THE FINAL PHASE
A LITTLE PESSIMISM--HANGING ON--THE BLIZZARD--FROST-BITE
AGONIES--PATRIOTISM AND CRITICISM--TALK OF EVACUATION--"THE FOOL
ENGLISH"--KITCHENER COMES--LAST DAYS--THE DIE-HARDS--THE GREAT
EXODUS--FAREWELL TO ANZAC--A GLORIOUS FAILURE
Days dragged drearily on. Pessimism peeped into the trenches. Later
in the solitude of the dug-out pessimism stayed an unwelcome guest,
and would not be banished. All the glorious optimism of April, the
confidence of May, June and July had gone, and the dogged determination
of August, September and October was fast petering out. Abdul had
fringed the dominating hills with barbed-wire and bayonets, and in very
surety Australia was "up against it."
Not that any one dared talk pessimism. The croakers would have
been squelched instanter. But deep down there was a feeling that
unless heavy reinforcements arrived we could never break through
to Constantinople. But at Anzac and Suvla the British hung on,
desperately, heroically.
September's cold snap was forgotten in the unexpected warmth of
October--just like an afterglow of summer. Then came the wintry winds
of November--and the blizzard.... Of course we have snow in Australia.
Kosciusko is all the year round covered with a soft white mantle. Down
on Monaro it can be bleak and wintry. And the old Blue Mountains now
and then enjoy a spell of sleet and snow.... But taking us by and large
we are a warm-blooded race, we Australians. That is why we viewed the
approach of winter with some concern. We knew Abdul could never, never,
never break through our lines, and drive us--as Liman von Sanders had
boasted--into the sea. But we were beginning to fear that we were a
long, long way from Constantinople.
The blizzard swooped down on Anzac. Just like a shroud the white
visitation settled on Gallipoli. It was cold as a Monaro gale.
Soldiers crowded round the fires, and at night in the trenches it
was terribly hard to keep awake. The cold was something to remember.
We could keep our hands a bit warm by giving "five rounds rapid"
and hugging the rifle barrel. Talk about cold feet; we had heard of
"cold feet" when we were in Egypt. But this was the real thing....
How we invoked rich blessings on the heads of the Australian girls
who had knitted us those warm socks! How we cursed the thieves along
the lines of communication who pillaged and pilfered, while the men
in the firing-line went begging! But through it all the indomitable
cheerfulness of the Australian soldier would not be crushed.
They laughed and joked when their teeth chattered, so that clear
articulation was impossible.
To preserve some circulation they stamped their feet till exhaustion
bade them cease. But the blizzard was inexorable. The cold permeated
everywhere. We got just a glimpse of what the British army suffered in
the Crimea.
Frost-bite was something to fear and dread. It was agonizing. Hundreds
of men were carried down to the field hospitals and sent across to
Lemnos. There were scores of amputations daily.... We had cursed the
heat of July and the plague of flies, but now we prayed for summer
again.
Now and then the English home papers blew in and we eagerly scanned
the pages of the dailies for news of the war. We were astounded at the
tone of the criticism hurled at the Government. So much of it was Party
criticism, captious criticism. So little of it was helpful constructive
criticism. In Parliament and in the Press the critics were "agin the
Gov'ment" rather than against the Hun. We felt wonderfully proud of
our Australian papers, the _Herald_ and _Telegraph_ and _Argus_. Also
we were rather proud of the commendable restraint of our politicians.
Not one word of captious criticism had there come from responsible
Australian papers and people. We knew that mistakes had been made.
We knew that it was a big gamble sending the fleet to hammer their
way through without the aid of an army. But we did not slang-wang the
Government. In the dark hour when everybody was blaming everybody there
was only one message from Australia. Press and politicians struck the
same note. It was merely a reiteration of the Prime Minister's message
that the last man and the last shilling in Australia were now and
always at the disposal of the Empire.
