"COME AND DIE"
TRENCH LIFE--THE SNIPER IS BORN--HOLIDAY ON A HOSPITAL SHIP--"WAR IS
HELL"--SHIFTING SCENES--NOTHING IMPOSSIBLE--HEAVY FIGHTING--DEATH AND
BURIAL OF A GALLANT OFFICER
We were told at the outset that the trenches were the safest place to
be in, and this is quite true. Shrapnel now and then knocks down the
parapets and does a little damage, but in Shrapnel Valley and Suicide
Walk it bursts at all times. And even in the dug-outs one is not wholly
safe. Many a brave spark has gone out in the dug-outs. The Turks have
their snipers, and we have ours, as the sea hath its pearls. A good
sniper is indeed a pearl--unless he is fighting on the "other side,"
and in that case he is "a cow." Most of us try our hand at sniping,
with more or less success--climbing up and down these hills in search
of what we call "big game"--but although I am a tolerable shot myself,
I have come to the conclusion that your true sniper, like your true
poet, is born, not made. I have heard it said that a good tennis-player
makes a good sniper (providing he can shoot) because he has the knack
of anticipating his opponent's movements. It is not enough to see
your man and have a "pot" at him, for the chances are that just as
you let go, he stoops down to pick a pretty flower, or he stumbles
over a scrub-root. Now, the successful sniper is he who anticipates
that stumble, or with an uncanny sort of second sight sees that pretty
flower which the enemy gentleman is going wantonly to pluck, and aims
low accordingly. Only by some such sort of intelligent anticipation
could some of our men have put up the astonishing records that stand to
their credit. But of that more anon.
Just at the moment I am out of the firing-line, and it is time enough
to write of snipers and shot and shell when I get back to it--lots
of time. For the present I am otherwise engaged. I have seen a
girl--several of them--real girls--beautiful girls. To one who has
not seen a girl for nearly six weeks girls seem wonderful. It is a
red-letter day. For the first time for five weeks I feel absolutely
safe from snipers and shells. I'm on the hospital ship _Gascon_, a
couple of miles off Anzac. No, I'm not sick, neither am I wounded;
it is just a little matter of duty that has brought me over, and I'm
having a glorious holiday--two hours of real holiday. Presently I shall
go back to my little grey home in the trench; and so I am enjoying
every minute of my time on the ship. After weeks of bully-beef and
bacon and biscuits I have had a DINNER. Can you who live at home at
ease realize what that means? I had soup, fish, grilled chop, sausage,
potatoes, rhubarb tart, cheese, bread and butter, coffee--fit for a
king! Before dinner I hungrily watched the stewards as they walked in
and out of the saloon. And after dinner I bought two cigars for two
shillings and smoked the smoke of absolute peace and contentment.
I quite forgot the war. I could scarcely hear the sound of the
fusillade and bombardment of Anzac, and I kept on the other side of the
ship so that I should not see the place. The only thing to remind me of
the war was the occasional booming of the guns of our warships. After
the trenches it was just like heaven. The view was delightful. Imbros,
Samothrace and Tenedos were near by. The sea was smooth; the weather
perfect, the blue of the sky rivalling the blue of the Mediterranean.
And the girls! There were nurses on board. I shook hands with them
all and talked to half a dozen of them. One was a very sweet little
thing--an angel! I longed for a broken arm or leg, so that I might stay
there.... Come, shade of brave old Sir Walter, and help me here.
O, woman! In our hours of ease,
Uncertain, coy, and hard to please,
And variable as the shade
By the light quivering aspen made;
When pain and anguish wring the brow,
A ministering angel thou!
But they are all angels, ministering angels, tending the sick and
wounded, whispering sweet words into the ears of brave men who lie
there, suffering tortures of mind and body, but never uttering a
complaint.
There were several doctors on board, and quite a lot of officers and
men, some wounded, others sick and broken down with the stress of the
last few weeks. Several of our brigade were among them. Heroes all.
