upon hour…

  Dawn came. A lull. The Turks were still there. Waiting. Watching. There was time to sip some water now, just enough to wash the dust down his throat. (His flask was almost empty. Would thirst kill them before the enemy could?)

  Somehow he kept his leg working. If he stopped he was afraid he’d not get up again. So he kept on going.

  Something moved on the lip of the trench. He swerved, ready to fire, the movement twisting his wounded leg so he almost blacked out with the pain. But it was only a rat. It twitched its whiskers at him, strangely unafraid. A battlefield was hell for men, but a paradise for rats. Rats, who dined on human meat…

  He looked down at his leg. He should try to stop the bleeding. He was wasting precious fluid. Got to do your duty, he thought vaguely, as he got out his pocket knife and started to dig one of the lead pellets out of his flesh.

  Somehow his mind was beyond pain now. His body flinched. But he kept on digging into his flesh.

  One, two…how many pellets were in there? His leg looked a right mess. Should have counted the holes before he started digging…

  Then he heard it. Loud as the last time he’d been to the music hall, but a heck of a lot less tuneful. He even knew the song. ‘Abdul Abulbul Amir’.

  He peered over the lip of the dugout. And there they were, the two of them, a tiny donkey led by a man in the Australian slouch hat. It looked so impossibly normal he almost laughed.

  A donkey, and a man who sang…

  Suddenly he realised that he had a chance to live.

  CHAPTER 14

  Jack

  Gallipoli, 26 April 1915

  ‘Medic!’

  The voice came from the dugout. A white face peered over the edge.

  ‘Here I am.’ He should add sir, Jack knew. But he was blowed if he was going to, especially to a lad younger than him. He’d never been keen on the sir lark to begin with. And somehow here with the shells bursting like a cracked hurdy-gurdy playing, where any of them might get their head blown off at any second, only a loony would start with the sir.

  The young man looked up at him. A lieutenant, but scared with it, and trying not to show it. Woulda been a schoolboy a few months ago, Jack reckoned. A few weeks’ training and now he were an officer. Blood oozed from just below his knee. The young man held up a pen-knife, red with blood. ‘Tried to get the lead out. Think I got it all.’

  ‘Nah, lad,’ and now Jack’s voice had the respect he hadn’t shown for the man’s rank, ‘don’t worrit thyself about all that. They’ll tidy that up for thee all right and tight down at the cove, then tuck tha in with a kiss and a lullaby. Ready for a ride then?’

  The lad started. ‘On that?’

  Jack grinned. ‘Well, I’m not leading him ‘cause I couldn’t bear to leave him at home. And he’s a him, not a that.’

  ‘But…’

  Oh, it felt good to put a look like that on an officer’s face.

  ‘Well, I’ll make it simple like for thee. We’re mostly out of stretchers. So I can leave thee here for a day or three till more come back from the ships. Or I can lug thee on my back, which suits me fine, ‘cause that way me back’s safe—they’ll shoot tha instead o’ me. Or thou can have a ride on Duffy here, just like we were down at the seaside. Which is it to be?’

  The youth sketched a ghost of a smile. ‘Donkey.’

  ‘Donkey it is then. Now, stay still, Duffy, while I help the nice lad onto thy back. Upsadaisy then.’

  Duffy stood still as the lieutenant straddled him. Good. The donkey had been ridden before then, and knew the way of it. Jack had suspected it from the way the donkey had allowed himself to be led. But he hadn’t been sure till now.

  Duffy was so small the lieutenant’s legs dangled to the ground. He looked up at Jack inquisitively. Jack patted his shoulder. ‘Aye, thou’s a grand lad. Now let’s get the lieutenant down to the cove, eh? Gentle as a granny with a pram, that’s it.’

  The donkey nodded, as though he understood.

  They moved off, Jack standing close to the donkey’s warmth, one arm about the soldier so he didn’t fall off on the rough ground, the other holding the bandage headstall in case the donkey shied. But there was no need.

  Across the torn-up ground, shells exploding on every side, down the gully the donkey’s hooves trod sure and steady. Insanity around them, hell behind them. But the cove below looked peaceful, despite the men running like ants across the sand. The waves washed in and out, unconcerned by human horrors. The big ships bounced like their passengers were there for a day’s sea air, and not for war at all. The sun-washed sky was blue, the water an almost glowing turquoise.

  And suddenly Jack found he was singing again, just like he were leading a donkey by the seaside at South Shields.

  And that too felt grand, an’ all.

  ‘Oh! I do like to be beside the seaside

  I do like to be beside the sea

  I do like to stroll upon the Prom, Prom, Prom

  Where the brass bands play: “Tiddely-om-pom-pom!”

