_Trooper Bluegum_
_at the_
_Dardanelles_
DESCRIPTIVE NARRATIVES OF THE
MORE DESPERATE ENGAGEMENTS
ON THE GALLIPOLI PENINSULA
By
OLIVER HOGUE
(Second Light Horse Brigade)
Preface by the Hon. J. A. Hogue
"When cannons are roaring and bullets are flying,
The lad that seeks honour must never fear dying."
SECOND EDITION
LONDON: ANDREW MELROSE, LTD
3 YORK STREET, COVENT GARDEN, W.C
Printed June 1916
Reprinted August 1916
DEDICATED
TO
ALL THE BRAVES
Who fought for Australia and the Empire
in the
GREAT WAR;
The Dead who yet live,
And the Living who bear their Battle scars
upon them, or, scatheless, thank God for
His Mercy.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The Author desires to thank the Proprietors of the _Sydney Morning
Herald_ for permission to incorporate in this book the "Trooper
Bluegum" articles which originally appeared in that journal, and the
Proprietors of the _Passing Show_ for permission to reprint the verses
"Anzac," by "Argent." He desires to thank many friends in Australia,
previously unknown to him, for kind letters sent to him whilst fighting
(and writing) in the trenches on Gallipoli; and also that little
band of Red Cross workers in country towns of New South Wales who,
in appreciation of his stories from the Front, knitted him socks and
Balaclava caps and scarves to ward off the winter winds. Especially
does he desire to thank his esteemed colleague on the _Herald_,
Mr. Farmer Whyte, for valuable assistance, generously rendered, in
the preparation and arrangement of the contents of this book for
publication in their present form.
PREFACE
Among the legacies, good and evil, tragic and inspiring, which the
Great War of Nations is destined to hand down to posterity, one of the
most valuable and permanent in its influence will be the LITERATURE
which this Armageddon will have brought forth. In that fountain of
knowledge the world will have command of vast stores of intellectual
treasure--History, Poetry, the Drama, Philosophy, Fiction--which will
continue to fascinate, to appal, to instruct, so long as books are read
and the crimes, the virtues, the calamities and follies of mankind are
subjects of human interest.
Such a literature, sanctified by the blood of millions of heroes--the
world's best manhood--and by sacrifices and sufferings that have
literally staggered humanity, will comprehend and crystallize events,
compared with which all former world-cataclysms will seem but passing
ripples on the ocean of life.
While in its inception and progress this greatest breach of the world's
peace has exhibited a section of mankind as hardly at all removed from
fiends incarnate, it has also shown men inspired by the highest virtues
and striving for the loftiest ideals; and it has produced women only
a little lower than the angels. Thus we seem to see, in all its naked
deformities as well as in its beauty and majesty, the very soul of
nations.
Not to "the future historian," but to whole battalions of historians
will it fall to relate the tragic story of this mighty conflict, to
pass judgment on the guilty authors of it, while giving to valour and
the champions of right their due. They will have ample material to
work upon, and they should have little difficulty in sifting out from
the mass of evidence before them that which is true from that which is
false, certainly as to the real instigators of the rupture.
As to the conduct and prosecution of this war of big battles, the
fighting over (and under) thousands of miles of land and ocean, and in
the air, the work of the armies of war correspondents has been, on
the whole, worthy of the highest traditions of that dangerous class
of literary work. In many respects it has even surpassed that of the
great war chroniclers of the past, from Russell and Forbes onwards, who
have shed lustre on British and foreign journalism. The old race of war
correspondents has passed away, but their spirit survives. A new school
has been founded. They who graduate in it must accommodate themselves
to new conditions of warfare, wherein the Censor plays his part.
To the work of these writers the historians of the war will be largely
indebted for their material in relating the operations of the opposing
hosts. The private letters of soldiers throw a clear light on minor
phases of the engagements in which they took part. These provide
intensely interesting reading, too often of a painfully absorbing
kind, their authors the eyewitnesses of and actors in the scenes they
describe.
The "Trooper Bluegum" contributions to the literature of the war were
written for and have appeared in the _Sydney Morning Herald_. They
are the work of a Sydney native, a trained journalist, who for the
time gave up a responsible position on the literary staff of that
journal to enlist as a trooper and serve at the front. As a military
writer his reputation had been well on in the making when General
Sir Ian Hamilton, a few years ago, came to Australia to inspect the
Commonwealth Forces. Here came his chance as a military critic and
descriptive writer on training operations. For his insight into
the manoeuvres and sham fight engagements of our troops, and his
descriptions in the _Sydney Morning Herald_ of the important movements
under Sir Ian Hamilton's observation, the future "Trooper Bluegum"
earned the special commendation of that distinguished British General.
