THE END OF GALLIPOLI
§1
Wandering down the Gully Ravine one morning, I encountered a long
line of men marching up it in single file. I passed as close to them
as possible, so that, by a glance at their shoulder-straps, I might
ascertain their regiment. No sooner had I learned who they were than
I turned about and hurried back to Monty's dug-out. This life holds
few pleasures so agreeable as that of conveying startling news.
"Who do you think's marching up the Gully?" I demanded.
"I don't know. Who?" asked Monty.
"The Munster Fusiliers!"
"What? The immortal 29th Division? From Suvla. The dickens! What
does it mean?"
Before we could decide what it meant my batman came back from a
visit to the French canteen at Seddel Bahr.
"They're landing hundreds of troops at V Beach, sir," said he. "The
Worcesters are here, and the Warwicks."
"The 13th Division," exclaimed Monty. "Also from Suvla."
"They're reinforcements," said I. "It's all in accordance with the
Special Order of the Day that we are to 'hold Helles for the
Empire.'"
Monty was just about to pulverise me with a particularly rude
rejoinder, when a voice outside called "Hostile aircraft overhead,"
and we were drawn at a run to the door by the unmistakable sound of
anti-aircraft guns, followed by the bursting out of rifle and
machine-gun fire, which grew and grew till it sounded like a mighty
forest crackling and spluttering in flames. We glanced into the sky
at the shrapnel puffs, and immediately discovered two enemy
aeroplanes flying lower than they had ever done before. We could
almost see the observers leaning over the fuselage to spy out if the
British on Helles were up to the monkey tricks they had played at
Suvla. So low were they that all men with rifles--the infantry in
their trenches, the A.S.C. drivers from their dumps, the transport
men from their horse-lines--were firing a rapid-fire at the
aeroplanes and waiting to see them fall.
"Cheeky brutes!" I shouted, and, observing that our batmen were
hastily loading their rifles, ran for my revolver, determined to
fire something into the air.
"It's like us," growled Monty, "to land reinforcements under the
very eyes of the enemy aeroplanes--" He paused, as though a new idea
had struck him. "Rupert, my boy, did you say that the Special Order
about holding Helles was _extensively_ published?"
"Yes, rather. Hung in the very traverses of the trenches."
"I thought so." He nodded with irritating mysteriousness. "What
fools you and I are! Stop firing at those Taubes. Or fire wide of
them--fire wide."
"Why?"
"Because our Staff will want them to get home and report all that
they've seen. That's why."
Of a truth Monty was quite objectionable, if he was excited with
some secret discovery, and thought it amusing not to disclose it.
And when, later that afternoon, a message came round saying that
irresponsible units were not to fire at hostile aircraft, owing to
the danger of spent bullets, he bragged like any pernicious
schoolboy.
"I told you so. O Rupert, my silly little juggins, you're as dense
as a vegetable marrow. I mean, you're a very low form of life."
§2
The weather broke. Two days of merciless rain turned the trenches
into lanes of red clayey mud, and the floor of the Gully Ravine into
a canal of stagnant brown water. And one evening Monty returned from
his visitations, limping badly. He had slipped heavily, as he
paddled through the ankle-deep mud, and had hurt his back. I sent
him at once to bed, and on the following morning announced that I
was going to no less terrifying a place than Brigade Headquarters
to insist on his being given a pair of trench-waders. He enjoined
me not to be an ass, and I rebuked him severely for speaking to his
doctor like that, and, going out of the dug-out, broke off all
communication with one so rude.
Reaching Brigade Headquarters, which were on the slope across the
Gully, I asked the least alarming of the Staff Officers, the Staff
Captain, for a pair of trench-waders.
"Sorry," answered he, "we've had orders to return them all." He
looked most knowing, as he said it, and seemed to think it a remark
pregnant with excitement.
"Oh, I see," I replied, quite inadequately.
"Yes," he continued, staring whimsically at me, "we've been ordered
to shift our quarters to-night."
"Good Lord!" I said, still confused.
"Yes, we leave--_by ship_--at midnight. It's the Evacuation. The
other two brigades of our Division have already gone, and we go
to-night!"
"The devil!" exclaimed I. "Then I'll go and pack."
"Of course; and tell the padre to meet the battalion at W Beach at
ten o'clock."
Down the hillside I went, across the Gully, forging like a
steam-pinnace through the water, and up the face of the opposite
hill. Full of the glorious bursting weight of good news, I looked
down upon our batmen at work in the cookhouse, and roared: "Pack the
valises. We're off to-night." I rushed into the dug-out. "Get up," I
commanded Monty; "we leave by ship at midnight."
Never did an invalid with a broken back leap so easily out of his
bed, as did Monty. He assured me, however, in an apologetic way,
that he had been feeling much better even before he had the news.
"Now you know," said he, "what the Special Order about holding
Helles was for--to deceive old Tomfool Turk; and why those regiments
from Suvla were landed here--to appear to the Turk like
reinforcements, but really to conduct the evacuation at Helles,
having learnt the job at Suvla; and why we wanted the Turkish
aeroplanes to get back with news of our landing of troops--but, my
bonny lad, for every two hundred we land by day, we'll take off two
thousand by night!"