  So just let me be beside the seaside

  I’ll be beside myself with glee

  And there’s lots of girls beside, I should like to be beside

  Beside the seaside!

  Beside the sea!’

  The wounded officer stared at him as though he were mad. And that were good too, thought Jack. All at once he felt more alive than h
e’d ever felt before.

  ‘Oh! I do like to be beside the seaside

  I do like to be beside the sea!’

  Hee haw, hee haw!

  For one wild moment Jack thought the donkey was singing too. Then he realised that he was calling to the mules at the bottom of the gully, waiting with their panniers ready to carry water to the men above. The tall Sikh gunners in their white turbans stared at him from behind the new wall of sandbags as Jack waved in a half salute.

  Another shell exploded almost at the donkey’s feet. The wounded lieutenant flinched, but Duffy kept plodding down the gully.

  Jack checked the young man hadn’t been hit by flying shrapnel, then patted the donkey’s neck. You did your best, and you refused to let it get you down. ‘Thou and me mate, eh?’ he said to the donkey.

  Yes, this felt right.

  CHAPTER 15

  The Donkey

  Gallipoli, 26 April 1915

  The donkey trudged down the beach, one man on his back, the other man, the one with kind hands, beside him.

  The loud noises were still everywhere, the air still smelt of a strange bitter smoke. There was the smell of men’s blood and death, too, and the small waves that crept back and forth across the sand. They were neat and well-behaved waves now, but they still reminded him of the cold dark clutch of the sea.

  All this should be frightening and, in a way, it was. But for the first time in his life the donkey had a man of calm and certainty beside him, a master whose hands would guide him. All around men stopped unloading drums to stare at him. Hands reached out to stroke him. Someone even gave a cheer.

  He had never been praised before. Never patted by men or admired. It felt strange. It felt good, too. Even if he could not understand the words, he knew that he had made them happy.

  The Man with Kind Hands led him along the shore. There were patches of red in the white sand. The donkey didn’t want to tread in those, but there were too many to avoid. Anyway, when his hooves dug in the sand turned white again, which made it better somehow too.

  He had always done what men wanted, carried rocks or wheat, even if he’d never understood why they wanted him to do it. This was different. He knew what he was doing now. He was carrying men who could not walk.

  For the first time his work felt good.

  The Man with Kind Hands stopped, so the donkey stopped too. More men patted him and exclaimed as the man on his back was lifted off and laid down with other men on blankets on the sand.

  Flies buzzed. It was growing dark, but the flies were drawn by the scent of blood. The donkey twitched his tail, but stood obediently till the man signalled him to move again. They walked back along the beach to where the mules stood behind a sandbag wall. There were tall men with dark skin and white cloth on their heads.

  The tall men patted him too. There was fresh water in a bucket, and sweet hay, all the hay he wanted to eat.

  ‘Clamp your gob on that, lad. They brought it for the mules, but I reckon they can spare it.’ The Man with Kind Hands tied him to the rail with the mules, who looked at him sideways with a careful lack of interest, then turned back to their hay.

  The man stepped away then. For a moment the donkey was afraid he was going to vanish into the mad world of noise. But he only crouched down at the fire with the dark men, and took a cup and plate. A few minutes later he was back.

  ‘May as well kip here then, Murphy lad. Nay, thy name is Duffy, ain’t it? If we kip here with the hay tha can have more tucker and we can get going at first light.’ The man smiled at him. ‘Between us and the Turks there’s enough light to find our way up in the dark though, eh? Tomorrow night, mebbe, when we know the way better. Ah, what I wouldn’t give for a pint of bitter and some apple pie and cheese.’

  The Man with Kind Hands spread his coat on some of the hay and, best of all, slept there next to him, so that despite the noise and yelling, despite the strange lights in the night, the donkey knew that all was well.

  Meanwhile, there was hay to eat, and time to doze…

  Suddenly the night erupted. Men ran down the gully, screaming, ‘The Turks are coming! The Turks are coming!’

  The Man with Kind Hands jerked awake. He shrugged his jacket on. Out at sea the big ships belched green smoke and yellow dust.

  Strange sounds came from up the gully, cries of ‘Allah!’ and high wailing noises.

  The donkey shivered. At once the Man with Kind Hands was stroking him. ‘Eh, it’s all right, lad. Hast thou never heard a bugle before?’ He shook his head. ‘Trust Johnny Turk not to play in tune.’

  One of the tall men handed him a mug. The Man with Kind Hands took it gratefully and drank. ‘Ah, a fine drop that.’

  The noise grew louder, and the explosions too. The ground shuddered, as though it was trying to run away. But the man’s arms were around him as they crouched behind the sandbag wall.

