PROCEEDING FORTHWITH TO GALLIPOLI
§1
"Look here, Doe," said I, with my finger on a map of the Island of
Lemnos. "If you've guts enough to walk with me over these five miles
of hills to this eastern coast, it strikes me we shall actually see
a distant vision of the Peninsula itself."
Doe looked learnedly at the map.
"With a clear sky and field-glasses we might make out the fatal old
spot," said he. "Come on--we'll try."
So we turned our faces eastward through the afternoon, unaware that
we were about to take a last bird's-eye view of the great Naval and
Military Base of Mudros, and a first peep at the Gallipoli
Peninsula, where in less than a hundred hours we should be digging
ourselves a home.
We bent our backs to the task of toiling up the hillsides. We found
the slopes carpeted with dry grass and yellow thistles, and
sprinkled with loose stones and large lumps of rock. Long-haired
sheep with bells a-tinkle, sleepy black cows, and tiny mules browsed
among the arid thistles, or scratched their backs against the broken
rocks.
Down into the valleys we went, and up and over the summits. It was
dull prose in the valleys, but fine poetry on the summits. For,
whereas in the valleys we saw nothing but thistles and stones, on
the summits we enjoyed extensive views of lap-like hollows nursing
little white villages; we caught distant specks, brilliantly lighted
in the sun, of the encircling sea; and we wondered at the
blood-coloured rocks which suggested volcanic disturbances and lava
streams.
After dipping into several depressions and surmounting several
yokes, we suddenly overtopped the last ridge and looked down upon a
tableland, which bore, like a tray of tea-things, the white
buildings of a little village. The plateau was the edge of Lemnos,
and ran to the brink of a jagged cliff. Beyond lay the empty waters.
"Look," said Doe, a little dreamily; "now we shall see what we shall
see."
We lay down on the cliff-edge in the attitude of the sphinx, and
brought our powerful field-glasses into play. And through them we
saw, in the far-off haze, things that accelerated the beating of our
hearts.
There, right away across forty miles of blue Ægean, was a vague,
grey line of land. It was broken in the middle as if it opened a
channel to let the sea through. The grey land, west of the break,
was the end of Europe, the sinister Peninsula of Gallipoli. The
break itself, bathed in a gentle mist, was the deadly opening to the
Dardanelles. Presumably, one of those hill-tops, just visible, was
old Achi Baba, which had defeated the invaders of Helles; and
another, Sari Bair, beneath which lay the invaders of Suvla,
wondering if they, too, had been beaten by a paltry hill.
The entrancing sight was bound to work upon Doe's nature. Still
looking through his glasses, he asked:
"I say, Roop, what's the most appealing name that the War has given
to the history of Britain--Mons, or Ypres, or Coronel, or what?"
"Gallipoli," I replied, knowing this was the answer he wanted.
"Just so. And shall I tell you why?"
"Yes, thanks. If you'll be so obliging."
"Well, it's because the strongest appeal that can be addressed to
the emotional qualities of humanity is made by the power called
Pathos--"
"Good heavens!" I began.
"And there, my boy," pursued Doe, "in picture-form before you, this
humid afternoon, is the answer to your question."
"But it was your question," I suggested.
"Don't be a fool, Rupert. Ask me what I mean."
"What the deuce do you mean?"
"I mean this: that the romantic genius of Britain is beginning to
see the contour of Gallipoli invested with a mist of sadness, and
presenting an appearance like a mirage of lost illusions."
I told him that he was very poetical this afternoon, whereupon he
sat up and, having put his field-glasses in their case, made this
irrelevant remark:
"Do you remember the central tower of Truro Cathedral, near my
home?"
"Yes."
"Well, do you think it's anything like a lily? For mercy's sake say
it is."
"Why?" I demanded.
"And it does change colour in the changing light, doesn't it,
Rupert? Say 'Yes,' you fool--say 'Yes.'"
"Why?"
"Oh, because I've written--I've written some verses about it--when I
was a bit homesick, I s'pose--and I'd like you to tell--"
"Hand them over," sighed I.
"I will, since you're so pressing. They're in the Edgar Doe stanza."
Doe gave me a soiled piece of paper, and watched me breathlessly. I
read:
TRURO TOWER
Stone lily, white against the clouds unfurled
To mantle skies
Where thunder lies,
White as a virtue in a vicious world,
Give to me, like the praying of a friend,
White hope, white courage, where the war-clouds blend.