After a morning of hurried packing we decorated the dug-out walls
with messages for Johnny Turk to find, when he should enter our
deserted dwelling. "Sorry, Johnny, not at home"; "Au revoir, Abdul."
"Really," said Monty, "we possess a pretty wit." And, having placed
a mug of whisky on the table with a bottle of water, so that Old Man
Turk could pour it out to his liking, he wrote: "Have this one with
me, John. You fought well."
"Get my kit down with yours," said I. "I'll meet you at W Beach at
ten pip-emma."
"Why?" he asked in surprise. "Aren't you coming with me?"
"No," I replied, playing scandalous football with the cookhouse;
"I'm going to join my company and lead my braves to safety.
Good-bye."
"For Heaven's sake, don't be rash," he called after me as I set off.
"There may be dangerous work."
"Meet you at W Beach at ten pip-emma," cried I, now some distance
away.
"But you haven't the doctor's permission to return."
"Damn the doctor!" I yelled, and disappeared.
§3
It was quite dark in the fire-trenches by seven o'clock. My men,
with every stitch of equipment on their backs, stood on the
firing-step and kept up a dilatory fire on the Turkish lines.
"Maintain an intermittent fire," I ordered, as I walked among them.
"Not too much of it, or the Turk will think we're nervy, and begin
to suspect--not too little, or he'll wonder if we're moving."
In silence the relief of my company was effected. The men of the
13th Division, who were taking over our line, replaced one after
another my men on the firing-step, and kept the negligent fire
unbroken. With a whisper I officially handed over my sector to their
company commander.
"You'll follow us to-morrow, probably," I said, to comfort myself
rather than him. I didn't want the man who relieved me to be among
the killed.
"What _will_ happen, _will_ happen," he murmured. "Good luck."
"We shan't be sure we're really going," I prattled on, lest silence
became morbid. "I simply can't believe it. Either we shall be
killed, going from here to W Beach, or our orders will be cancelled
at the last moment."
"Pass the word to Captain Ray," whispered a voice, "to march his men
out."
"Word passed to you, sir, to march," said the sergeant-major.
"From whom?"
"Pass the word back--who from?"
"From Commanding Officer."
I walked to the head of my company. "File out in absolute silence,"
said I, not remembering at the moment that this was the great order
of evacuation. I watched my company file past me--twenty-eight men.
Then I followed, wishing it were lighter, for man never quite
outgrows his dislike of utter darkness--and this was a nervous
night. We threaded guiltily through the old trench system, and
emerged into the Gully Ravine, hardly realising that we had bidden
the old lines good-bye.
Since dusk the Turk, as apprehensive as ourselves, had been shelling
the Gully. And now, as we splashed and floundered along it, shells
screamed towards our column, making each of us wonder dreamily
whether he would be left dead by the wayside. We reached Artillery
Road, and discerned the shadowy form of the remainder of the
battalion.
A figure appeared from somewhere, and I recognised the voice as the
C.O.'s.
"I shall take the other companies by the road under the cliffs. Take
your men over the tableland, and wait for me at W Beach. We shall
get there more quickly and less noisily that way."
"Yes, sir," said I, saluting. But under my breath I swore. I had no
desire to take my men along the plateau, because, whereas the road
under the cliffs was well sheltered, the tableland was exposed to
all the guns on Achi Baba, every one of which--so jumpy was the
Turk--seemed manned and firing. And I had set my heart on getting my
company--all twenty-eight of them--off the Peninsula without the
loss of a single man. The route, too, lay over Hunter Weston Hill,
and I wanted to avoid seeing and thinking of Doe's grave to-night.
So, worrying anxiously, I gave the order "D Company--march!" and led
the way up Artillery Road, while the men, observing that the other
companies were proceeding in comparative safety along the Gully,
began to sing quietly: "I'll take the high road, and you'll take the
low road ... and we shall never meet again," and to titter and to
laugh.
"Silence!" I commanded.
Hearing only the padding of our feet as they marched in step, and
keeping our eyes on the ground that we might not miss the beaten
track and wander into the heather, we tramped along the trail which
I had taken on my wild ride to Doe's bedside. We passed Pink Farm
Cemetery, barely distinguishing the outline of its solitary tree. We
left the "White City" on our right. It was brilliantly lit, that the
Turk might think everything was as usual on Helles. We reached the
summit of Hunter Weston Hill, and looked down upon a still grey
plain, which was the sea.
On the slope of the hill, not fifty yards from where Doe was lying,
I had halted my men and was making them sit down, when a voice out
of the darkness asked:
"Who's that?"
My heart bounded with fright. A sense of the eerie was upon me, and
for a second I thought it was Doe's voice.
"D Company," I called hollowly, "10th East Cheshires."
