SHELL GREEN
THE NEW WARFARE--ALTOGETHER UTILITARIAN--ITS HUMOUR AND PATHOS--THE
LUCK OF THE GAME--GOD'S ACRE--AERIAL WARFARE--GALLANT DEEDS--GENERAL
RYRIE
My dug-out overlooked Shell Green.
From the comparative safety of this retreat I could sit and watch the
pomp and circumstance of war, its pageantry and pathos.
To be sure there was little that was picturesque in war as we saw it in
Gallipoli. There was no martial music. The "thin red line" had given
place to drab khaki. There were no fiery war-horses with tossing manes
and champing bits, no dashing cavalrymen with flashing sabres. There
were no gun teams, spanking bays and blacks, for we had to man-handle
the guns up and down the hills into action. The nearest approach to a
pageant was when the British fleet flew along the Ægean waterway, and
fired some reverberating salvos at the Turkish batteries.
Ashore all was strictly utilitarian; no ceremony, no display. It was
midsummer, so we curtailed our trousers and wore shorts. Our shirts
were sleeveless. Putties and leggings were mostly discarded. When out
of the trenches shirts were usually considered superfluous. Our backs
and arms and legs were so sun-tanned that the brownest of the beach
surfers at Bondi would envy our complexions. So when on fatigues or off
duty it was a tatterdemalion army that marched to and fro over Shell
Green.
Humour and pathos were strangely intermingled. We saw after a skirmish
a score of fine young Australians laid out for burial, wounds gaping
and clothes blood-clotted. Our hearts were wrung with anguish for
mothers and sisters and wives back in the great South Land, ignorant as
yet of their bereavement. A minute later the antics of some humorist
would set the camp roaring with laughter. Anon some of our chaps would
be wounded, and carried in on stretchers; then some bolting mules or
a wrecked dug-out, or an explosion in the commissariat would set us
laughing again. It is this saving grace of humour, as I have written
before, that made life worth living in Gallipoli; but it also made
the Gurkhas and the Tommies wonder what manner of men we were. The
Englishmen regarded the Gallipoli campaign with great seriousness. The
Indians appeared stoically indifferent. The Australians regard the
whole show as a great adventure.
It's not hard to guess how Shell Green got its name. No gift for
nomenclature is needed to find names for Hell Spit, Casualty Corner,
The Bloody Angle, or Shell Green. The whole green is pitted with holes
made by the enemy's shells. Some months ago these shells played havoc
with our men. Some were killed as they lay in their dug-outs, others
slaughtered on their way to and from the beach, some while in swimming.
But we learned our lesson. We got to know the safety spots and the
danger zones. Day after day the shells fell harmlessly, pock-marking
the face of the earth, but doing us no ill. The Turks thought we
had guns on Shell Green. So when our artillery got busy, the Turks
blazed away, "searching" the area. But after four months' searching
they failed to silence our guns. The remarks of our troopers as the
shells landed were many and varied, but all were inspired by a quaint,
unquenchable humour. When the quartermaster's store of the 4th Light
Horse was wrecked, and four soldiers crawled uninjured from the débris,
their mates called out, "Your luck's in. Get a ticket in Tatt.'s."
There are many graves on Shell Green--graves of Australian heroes.
There's a little God's acre near the crest of the hill, overlooking
the blue Ægean Sea. Sometimes towards evening the Turks tired of their
fierce fusillade, and all seemed peaceful and quiet. The report of an
odd sniper's rifle sounded more like the crack of a stock-whip. The sun
sank in splendour on Samothrace, and the gloaming hour was sweet with
meditation and thoughts of home. It darkened, and only the searchlights
of the destroyers and the green streak of the hospital ship reminded
us of war. We had our burials mostly in the evening. The padre came
along, and a few of the dead soldier's friends straggled down from
the trenches. The services were short but impressive. The shallow
grave was filled in, and a rude cross marked the spot. Here's where
we buried Colonel Harris, the loved leader of the 5th; Lieutenant
Robson, the genial quartermaster of the 6th; Lieutenant Thorne, the
brilliant Duntroon footballer, of the 7th; giant Gordon Flanagan, who
was shot through the heart while asleep in his dug-out; Tresilian, the
dare-devil sergeant, who revelled in battle; and many more gallant
horsemen of the 2nd Brigade, who will never more hear the réveillé.
Shells and bullets were not the only things that flew over Shell Green.
Aeroplanes were frequent visitors. Mostly they were French or British,
but now and then a German Taube streaked overhead, dropped a bomb or
two, or a shower of darts, and then bolted for safety back to Turkish
territory. So far we had not witnessed a duel in the heavens. It's
about the one thing we missed. Several times we saw our airmen give
chase to the Germans, but the latter never waited for a bout. One day
we thought we were going to see an aerial scrap, and like rabbits from
their burrows, the whole troglodyte population of Shell Green emerged
from their dug-outs to witness the spectacle. A Taube appeared over
Suvla Bay, and a British airman took the air at Helles, and started in
pursuit. The anti-aircraft guns of the Turks opened on our plane, and
flecked the blue with a dozen shells, but scored no hit. Our gunners
opened on the Taube, and made far better practice than the enemy,
but could not bring the machine to earth. The two planes streaked
across the sky like huge eagles, with outstretched wings. The Taube
manoeuvred over the German guns, and our airman followed, despite
the unfriendly greeting of the landlubbers below. We on Anzac focussed
our binoculars and strained our eyes till the fliers passed beyond the
hills. Finally we heard the Taube had justified the maxim, "Discretion
is the better part of valour." Just as the aerial exhibition was over
a couple of high explosives burst on Shell Green, and the "rabbits"
bolted once more to their burrows.
It is the little incidents that relieve the monotony of war. I have
seen some gallant deeds done here on Shell Green. One day a shell
cut a telephone line between our observation post and a battery. It
happened to be right on the most dangerous spot on the Green. But
without a moment's hesitation a signaller sauntered out established
the connexion, and sauntered back, despite the shrapnel. I saw Captain
Evans, the little medical officer of the 7th, time and again
streaking across the danger zone and tending men under fire. I have
heard the cry, "Stretcher-bearers," and on the instant the devoted
A.M.C. men have grabbed stretchers, and bolted to the rescue; this
not once, but a hundred times. Some day I'll get a virgin vellum
roll, a pen richly chased and jewelled, and in letters of gold I'll
try to tell the people of Australia something of the heroism of these
stretcher-bearers.
[Illustration: Brigadier-General G. Ryrie.]
It was on Shell Green that the genial General Ryrie was injured. If he
had been more careful of his own skin he would have got off scot-free.
But a shell had just landed amongst the "rabbits," and the cry of
"Stretcher-bearers" told us that some of the boys had stopped a bit of
shrapnel. Without a second's thought General Ryrie walked out on to the
Green from headquarters with his brigade major and orderly officer....
"You know, Foster," he said to the former, "they could get us here too."
No sooner were the words out of his mouth than there was a crash.
Shrapnel splinters and pellets zipped all round us. The cook's camp
was a wreck. Pots and pans were perforated prettily. For a second
I thought that no one was hit, for cook crawled out of the débris
grinning. Then I heard the General in his cheery voice exclaim: "Holy
Moses, they've got me where the chicken got the axe."
It was a close shave. The bullet entered the right side of the neck,
penetrated a few inches, and stopped right on the sheath of the carotid
artery. A fraction of an inch further and it would have been "Good
night, nurse." ... That night the old brigadier was taken off to the
hospital ship and on to Alexandria. Colonel Cox of our 6th Light Horse
Regiment took temporary command of our brigade.