From the rank of trooper the author of these sketches speedily rose
in the service, obtained a commission, and, as Second Lieutenant,
was chosen orderly to Colonel (afterwards Brigadier-General) Ryrie,
Commander of the Second Light Horse Brigade. Soon after landing at the
scene of operations at Gallipoli, he was promoted to First Lieutenant.
It was just before Christmas, close on five months after war was
declared, that the Expeditionary Force which included General Ryrie's
Brigade sailed from Sydney. Nearly the whole of Trooper Bluegum's
descriptions of the operations in the Anzac sphere were written in
dugouts between intervals of the fighting, often with shells screaming
overhead, shrapnel bursting, and bullets flying about him.
A feature of the descriptions in this book is the clear light thrown
on the rollicking yet unconquerable spirit of the Australian soldier
in action, on his never-failing good humour and love of fun even
in the face of death in any form, his amenableness to discipline,
his cheerful, patient endurance of hardship, and his fine contempt
of danger whenever and wherever confronting him. Here is seen the
Australian (his New Zealand brother in all respects his exact
prototype) in the full integrity of his young manhood.
Whence came these qualities in a branch of an immortal race bred to
peaceful pursuits? The analytical psychologist may not unprofitably try
his hand at explaining. The root principle is that the fighting spirit
which to the astonishment of the whole world, flashed out on Gaba Tepe
heights, was in the blood of the race, fostered in the schools, on the
playgrounds, and sustained by undying attachment to the great Empire
whose flag is the symbol for all that free men hold dear.
This book is a narrative, with sidelights and commentary, of the
operations of the Australian Imperial Expeditionary Forces, from the
training encampment at Holdsworthy to the time when, chastened but
still unconquered, the heroic band of Australians, or rather the
remnant that was left of them, returned from Anzac after the most
glorious failure in the annals of war.
J. A. HOGUE.
Sydney,
_December, 1915_.
CONTENTS
I A Soldier of the King 17
II We Sail Away 28
III The First Fight 38
IV In Egypt Still 50
V Heroes of April 25 58
VI Light-hearted Australians 73
VII At the Dardanelles 82
VIII Anzac 96
IX Stories that Will Never Die 109
X To Drive Back the Turk 118
XI War Vignettes 128
XII "George" 136
XIII "Robbo" 143
XIV "Come and Die" 153
XV The Bombs 165
XVI Aeroplanes 172
XVII "Padre" 179
XVIII "Stunts" 186
XIX Lonesome Pine 196
XX Lucky Escapes 212
XXI The Church Militant 219
XXII Sergeants Three 229
XXIII Mail Day 236
XXIV Reinforcements 244
XXV Shell Green 249
XXVI The Anzac V.C.'s 257
XXVII The Final Phase 267
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
TO FACE
PAGE
Anzac Cove, Gallipoli 17
Portraits of (1) Col. McCay; (2) Lt.-Col. C. F.
Cox, C.B.; (3) Lt.-Col. Hubert Harris;
(4) Col. M. Laurin; (5) Lt.-Col. Braund;
(6) Lt.-Col. Onslow Thompson 68
Officers of the 6th Australian Light Horse
Regiment, 2nd Light Horse Brigade 90
Murphy's Mules at Anzac 116
Major-General W. T. Bridges 141
Anzacs in Reserve 172
Entrance to Lone Pine 204
Brigadier-General G. Ryrie 255
[Illustration: Anzac Cove, Gallipoli.]
CHAPTER I
A SOLDIER OF THE KING
RIDING TESTS--THE SOLDIER'S OATH--SIR IAN HAMILTON--MOUNTED
PARADE--BUSHMEN AND CITY MEN ON TRIAL--LIGHT HORSE WAR SONG
"Trooper Bluegum, you're next."
I stepped forward. A hundred volunteers had been marched down from
Victoria Barracks, Sydney, and were undergoing the riding test prior to
being drafted into the Australian Light Horse.
"Mount and ride," said the sergeant.
I leaped on the bare back of a hog-maned colt. Three other candidates
were already mounted waiting for the signal. One was a Sydney "bushman"
and was obviously nervous. The other two were bushmen from Riverina and
the Hunter River and they grinned confidently.
"Cross this flat," continued the sergeant; "leap the bog, jump the sod
wall, gallop to that marker, and return."