Yes, I felt that if anything happened to me I should like to be taken
aboard that hospital ship. But nothing had happened to me worth
recording--only a few narrow escapes such as we all have in war
time. I never felt better in my life. My appetite was of the best.
My tongue had no coat of fur upon it. I had no excuse for remaining.
I commandeered a few sheets of paper and some envelopes (precious
things!). I went in and had a BATH--none of your ordinary swims, with
one eye on the shrapnel and the other on the shore, but a real bath
with soap and fresh water--and then I said good-bye to the nurses,
good-bye to the doctors and the men, and went back from this heaven on
the water to that hell upon the earth.
It WAS hell! All war is hell, as General Sherman said. And there never
was one that better deserved the name than this one. Oh, God! I have
stood on Braund's Hill admiring the sunset views, when the islands of
the Ægean Sea seem to be floating on the edge of a gorgeous canvas
of shimmering gold, and I have stood on other hills and watched the
dawn-blush and the rising sun, and I have said to myself, What a blot
upon God's beauties is war!... And then I have taken up my rifle and
gone forth to kill men! Every prospect pleases and only the enemy is
vile. Oh, these shifting scenes and changing moods!
On the other side were forty thousand Turks (we are told) watching for
the opportunity to kill us. Our mission was to get to Constantinople;
theirs to drive us into the sea. We were "dug in"; they were "dug in."
If we found it a long, long way to Constantinople, they were finding
it's a long way to the sea, which is much nearer as the crow flies.
They shivered at the sound of our land guns; they heard the broadsides
of our ships; they watched the _Queen Elizabeth_ fire her 15-inch gun;
the shells landing on the sides of the hills, tossing hundreds of tons
of earth and rock high into the air, so that when the smoke cleared
away they would not know those hills; and they trembled, as all men who
have seen have trembled at the fury of the monstrous gun!
But they fought on. Every yard of ground won cost us dear. I have seen
our boys fall like ninepins before a hail of bullets. I have heard
the cry "Lie low" in an advance, and every man has fallen flat upon
the ground to escape certain destruction; and I have heard that other
pitiful cry, time and time again, of "Stretcher-bearers wanted!" Once
the men lay prone for four hours in the midst of the scrub, with the
air full of bursting shells and rifle and machine-gun fire passing just
over them. I do not wonder that some men lost their nerve during those
terrible hours.
But never yet did Australian officer call upon his men to take a
position, no matter how impossible the feat, and find them wanting.
"Impossible!" There was no such word in their vocabulary. Nothing
was impossible to them--until they died. Colonel McCay, Brigadier in
Command of the Second Infantry Brigade, spoke the truth when he said:
"The way, the cheerful, splendid way, they face death and pain is
simply glorious, and if no Australian ever fought again, April 25,
April 26 and May 8 specially mark them as warriors. On the eighth of
May I said in effect to them (my own brigade), 'Come and die,' and they
came with a cheer and a laugh. They are simply magnificent."
The men were led by brave officers--officers who would not ask their
men to go where they themselves were afraid to go. It was thus, leading
their men to the fight, that General Sir William Throsby Bridges,
commanding the Australian Imperial Force when it made its historic
landing, Colonel MacLaurin, Colonel Onslow Thompson, Lieutenant-Colonel
Braund, and other gallant officers fell. And it was thus that,
later, Colonel McCay received the wounds that put him out of action.
Australian officers, like any other officers, are human and have erred
at times, but they have never asked their men to take risks they would
not share themselves. There is a letter written by Colonel McCay in
which he says: "When my men have to go into a veritable hell, as they
did on April 25, April 26 and May 8, I must lead them, not send them. I
won their confidence because I shared the risks with them." And that is
the spirit of all the Australian officers--gallant leaders of gallant
men.
Such was the spirit of Lieutenant-Colonel Hubert Harris, V.D.,
commanding the 5th Light Horse Regiment, who was killed in action on
Gallipoli on the night of July 31. Curious it was that the only man
hit in the regiment that night was its commander. They were firing
from the trenches and occupying the attention of the Turks while the
infantry on our left blew up the enemy's trench, dashed out, bayoneted
the defenders, and captured the position. There was a wild fusillade by
the enemy's riflemen, and a heavy bombardment of our lines. One unlucky
bullet came through a loophole, struck Colonel Harris in the neck, and
he died in a few minutes.