Then came talk of evacuation. It staggered us. In the House of Commons
and in the Press columns were devoted to discussing the Dardanelles
question and evacuation was freely recommended. The Australians rose
in wrath and exclaimed, "_We're d----d if we'll evacuate. We are going
to see this game through_." It was unthinkable that, having put our
hands to the plough, we could turn back. The Turks and their German
masters were kept well informed of the discussions at home and it made
them tremendously cocky. England had practically admitted failure. The
great Dardanelles expedition--the greatest crusade in the world--was an
admitted fiasco. Then the Turks reasoned together. And they agreed that
even "the fool English" would never talk so much about evacuation if it
were even remotely likely. But it was worth an army corps to Abdul, and
it did not make General Birdwood's task any easier.
Then Kitchener came. Many of us had seen him in Australia and South
Africa. We had confidence that he would see the thing through. He
landed on the beach and soon the word buzzed through the dug-outs,
up the gully, and along the firing line. "K. of K." was on Anzac and
the boys off duty congregated to give him a rousing welcome. He went
round the Anzac defences with General Birdwood, saw everything and then
started in to weigh the pros and cons of a knotty problem.
Ever since the day of landing, we had discussed in an offhand way
the possibility of "getting out." Not that we had ever considered
it remotely possible that we should ever turn back. But just as a
strategical and tactical exercise, we had figured out how it might be
done. And it seemed that the job of getting out was fraught with more
potentialities of disaster than the job of getting in. The landing
on April 25 was responsible for some slaughter. The evacuation, we
reckoned, would be carnage. At a most moderate computation 25 per
cent. of the Australian and New Zealand Army Corps would have to be
sacrificed to ensure the safe withdrawal of the remainder. But of
course this was only a theoretical exercise. It was really outside the
sphere of practical politics.
Then like a bomb came word that in very surety we were going to
evacuate. In the House of Commons members had asked in an airy way why
the troops were not withdrawn from Suvla and Anzac. To them, in their
ignorance, it was merely a matter of embarking again and returning to
Egypt or Salonica or France. So simple it seemed to those armchair
strategists. They did not know that the beach at Anzac, our main
depôts, and our headquarters were within a thousand yards of the main
Turkish line; that the beach had been constantly shelled by "Beachy
Bill" and other batteries for eight solid months on end.
However the powers that be had so ordained it and that was sufficient.
The Australians had talked about "never retreating," but that was only
a manifestation of the unconquerable spirit that animated them. They
might talk, but they never yet disobeyed an order. It nearly broke
their hearts to leave the spot where so many thousand gallant young
Australians had found heroes' graves; but they knew how to obey orders.
The only kick was for the honour of being the last to leave. So many
wanted to be amongst the "die-hards."
It was to be a silent "get-away." Absolute secrecy was essential for
its success. It sounds just like a wild bit of fiction. Just imagine
the possibility of withdrawing an army of 90,000 men with artillery,
stores, field hospitals, mules and horses, and all the vast impedimenta
of war, right from under the nose of an active enemy, and all on a
clear moonlight night. One single traitor could have queered the whole
pitch. But British, Indians, New Zealanders and Australians were loyal
to the core.
The final attack of the Turks on the right of our line had been
repulsed by the 2nd Light Horse Brigade, though the enemy in determined
fashion had pushed forward with sand-bags right to within a few yards
of our trenches. There were half a dozen spots in the Anzac firing line
where we and the Turks could hear each other talking; Quinn's Port,
Lone Pine, The Neck, Apex, Turkish Despair, Chatham's Post. It would
be fine fun sticking it out here while the army made its get-away. Men
clamoured for the honour of being the last to leave....
It is the night of December 19; the fatal night which will see the
evacuation of Anzac. Men talked cheerily, but thought hard. Had the
Turks any idea of our projected departure? Two nights ago, a little
after midnight, there was an unrehearsed incident. A fire broke out
in a depôt near the North Beach. Soon the whole sky was reddened with
the glare and the rugged outline of Anzac was brightly illuminated.