Stone lily, coloured now in sunny chrome,
Or washed with rose,
As long days close,
And weary English suns go west'ring home,
Look East, and hither, where there turns to rest
A homing heart that beats an English breast.
Stone lily, first to catch the shaft of day,
And first to wake
For dawns that break
While lower things are steeped in gloaming grey,
Over my banks of twilight look and see
The breezy morn that fills my sails for thee.
"Oh, you've felt like that, have you?" said I. "So've I. Your poem
exactly expresses my feeling, so it must be absolutely IT."
"Rupert, you ripping old liar!" answered Doe, aglow with pleasure.
"No, I mean it; honestly I do."
"Well, anyhow," said Doe, getting up and brushing thistles off his
uniform, "don't you think that now, as 'this long day's closing,'
it's time we two 'weary English _sons_ go west'ring home'?"
I assured him that this was not only vulgar but also void of wit;
and he sulked, while we turned our faces to the west and retraced
our former path. Once again the summits of the hills, as we stepped
upon them, showed us the lofty grandeur of the Ægean world. We
halted to examine the wonderful sight that loomed in the sky-spaces
to the north of Lemnos. This was the huge brows, fronting the
clouds, of the Island of Samothrace. To me they appeared as one long
precipice, from whose top frivolous people (such as Edgar Doe) could
tickle the stars.
"St. Paul left Troas," ventured I, "and came with a straight course
to Samothrace," a little blossom of news which angered Doe, because
he had not thought of it first. So, after deliberate brain-racking,
he went one better with the information:
"The great Greek god, Poseidon, sat on Samothrace, and watched the
Siege of Troy. It looks like the throne of a god, doesn't it? I
wonder if the old boy's sitting there now, watching the fight for
the Dardanelles."
As he spoke the sun was falling behind the peaks of Lemnos and
nearing the Greek mainland, which revealed itself, through the
evening light, in the splendid conical point of Mount Athos. And, at
our feet, the loose stones and broken rocks had assumed a pink tint
on their facets that looked towards the setting sun. The browsing
sheep, too, had enriched their wool with colours, borrowed from the
sunset. Everywhere hung the impression that a day was done; over
yonder a lonely Greek, side-saddle on his mule, was wending home.
"The sun's going west to Falmouth," said Doe, inflamed by my recent
appreciation of his poem. "It'll be there in two hours. Wouldn't I
like to hang on to one of its beams and go with it!"
"Don't stand there talking such gaff," I said, "but get a move on,
if you want to be back in Mudros before nightfall."
We pursued the homeward journey, and suddenly surprised ourselves by
emerging above a hill-top and looking down over a mile of undulating
country upon the long silver sheet of water that was Mudros Harbour.
To us, so high up, its vast shipping--even including the giant
_Olympic_--seemed a collection of toy steamers. And all around the
harbour were the white specks of toy tents.
"Our mighty campaign looks, I s'pose, even smaller and more toy-like
to Poseidon, sitting on Samothrace," mused Doe. "What insects we
are! 'As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods; they kill us for
their sport.'"
Just at that moment "Retreat" was blown in the camps below. It was
with the bugles as with the bells of a great city. One took the lead
in proclaiming its message; then another, and yet another joined in,
till at last all corroborated the news. And the trumpets and rifles
of the French told the same story.
We hurried on, but within a few minutes darkness dropped a curtain
over all that we had seen from the hills.
§2
We got home in time to be late for dinner, and as we sheepishly
entered the mess the O.C. Rest Camp cried:
"Oh, here you are! Where have you been? Frantic wires have been
buzzing all the afternoon for you--priority messages pouring in.
You're to proceed forthwith to the Peninsula. Headquarters had
forgotten all about you, so they are thoroughly angry with you."
We sat down and began the soup at once, intending to have dinner,
even if it involved the loss of the campaign. Monty explained across
the table that he was included in this urgent summons.
"Yes, rather," endorsed the O.C., who was very full of the news,
"all East Cheshire Details. Apparently the East Cheshires are
holding an awkward position on a place called Fusilier Bluff, and
being killed like stink by a well-placed whizz-bang gun. They've got
about fifty men and half an officer left per company. They're
screaming for reinforcements. Salt and pepper, please. Thanks."
"Where is this Fusilier Bluff, sir?" asked I. "At Suvla or Helles?"