  Dawn came, a thin grey line.

  ‘Well now, Murphy, me boy. Nay, tha’s Duffy. I’ll forget me own name next.’ The man yawned and stretched. ‘Which would be a mite embarrassing, seeing I’ve got two of them. Nay, don’t be offended, Neddy, it’s good to have two names or even three. Means the bastards can’t track you down. Eh, that’s a grand bit of grub, thanks mate,’ to one of the tall men, who handed him a pannikin of tea and handful of biscuits. He passed one of the biscuits to the donkey, holding it on the flat of his hand as the donkey smelt it, then tasted it cautiously.

  It was hard, a bit like bark and wheat combined. He liked it, the donkey decided.

  ‘Righto then, Duffy, me lad. Up and at ’em again, ’ey mate? Any water buckets going begging? Reckon me and Duffy here could carry water on the way up. Them poor blokes up top must be right parched by now.’

  The panniers were heavy. The water sloshed as he walked, too, so it was harder to keep his balance. But if it was what the man wanted, it must be done.

  There was a new trench to clamber through before they reached the gully now. The men must have dug it in the night. The fresh dirt smell reminded him of home. Men moved dirt, made noises. The donkey had long since stopped trying to understand.

  The gully was gloomy in the morning light, all shadows and dark fissures. The hills loomed above them. Noise came from up there, too, sharp jolts of sound that made the stones ring all around them.

  The donkey stared at his hooves. It was necessary, with the water sloshing about on his back, as the way was rough. But hooves were good things to look at, too. Your hooves never changed. With his gaze on his hooves and the Man with Kind Hands leading him he could ignore it all, the noise, the screams, the bodies…

  Impossible to quite ignore the bodies. He gave a faint Hee haw but it was swallowed by the noise all around.

  ‘Hey, Simmie!’ The cry came from behind them. The Man with Kind Hands stopped and looked around, so the donkey did too.

  The man behind them moved with a curious ducking walk. Another man walked beside him, each carried one end of a stretcher. He too ducked and weaved as he walked.

  ‘Sergeant Hookway’s looking for you. Says you didn’t report in last night.’

  ‘Wanted to tuck me up in my little wooden bed, did he?’

  The man gave a hoarse chuckle. ‘Not quite. Said you’re either dead or a deserter so if you’ve any sense you’ll be dead.’

  ‘To hell with him. The old donk and I can do as much work as four men. Tell old Hookway that when he can give me hay and water I’ll come back to him.’

  The man shrugged. ‘On your head be it, cobber. But if I was you I’d report in. You know what they do to deserters.’

  The Man with Kind Hands laughed. ‘They shoot ’em. Well, tell old Hookway he has to wait in line, ‘cause Johnny Turk wants to do it first. And there’s thousands of him and only one Sergeant Hookway, for which the Lord be praised…’ He lifted a hand in a vague salute. They began to walk again, up the gully.

  CHAPTER 16

  Jack

  Gallipoli, 27 April 1915

 
The sun was a swollen yellow ball by the time they climbed to Pope’s Hill.

  Funny how the land had names now. This vague slope of scrub and dirt had had a lot of living and death on it the last two days. Jack wondered how long the names would last.

  The beach had been bad. The gully was worse. Pope’s Hill was hell.

  Bodies slumped in the newly dug trenches. Some looked so tidy you’d think they was asleep. Others had fallen into puddles of cloth and flesh. More bodies lay in the open, the gas in their guts already swollen by death and heat so they looked like every one of them had been feasting, had stuffed himself until he died. Turks, he thought, as well as Tommies, Aussies, New Zealanders, even a Sikh water-carrier, his turban more red and brown than white. And here and there were scraps of bodies, a hand with fingers still reaching for the sky, a slab of what might be leg. The land smelt like an abattoir, like dung and guts, like a larder where a leg o’ lamb had rotted.

  Nay, he reckoned there weren’t nothing you could ever have smelt that were as bad as this.

  And this, he thought, is just the beginning.

  The donkey trod delicately between the bodies, rocks and straggly shrubs. No need to wait for the call of ‘medic’ today. Every third man, it seemed, was bloody.

  What could you do for so many? How could you put a bandage on agony like this?

  What was that song they’d sung back in camp in Freo? He raised his voice above the sound of shelling.

  ‘They were summoned from the hillside

  They were called in from the glen

  And the country found them ready

  At the stirring call for men.

  Let no tears add to their hardships

  As the soldiers pass along

  And although your heart is breaking

  Make it sing this cheery song:

  Keep the home fires burning

  While your hearts are yearning

  Though your lads are far away

  They dream of home.