Some fool orderly gave my mount a crack over the back with a rope
and away we galloped. The flat was easy, though I had not ridden
bare-backed for some time. The bog offered no resistance and we leaped
the sod wall neck and neck. Then the horses wanted to bolt and they
took some stopping. Anyhow, the first half of the test was safely
through.
The Sydney bushman was looking more at ease. The others grinned
expansively. "That's dead easy," said the man from Narrandera. "Call
that a riding test?"
The return signal was given, and the quartette started off. All went
well till the water jump loomed ahead. Here half a dozen yelling
orderlies were posted to spur on the chargers to the leap. The three
bushmen cleared the obstacle with hardly a splash, but disaster was in
store for the City bushman. Right on the brink the horse stopped dead
and the hapless rider was shot with catapultic force head first into
the bog, amid roars of merriment from the assembled army. We three
countrymen "passed," were promptly marshalled with the horsemen, and
marched to the doctor's for medical examination. The City bushman was
sent to "the gravel-crushers."
In a huge marquee in Rosebery Park were a score of virile young
Australians stripped for the fray. Sun-tanned bushmen they were for
the most part, lean and wiry, with muscles rippling over their naked
shoulders. Splendid specimens--strong but not too heavy, rarely topping
thirteen stone, for all the heavier men had been sent to the infantry.
But these were ideal Light Horsemen.
"Bluegum forward."
I stood, and the sergeant ran the tape over me: Weight, 11 stone;
height, 5 feet ten; chest, 37, expanded 41; age 34; beauty spots
and identification marks, none; eyes, brown; hair, brown; religion,
Presbyterian.
Then the doctor got busy; tapping here, sounding there, finally with
a word of approval sending me over to the sight specialist. There was
a jumble of letters of various sizes set before me, and finally, with
a score of others satisfactory in wind and limb, I was sent on to the
adjutant. My name, age, occupation, next-of-kin, and other essential
details were recorded. Then we were lined up to swear allegiance.
On the flat the volunteers were still doing the riding test, with
hundreds of onlookers keenly enjoying it. Each time some luckless
aspirant for fame and glory was precipitated into the bog the crowd
roared with delight, and when he emerged, mud-bespattered and
crestfallen, the hilarity of the bushmen knew no bounds. Pointed
advice was hurled at the failures, and they were urged to join the
"gravel-crushers," which most of them did.
For a couple of hours the fun continued, and with the end of the day
another hundred rough-riders were drawn up, passed and enlisted ready
for anything and everything. One by one we went forward and took the
oath.
The sun was just setting over the western rim of dear old Sydney town
when my turn came. The clouds were all gold and rose and amethyst, and
the whole scene was as peaceful as could be. The First Light Horse
Regiment--in fine fettle, ready at a moment's notice to sail for
Europe--cantering gaily back to camp, reminded us that the nation was
in a state of war, that the empire was engaged in a life and death
struggle, and that on the issue of the great conflict depended the
fate of Australia. And we of the Sixth Regiment were to make good the
"wastage of war."
So, solemnly, I kissed the Book and swore this oath: "I, James Bluegum,
swear that I will well and truly serve our Sovereign Lord the King in
the Australian Imperial Force from September 1914 until the end of the
war, and a further period of four months thereafter, unless sooner
lawfully discharged, dismissed, or removed therefrom; and that I will
resist His Majesty's enemies and cause His Majesty's peace to be kept
and maintained; and that I will in all matters appertaining to my
service faithfully discharge my duty according to law. So help me God."
I was a Soldier of the King!
Once more we were lined up and marched away to the quartermaster. Each
man was given a waterproof sheet, a pair of blankets, a knife, fork,
spoon, tin plate, and pannikin. We were to form part of the Second
Light Horse Brigade, and being minus tents we were relegated to the
stables. We raided the straw store, made beds, and lay upon them.
It was not ours to go with the first lot of heroes to take part in the
Great War. Most of us had waited till the Germans got within cannon
shot of Paris. Then we "butted in." We were selected to supply the
wastage--that was all. If we could not be the first in the firing-line,
it was something to know that we would take the place of the men
who were killed or wounded--all of us, the man from Narrandera, in
Riverina, the man from Hunter River, the men from out-back everywhere,
Trooper Bluegum among them, all whistling merrily "Soldiers of the
King, my Boys!"
We of the Light Horse started with many things in our favour. We
reckoned we could ride as well as, if not better than, any body of men
in the world, for we could ride almost as soon as we could walk. Also,
we were pretty good shots. Many were Rifle Club men. All had done a bit
of shooting in the bush, for dingoes and kangaroos and wallabies are
not yet extinct in Australia. So half of our lesson was learned before
we started. The drill and the discipline only remained. We did not mind
the drill, but the discipline was irksome.