"Haven't the foggiest!" answered the O.C. "The Cheshires always used
to be at Helles, but I daresay they were moved to Suvla for the new
landing there, along with the 29th Division. Fusilier Bluff has only
just become notorious. Poor young Doon got his ticket there--same
gun."
"We've a score to settle with that gun, Rupert," said Doe.
Next day we dressed for our part on the Peninsula. Doe smiled grimly
as he swung round his neck the cord that dangled two identity discs
on his breast. "_Now_ there's some point in these things," he said.
We filled all the chambers of our revolvers and fixed the weapons on
to our belts, wondering what killing men would feel like, and how
soon it would begin. "It'll be curious," Doe suggested, "going
through life knowing that you killed a man while you were still
nineteen. Perhaps in Valhalla we'll be introduced to the men we've
killed. Jove! I'll write a poem about that."
A fatigue party of Turkish prisoners carried our kit down to the
"Egyptian Pier," whence we were ferried to the Headquarters Ship
_Aragon_. Once aboard, Monty took the lead, seeking out the cabin of
the Military Landing Officer and presenting to him our orders. He
was an attractive little person, this M.L.O., and, having glanced
over our papers, said: "East Cheshires? Oh, yes. And where are they?
Are they at Suvla or Helles?"
Monty said that he hadn't the slightest idea, but imagined it was
the business of Headquarters to have some notion of a division's
whereabouts.
"East Cheshire Division? Let me see," muttered the M.L.O., chewing
his pencil.
We let him see, with the satisfactory result that he brightened up
and said:
"Ah, yes. They're at Suvla, I think."
"How nice!" commented Monty. It seemed a suitable remark.
"Well, anyhow," proceeded the M.L.O., in the relieved manner of one
who has chosen which of two doubtful courses to adopt, and is happy
in his choice, "there's a boat going to Suvla to-night. The
_Redbreast_, I think. I'll make you out a passage for the
_Redbreast_."
He did so, and handed the chit to Monty, who replied:
"Thanks. But supposing the Cheshires are _not_ at Suvla?"
"Why, then," explained the M.L.O., smiling at having an indubitable
answer ready, "they'll be at Helles."
And he beamed agreeably.
Just then there entered the cabin a middle-aged major with a
monocle, none other than our old friend, Major Hardy of the
_Rangoon_. He fixed us with his monocle and said: "Well, I'm damned!
Young Ray! Young Doe! Young Padre!" Immediately there followed a
fine scene of reunion, in which Monty explained our delay at Mudros;
Major Hardy told us that he had been appointed Brigade Major to our
own brigade, his predecessor having been killed on Fusilier Bluff by
the whizz-bang gun; and the M.L.O. shone over all like a benignant
angel.
"Ah! Another for the East Cheshires," said he. "Can I have your
name, Major?"
"Hardy," came the answer.
"'Hardy'--let me see," and the M.L.O. ran his finger down a big
Nominal Roll. "Harris, Harrison, Hartop, Hastings--no 'Hardy' here,
Major. Are you sure it's not Hartop?"
The owner of the name declared that he was bloody sure.
"Well, I may be wrong," acknowledged the M.L.O. "Why, yes--here we
are, 'Hardy.' Well, you left yesterday, and are with your unit." And
he put the Nominal Roll away, as much as to say: "The matter's
settled, so, as you're there already, you won't need a passage."
"I beg your pardon, damn you," corrected the Major. "I'm in your
filthy office, seeking a chit to get to the East Cheshires."
"I don't see how that can be," grumbled the M.L.O., so far as such a
delightful person was capable of grumbling. "But, of course, there
may be a mistake somewhere."
"Well, perhaps you'll be good enough," suggested Major Hardy, "to
give me a chit to proceed to the East Cheshires to look into the
matter."
"Oh, certainly," agreed the M.L.O., with that prepossessing smile
which came to his lips when he had discovered the solution of a
problem. "There are two boats going to the Peninsula to-night, one
to Suvla and the other to Helles. The _Redbreast_ is the one that's
going to Suvla, I fancy, and the _Ermine_ to Helles. At any rate,
try the _Redbreast_, Major."
"Yes," interrupted the Major, "but supposing the _Redbreast_
_doesn't_ go to Suvla--_what_?"
"Why, then," replied the M.L.O., promptly and brightly, "it'll go to
Helles."
