WAR VIGNETTES
AT ANZAC LANDING--SHRAPNEL VALLEY--THOSE WEIRD NAMES--MULES AND
DONKEYS--SPLENDOURS OF AN ANZAC NIGHT--OUR GREAT GUNS AND OUR
GUNNERS--VISIONS OF HUNTER RIVER AND WILLIAMS RIVER SCENES.
Vignettes of battle!
These are the kaleidoscopic pictures that remain mirrored in the
memory. I have forgotten what the transports looked like when we
reached Gallipoli. I only half remember the panorama of battle when
we first tackled the Turk. Yet there is no forgetting these little
snapshots of soldiering, the vivid vignettes which stand out in
clear-cut silhouette against the background of our experiences. Somehow
they seem more like tableaux vivants than a moving picture show.
Certainly the impression is not blurred by action, so the mind, like a
camera plate, retains the scene down to the minutest details. Perhaps,
when we think of the big things that our lads have done, these little
visions may seem hardly worth chronicling. But the Censor will not let
me take photographs, and after all it might interest the old folks
at home to scan these hurried lines and construct their own mental
pictures of the rugged and inhospitable Gallipoli Peninsula where so
many young Australians have fought and died for empire.
First, the Cove! It was in Anzac Cove we first landed. In spite of
the shrapnel shells which burst on the beach or plunged into the sea,
we could take stock of the whole scene before us--afloat and ashore.
Straight ahead the hills rose almost from the water's edge to a height
of 400 feet. To right and left were the army stores: little mountains
of bully beef and biscuits. Scores of soldiers moved hither and thither
on fatigue duty, giving Anzac the appearance of a thriving port. At
least five hundred men were swimming in the Cove entirely indifferent
to the enemy's shells. Under the sheltering shadow of the hill was
the field ambulance--doctors working overtime, orderlies running here
and there, stretcher-bearers coming and going with their burdens of
wounded and dead; seaward, transports lolled lazily on the placid
bosom of the Mediterranean; torpedo boats streaked about looking for
submarines; warships wreathed in battle-smoke belched broadsides;
aloft, a circling aeroplane.
... There are weird names on Anzac. Hell Spit, Shell Green, Casualty
Corner, Valley of Despair, The Bloody Angle, Dead Man's Hill, Sniper's
Nest, and Cooee Gully. Every name conjures up memories. At the Bloody
Angle Turks and Australians were at death-grips, day after day, and
week after week, with the trenches only a few yards apart. It was back
through the death-strewn Valley of Despair that the Australian infantry
withdrew after their first glorious charge inland. On Dead Man's Hill
the Turks lay slaughtered in hundreds after their fierce attack on May
19.
And we all know Shrapnel Valley. Here the Light Horse lay all through
the night of the 20th, learning what shell-fire really meant. Since the
first landing on April 25 the Turks must have landed tons and tons of
lead and iron in Shrapnel Valley, but we soon knew the safety spots
and the danger zones. The tortuous, waterless creek bed wound its
aimless way to the sea; steep hills, scrub-faced, rose on either side;
wild flowers, pink and white and lilac and yellow and blue, graced
the uplands where we first landed; but they were all gone now. On the
crest of the hill, sharply silhouetted against the skyline, were our
trenches, so manned that the devils of hell could not break through,
let alone the turbaned and malignant Turk. On the ledges behind--rather
ragged and unkempt now--lounged the reserves, ready in case of attack,
but knowing well that their comrades in front could easily hold the
line. MacLaurin's Hill is at the top. A little further down projects
Braund's Hill. Little graves dot the hillside; little wooden crosses
mark the graves.
... And then the Mules! Just mules and donkeys; but they play no
unimportant part in the war game at Anzac. They too, with their Indian
attendants, landed at Anzac with only the Turkish guns to voice a
welcome. They too sheltered in dug-outs when the artillery duel waxed
warm. But day after day, and night after night, they toiled for the
transport. Water and ammunition and stores of all kinds had to be
carried from the depots to the firing-line, and the bulk of the burden
fell on the mules. Along the meandering paths they filed, scrambling up
the stiff pinches, resting awhile on the crests. Now and then a shell
would slaughter a few. Anon, snipers' bullets would take toll. But the
imperturbable Indian would just carry on. We had two little donkeys
in Shell Green. They divided their time between the 2nd Light Horse
Brigade and the 3rd Infantry Brigade, and the boys gave them biscuits.
Morning and evening the Turks shelled our lines, and Shell Green was
plastered with pellets and splinters. Yet by some miraculous chance
the donkeys escaped harm. Men were struck down on either side, but for
a couple of months the lucky animals escaped scatheless. The soldiers
swore by the donkeys' luck, and when the shells burst stood by the
animals rather than fly for shelter. At last the luck turned. A high
explosive burst over thirty men, scattered everywhere, wounded both
donkeys, and never touched a single man. We buried one of the donkeys
next day. The other, wounded and lonely, wandered about disconsolate.
... Night at Anzac! The sun, a sphere of flaming red, sank into the
sea. The western horizon glowed rich and splendid, while the waters of
the Archipelago shimmered like molten gold. Imbros and Samothrace stood
out in bold relief on the crimson skyline, while the coast of distant
Bulgaria softened till lost in a purple haze. Down south spurts of
fire and booming thunder told of the British warships still hammering
away at the forts of the Dardanelles. Slowly, there was unfolded for
the millionth time the miracle of nature's transformation scene. Like
a white-hot furnace cooling, the blazing west turned to rose-red and
amethyst, lilac and purple. Faithful as an echo, the mirroring sea
reflected the softened shades of the sky, and the chastened waters
grew mystic and wonderful in the afterglow. As the deepening twilight
mantled the Ægean Sea, twinkling lights appeared on land and water,
while one by one the little stars joined the crescent moon for company.
All blurred and indistinct were the hills and hollows, and during a
brief respite from the never-ending fusillade we forgot the war. But
just behind was the long line of Australian bayonets pointing towards
Constantinople.
... The Guns! Thick-lipped and cold, cruel and menacing, were the Guns
of Anzac. Death-dealing monsters were they, heartless and vindictive,
but, oh, how we soldiers loved them! For they were our very best
friends; field guns, mountain guns and howitzers. We knew when the
German and Turkish artillerymen started their snarling hymn of hate
that our gunners would soon be barking defiance. Enemy shells might
roar and thunder, and shrapnel claim its victims; high explosives might
wreck parapets and trenches, but we knew our guns and our gunners, and
that was enough. We lay low while the artillery duel raged overhead
and the echoing hills reverberated with the thunderous roar of battle.
So cunningly concealed were our guns, with such acumen were our
emplacements selected and built that Tommy Turk had continually to be
guessing. His shells searched the hills and the valleys in vain. His
gunners too were skilful and brave. They took position in gullies,
behind hills and in villages, and blazed away at our lines. But our
aeroplanes circled overhead to spot them. Then our guns got busy and
fired like fury till the Hun cried "Hold!"
Then when our spell in the trenches was over, and we sought the
seclusion of our dug-outs, there came visions that are not vignettes
of war. I saw the old homestead in the Hunter Valley. Hard by Erringhi
it stands, where the Williams River meanders through the encircling
hills and flows on towards Coalopolis. There are roses 'neath the
old-fashioned windows, and in the fields the scent of lucerne ripe
for the scythe. Magpies yodel in the big trees, and the wattle-gold
is showing down the river. I wonder will I ever see dear old Erringhi
again?