"Ah, good!" repeated the voice, which was Monty's. And he stepped
out of the night, giving me another nasty turn, for it was like some
unexpected presence coming from the darkest corner of a room. He sat
down beside me, and began to talk.
"The moon is due up about midnight. They want to get us off before
moonrise, so that the Turk may not shell us by its light. His
aviators are expected to try night-flying."
"Oh!" said I. I was thinking of other things.
"But they've been shelling us pretty effectively in the dark.
Asiatic Annie is very busy troubling the beaches."
"Oh?" I said again.
And at that moment a flash illuminated the eastern sky like
lightning.
"There you are," said Monty. "She's fired."
No sound of a gun firing or a shell rushing had accompanied the
flash. Only alarm whistles began blowing from different points on
the hillside.
"They're blown by special sentries," explained Monty, "who are
posted to watch the hills of Asia for this flash, and warn the
troops to take cover."
"Take cover," I said to my men.
The shell was on its way, but, as it had a journey of seven miles to
make across the Dardanelles, a certain time must elapse before we
should hear the shriek of the shell as it raced towards us. It
seemed an extraordinary time. We knew the shell was coming with its
destiny, involving our life or death, irrevocably determined, and
yet we heard nothing. The men, under such cover as they could find,
were silent in their suspense. Then the shell roared over our heads,
seeming so low that we cowered to avoid it. It exploded a score of
yards away. A shower of earth rained upon us, but no splinter
touched anyone. The men whistled in their relief and laughed.
"Does this happen often?" I asked Monty, when I found I was still
alive.
"Every few minutes. It's ten o'clock. We embark at midnight."
"I'm moving my men, then. Asiatic Annie has the range of this spot
too well."
I marched my company down to the beach, and told them to take
shelter under the lee of the cliff. We had scarcely got there before
Annie's wicked eye sparkled from Asia, the warning whistles blew,
and, after crying "There she is!" we waited spellbound for the
imminent shriek. The shell burst in the surf, scattering shingle and
spray over every one of us.
"You'd think they'd seen us move," I said, listening for the groans
of any wounded. None came, but I heard instead the sound of muffled
voices and marching feet, and saw men moving through the darkness
along the brink of the sea like a column of Stygian shades. It was
the battalion arriving, with other units of the East Cheshire
Brigade.
"I know what'll happen, Rupert," said Monty, when these men had
crowded the beach and the hill-slope. "Some drunken Turk will lean
against that old gun in Asia, and just push it far enough to perfect
its aim."
And he looked round upon the mass of men and shuddered.
It was getting cold, and we huddled ourselves up on the beach. Some
of us were indifferent in our fatalism to the shells of Asiatic
Annie; if our time had come--well, Kismet. Others, like myself,
waited fascinated. I know I had almost hungered for that meaning
flash in Asia, the terrible delight of suspense, the rush of
thrills, and the sudden arresting of the heart as the shell
exploded.
§4
Then, about one o'clock, the moon broke the clouds and lit the
operations with a white light. It should have filled us with dismay,
but instead it seemed the beginning of brighter things. The men
groaned merrily and burst into a drawling song:
"Oh, the moon shines bright on Mrs. Porter,
And on her daughter,
A regular snorter;
She has washed her neck in dirty water,
She didn't oughter,
The dirty cat."
And Monty, hearing them, whispered one of his delightfully
out-of-place remarks:
"Aren't they wonderful, Rupert? I could hug them all, but I wish
they'd come to Mass."
The moon, moreover, showed us comforting things. There was the old
_Redbreast_ lying off Cape Helles. There were the lighters, crowded
with men, pushing off from the beach to the waiting boat.
"You could get off on any one of those lighters," said I to Monty.
"Why don't you go?"
"Why, because we'll leave this old place together."
After he said this I must have fallen from sheer weariness into a
half-sleep. The next thing I remember was Monty's saying: "Look
alive, Rupert! _We're_ moving now." Glancing round, I saw that my
company was the last left on the beach. I marshalled the
men--twenty-eight of them--on to the lighter.
"Now, get aboard, Rupert," said Monty.
"You first," corrected I. "I'm going to be last off to-night."
"As your senior officer, I order you to go first."
"As the only combatant officer on the beach," I retorted, "I'm O.C.
Troops. You're simply attached to me for rations and discipline.
Kindly embark."
Monty muttered something about "upstart impudence," and obeyed the
O.C. Troops, who thereupon boarded the rocking lighter, and
exchanged with one step the fatal Peninsula for the safety of the
seas.
On the _Redbreast_ we leaned upon the rail, looking back. The boat
began to steam away, and Monty, knowing with whom the thoughts of
both of us lay, said quietly:
"'Tell England--' You must write a book and tell 'em, Rupert, about
the dead schoolboys of your generation--
'Tell England, ye who pass this monument,
We died for her, and here we rest content.'"
Unable to conquer a slight warming of the eyes at these words, I
watched the Peninsula pass. All that I could see of it in the
moonlight was the white surf on the beach, the slope of Hunter
Weston Hill, and the outline of Achi Baba, rising behind like a
monument.