Bully-beef and biscuits blazed merrily. Oil drums burst with terrific
force. Then we wondered if the Turks would deduce anything from this.
Would they guess it was a preliminary to the "get-away." It was hardly
likely. The "fool English" would never burn the stores till the last
minute. So the accidental fire did no harm. Maybe it did good. For
during the past month the Anzacs had tried by all manner of tricks
and subterfuges to induce Abdul to attack. But Abdul knew how costly
a business it was attacking the Australians, and after a few abortive
attempts he remained on the defensive....
Now all was normal. Down at Helles the British had, during the
afternoon, made a big demonstration. The warships had joined in the
fray and the bombardment of the Turkish lines was terrific. But on
this last night there was nothing untoward happening. General Birdwood
during the day had gone the rounds of the trenches and the boys yarned
with him as of old. It was a good thing for us to have had a General
like that--one who understood the gay devil-may-care Australian
character. That's why the boys called him the "idol of Anzac."
Away to the northward at Suvla on the shoulder of Chocolate Hills the
British divisions are getting ready to retire. On Hill 60, which saw so
much sanguinary fighting, the stolid Indians are awaiting orders. This
way a bit the New Zealand and Australian Division has started its first
parties towards North Beach. On the right above Anzac and opposite Gaba
Tepe the Australians were streaming away; all but the rearguard and
the final "die-hards." Before the morning Anzac will have seen a great
tragedy, or else the greatest bluff in history.... There is the usual
desultory interchange of musketry at odd places along the line, now and
then punctuated with the rattle of a maxim ... nothing abnormal. Down
at Helles there is a fierce fusillade. This will help us....
Since dusk the first contingents had been steadily streaming down
towards the North Beach and Anzac Cove. Quickly and silently they
embarked in the waiting flotilla of small craft and streaked out to the
transports. Like guardian angels the warships hovered around seeing to
the security of the army. Up at Suvla we knew similar scenes were being
enacted. Along the line the musketry played its usual accompaniment to
the intermittent bombing. But the whole plan was working beautifully.
The tension was gradually relaxing. There would be no 20 per cent.
casualties as the pessimists foretold. Already from Suvla and Anzac
over 60,000 soldiers had re-embarked without a single casualty.
Now and then there was a round of shrapnel sent by Beachy Bill on to
the southern depôt at Brighton Beach. This clearly showed that the
enemy suspected nothing. Yet it is bright moonlight.... It is midnight,
and nearly all the men have embarked save the thin khaki line of
"die-hards" in the trenches. An odd bomb or two is thrown by the Turks.
The "die-hards" with insolent imperturbability heave a few bombs back
and invite Abdul to come on.
If Abdul had entered our trenches then he would have found only a
skeleton army waiting to fight a forlorn hope rearguard action. But all
along the trenches he would have found other things. Cigarettes and
jam and tobacco; all sorts of presents and Christmas boxes. Scores of
the boys before leaving wrote little farewell messages to the Turks.
Typical examples were these:--"Au revoir, Abdul. See you later on";
"Good-bye, Mahomet. Better luck next time"; "Abdul, you're a good clean
fighter and we bear you no ill-will"; "Merry Christmas, Abdul; you're
a good sport anyhow, but the Hun is a fair cow"; "So long, Abdul." And
having told Abdul what he thought of him, the irresponsible Australian
sauntered down to the beach and embarked! But many a silent tear was
shed for the pals they had left behind, the quiet dead sleeping on
Gallipoli....
It didn't seem quite right to clear out and leave Australia's dead
behind. Some of the boys voiced the thought of many, "Tread softly,
boys, and don't let them hear us deserting them." Some of the padres
planted wattle round about the graves on Shell Green and Shrapnel
Valley and Hell Spit and Brown's Dip....