This enlightened remark produced such a torrent of oaths from Major
Hardy as was only stemmed by the M.L.O.'s assurance that there was
no real doubt about the _Redbreast's_ going to Suvla. We left the
cabin to the sound of a long "Ha-ha-ha!" from its engaging occupant,
who had been tickled, you see, by the Major's outburst.
We were ferried on a steam-tug to the _Redbreast_, and climbed
aboard. She seemed a funny little smack after the huge _Rangoon_. We
could scarcely elbow our way along, so packed was she with drafts of
men belonging to the Lovat Scouts, the Fife and Forfarshire
Yeomanry, and the Essex Regiment.
I was standing among the crowd on her deck, when there was a sound
of a rolling chain and a slight rocking of the boat, which provoked
an indelicate man near me to take off his helmet and pretend to be
sick in it. There was a rumbling of the engines as their wheels
began to revolve, and a throbbing of the _Redbreast's_ heart as
though she found difficulty in getting under way with such a load.
Then a sudden and alarming snort from her siren drew cries of
"Hooter's gone!" "Down tools, lads!" "Ta-ta, Mudros!" "All aboard
for Dixie!" "Hurry up, hurry up, get upon the deck, Find the nearest
girl, and put your arms around her neck, For the last boat's leaving
for home."
With cheering from the anchored ships that we passed; with a band
playing somewhere "The Bonnie Banks of Loch Lomond"; with greeting
and banter from the _Ermine_, which was steaming out with us on her
voyage to Helles; and with all these things under an overcast sky
that broke frequently into rain, we left Lemnos, the harbour and
the hills, going out through a dulled sunset.
"Put trees on those hills," said Doe, approaching me, "and in this
bad light you could imagine you were going out of the estuary of the
Fal to the open sea."
"Do you wish you were?" asked I, looking at the hills we had climbed
the day before.
"No. I like the excitement of this. It's the best moment in the war
I've had. This is life!"
From the sunset and sounds of the harbour we steamed into the
stillness and dark of the open seas. No lights were allowed on the
decks, for the enemy knew all about these nightly trips to Turkey.
Singing and shouting were suppressed, and we heard nothing but the
noise of the engines, the splatter of the agitated water as it
struck our hull, and the sound, getting fainter and fainter, of the
_Ermine_ ploughing to Helles.
"The stage is in darkness," whispered Doe in his fanciful way. "It's
the changing of the acts."
The rain began to fall in torrents, and the sky periodically was lit
by flashes of an electric storm. And then we suddenly became
conscious of new flashes playing among those of the lightning.
"The guns?" I murmured.
"Sure thing," answered Doe.
A sharp shiver of delight ran through both our bodies. Our eyes at
last were watching war. To think of it! We were off the world-famous
Peninsula!
And it was pitch-darkness, with flashing lights everywhere! From
Navy and Army both, searchlights swept the sea and sky, shut
themselves off, and opened anew. Signals in Morse sparkled with
their dots and dashes. From the distant trenches star-shells rose in
the air, and seemed to hang suspended for a space, while we caught
the rapid tick-tick of far-away rifle fire.
"It's a blinkin' firework show," said a Tommy's voice; and Doe
announced in my ear: "Rupert, I'm inspired! I've an idea for a poem.
Our lives are a pantomime, and the Genius of the Peninsula is the
Demon King; and here we have the flashes and thunder that always
illumine the horrors of his cave.... Jumping Jupiter! What's that?"
A tremendous report had gone off near us; a brilliant light had
shown up the lines of a cruiser; a shell had shrieked past us and
whistled away to explode among the Turks; and a loud, and swelling
murmur of amazement and admiration, rising from the _Redbreast_, had
burst into a thousand laughs.
"Fate laughs at my poem," grumbled Doe.
The rain raced down: and, at about ten o'clock, we learned that, for
the first time in the history of the _Redbreast_, it would be too
rough for anyone to land. We must therefore spend the night aboard,
and take the risk of disembarking under the enemy's guns in the
morning. So, wooing sleep, we huddled into the chairs of the saloon,
and wished for the day. We slept through troubled dreams, and woke
to a gathering calm on the sea. As our eager eyes swept the view by
daylight, we found that we were in a semicircular and unsheltered
bay, whose choppy water harboured two warships that were desultorily
firing. Near us a derelict trawler lay half submerged.
The truth broke upon us: we were floating at anchor in Suvla Bay.