It is a recognized flaw in our military make-up, this want of
discipline. Sir Ian Hamilton, when he visited Australia in 1914, found
the colonial compulsory trainees much more amenable to discipline than
he expected. But the militia are caught young. We of the Expeditionary
Force were a little bit too old to rid ourselves readily of the habits
of the bush, and adapt ourselves to the rigid routine of military life.
But perhaps it would come in time.
It is a strange world, my masters! I have before me as I write a
copy of a Sydney newspaper, dated May 21, 1914, giving the report
and recommendations made by General Sir Ian Hamilton in Australia,
and it is headed "If War Came." And there I read of the Australian
Infantry: "I have now seen the greater portion of the Australian
Infantry, and I wish very much I could transplant 10,000 of these
young soldiers to Salisbury Plain. They would do the croakers good
and make them less frightened of other nations, who have no overseas
children getting ready to lend them a hand. The majority of the
non-commissioned officers and men are still very young, but they are
full of intelligence and grit. On at least two occasions I have seen
brigades tested severely, once by heat and heavy marching, the other
time by floods and mud. In each case the men made light of their trying
experiences, treating them as an excellent joke."
It was of the same men that the same man was to write but a few short
months afterwards: "They have created for themselves an imperishable
record of military virtue."
But it is a long, long way to ----. Day after day we performed the
tiresome evolutions of troop and squadron drill on foot, for the horses
were not yet ready. We mastered the mysteries of sections right, form
troop, form squadron column; then day after day we engaged in rifle
drill--"stand at ease," "attention," "slope arms," "present arms," till
our arms ached. Then we fixed our bayonets, and in fancy bayoneted
thousands of "kultured" Germans.
But it was not till the horses came that we really felt like Light
Horsemen.
Let the sailor tell of the roaring gale,
Or the blue waves' rippling laughter;
Let the soldier sing of the sabre swing
And the laurels of glory after;
There's a melody in the changeful sea,
A charm in the battle's thunder,
But sweeter than those the bushman knows
Is the bound of a good horse under.
It was not child's play tackling those horses. Some of the kind-hearted
station folk in the backblocks had sent down some wild warrigals of
the West; bucking brumbies that beat the band; old outlaws off the
grass that the station hands could never master. But Colonel Cox
("Fighting Charlie" we called him) had in his command some of the crack
rough-riders of Australia. And it was a joy to see these men tackle the
outlaws. There were Crouch of Wagga, McDonald of Barrington, Whiteley
of Wellington, Bullock of Melbourne, Sievewright of Gunnedah, Kennedy
of Gloucester, Rex Moffatt of Goulburn, Harry Heath of Moree, and a
score of others. Nearly every man in the regiment could sit a buck, or
puff nonchalantly at his pipe while his mount pigrooted merrily. So
when the wild horses were led forth there were hundreds volunteering
for the honour of riding the rebels. One after another the horses were
saddled up, and while the regiment cheered itself hoarse, there was
enacted again and again the old-time struggle for mastery. There were
plunging and reefing and rooting and sidling and rearing and bucking,
as the panting chargers swung this way and that in vain endeavour to
dislodge the riders. But the bush boys stuck to the saddles as the Old
Man of the Sea stuck to Sindbad the Sailor, and one after another the
bucking brumbies were broken and led away.
Then came the first mounted parade. A squadron of Scots Greys or Life
Guards might have kept better line; they might probably have wheeled
with more order and precision for each troop here had a few half-broken
colts prancing and dancing all over the shop, but--well, somebody said
that these troops would compare favourably with any body of mounted
infantry in the world. Certain it is that when, one fine day, the
officer commanding, Colonel Cox, accompanied by the Brigadier, Colonel
Ryrie, made a careful inspection of the whole regiment, every one from
the officer commanding down was satisfied. And certain it is that we
sang the Australian Light Horse war song with unusual enthusiasm--
Sound the good old bugle, boys,
Let's sing another song,
Sing it with a spirit
That will send the troops along;
Sing it as we'll sing it
When we're twenty thousand strong,
When we go marching through Germany!
Hurrah! Hurrah! We're off to Germany!
Hurrah! Hurrah! the A.L.H. are we!
We're rounding up the bushmen from the
Darling to the sea
And we'll go marching through Germany!
How the bushmen shouted
When they heard the joyful sound,
"'Fighting Charlie's' going to lead,
So pass the word around;
Australia wants another batch
Of bushmen to astound
Poor old Kaiser Bill of Germany!"