There was heavy fighting along the whole league-long line that night.
But the main work was left to MacLagan's famous 3rd Infantry Brigade.
The Turks had sapped in and dug trenches opposite Tasmania Post. They
looked dangerous, and it was thought they would try to undermine
our trenches and blow us up. So we mined in under them, and blew up
their advanced trench. On our left the New Zealanders made a lively
demonstration to keep the enemy opposite engaged, and the big guns
blazed away at the main Turkish position. From the sea a warship
fired high explosives in the same direction. Then Captain Lean with a
storming party of the 11th Infantry Battalion, dashed out with great
gallantry and seized the objective. They used boards to surmount the
barbed wire entanglements, swept down on the Turks, bayoneted and shot
about fifty of them, and entered into possession. Engineers immediately
bolted out under a heavy fire, and hurriedly built up sandbag defences.
And having got it, the Eleventh held on.
Meanwhile the 2nd Light Horse Brigade on the right poured a heavy
fire into the Turkish trenches on the immediate left of the captured
position. All attempts at reinforcing the Turkish advanced line were
thus frustrated, and no counter-attack had any chance of getting home.
Thinking a further attack was intended from Ryrie's Post, the Turkish
artillery concentrated their field guns on the Light Horse, and the
bombardment was terrific; yet--and here is the luck of the game--not
one man in the firing-line of the 6th Light Horse was wounded. I was up
with B Squadron, and the hail of shrapnel was something to remember.
That was about half-past ten at night; and the moon having just risen,
we concentrated our rifle fire on the enemy's trenches, leaving our
artillery to deal with their reserves. Then it was that the fatal
bullet killed Colonel Harris.
In a special order issued by General Birdwood next day reference
was made to the excellent qualities of Colonel Harris, and to the
conspicuous ability he had shown during the few months he had led his
regiment on Gallipoli. We of the Sixth knew his value, and liked him;
the Queenslanders loved him, and would have followed him anywhere.
Colonel Harris was a comparatively young man, not yet forty-five years
of age. He started his soldiering in the Brisbane Grammar School
cadets, and then became a bugler in the Queensland Rifles. Later on
he joined the Mounted Infantry, volunteered for the South African
War, going with the second Queensland contingent as a lieutenant,
and returned a captain. He maintained his interest in the military
forces after his return, became adjutant, and later on succeeded to
the command of the 13th Australian Light Horse Regiment. Curiously
enough, Colonel Spencer Brown, whom he succeeded in that command, and
Lieutenant-Colonel Stoddart, who succeeded him, have also come to the
war. For five years, Lieutenant-Colonel Harris commanded the 13th
Regiment, and then was placed on the unattached list. When the war
broke out he offered his services, and in November, 1914, took command
of the 5th Light Horse Regiment in Colonel (now Brigadier-General)
Ryrie's 2nd Brigade. He wore the Victoria Decoration and the Queen's
South African ribbon with five clasps.
So here in the hills of Gallipoli there passes to the Great Beyond
another good Australian, a brave and gallant officer, a kindly and
courteous gentleman. The Americans used to sing "John Brown's body
lies a-mouldering in the grave; his soul goes marching on." So the 5th
Regiment may well feel that the spirit of Hubert Harris will go with
them on to victory.
We buried him next night. The Dean of Sydney, Chaplain-Colonel
Talbot, officiated, assisted by Chaplain-Captain Gordon Robertson.
Officers and men of the regiment--all who could be spared from the
trenches--attended with Major Wilson, who assumed command of the Fifth.
Brigadier-General Ryrie and staff, and Lieutenant-Colonel Arnott, of
the Seventh, were also present. As the earth was heaped upon him, the
brigadier remarked sadly: "The brigade has lost a gallant officer, and
Australia a patriot."