By half-past one all were away but the "die-hards." Then from the
Apex, after a final volley, streaked the first batch of the skeleton
rearguard. There is a breach in the brave Anzac line at last. But Abdul
does not know it yet. Soon the dare-devils at Quinn's Post heave a
few bombs, then silently slink back, down the precipitous hill-side,
and along the gully to the beach. From Courtney's and the Neck and
the Pimple and Ryrie's Post and Chatham's all along the line came
the "die-hards," full lick to the beach. But to their unutterable
surprise there is no attack. They are not followed. The trenches that
for eight long months defied the Turkish attacks are now open, not a
solitary soldier left. But Abdul does not know it. There is still an
intermittent fire from the Turkish trenches. They think our silence is
some trick....
At half-past three on the morning of December 20 there was a burst of
red flame and a roar like distant thunder. This was repeated shortly
afterwards, and our two big mines on the Neck blew up. It was our
last slap at the Turk. We cannot say what harm it did, but thinking
the explosions were a prelude to attack the Turkish line all round
Anzac burst into spiteful protest. There was a wild fusillade at our
empty trenches, and on the transports the Australians smiled grimly.
Shortly afterwards the Light Horsemen on the extreme right--Ryrie's
lucky Second Brigade rearguard--entered the waiting cutters on Brighton
Beach. Then the stores--such as we could not take away--burst into
flame. Only two men were wounded.
Before dawn word came that the whole force had been safely taken off,
together with many of the mules and horses and guns which it was
thought would have to be abandoned. At dawn the Turkish batteries
opened a wild bombardment of our trenches, all along the line.
Marvellous to relate the enemy had not yet ascertained what had
happened. But the silence soon told them the truth. Then they charged
in irregular lines over the skyline at our empty trenches. The warships
fired a few salvoes at the enemy swarming over the hills, and they
hurriedly took cover in our old trenches. These were the last shots
fired over Anzac at the Turks. Then the flotilla turned its back on
Gallipoli and swung slowly and sadly westward.
So ended the great "get-away"; a feat quite unparalleled in the annals
of war. Historians will pay tribute to Sir Charles Munro and the
Fleet. We only take our hats off to General Birdwood and his staff and
the staffs of the Australasian divisions. But deep down we know the
wonderful work our navy did during the eight months of the Gallipoli
campaign. The army may make mistakes, but the navy is all right.
As we swing off our last thought is not concerned with the bitterness
of defeat. We think of our comrades quietly sleeping on Anzac. They
gave their lives gladly, proudly, for Australia and the Empire. They
showed the world that Australians could live and fight and die like
Britishers. There are many sad hearts on the transports to-night. And
there are very many breaking hearts back in dear old Australia. But old
England has showered so many good gifts on her Colonies. The Colonies
will not grudge this sacrifice for Empire.
Maybe our feelings are best expressed in the words of "Argent,"
written at the end of the most glorious failure in history:--
ANZAC
Ah, well! we're gone! We're out of it now. We've
something else to do.
But we all look back from the transport deck to the
land-line far and blue:
Shore and valley are faded; fading are cliff and hill;
The land-line we called "Anzac" ... and we'll call
it "Anzac" still!
This last six months, I reckon, 'll be most of my life
to me:
Trenches, and shells, and snipers, and the morning
light on the sea,
Thirst in the broiling mid-day, shouts and gasping cries,
Big guns' talk from the water, and ... flies, flies,
flies, flies, flies!
And all of our trouble wasted! all of it gone for nix!
Still ... we kept our end up--and some of the story sticks.
Fifty years on in Sydney they'll talk of our first big fight,
And even in little old, blind old England possibly some one might.
But, seeing we had to clear, for we couldn't get on no more,
I wish that, instead of last night, it had been the night before.
Yesterday poor Jim stopped one. Three of us buried Jim--
I know a woman in Sydney that thought the world of him.
She was his mother. I'll tell her--broken with grief and pride--
"Mother" was Jim's last whisper. That was all. And died.
Brightest and bravest and best of us all--none could
help but to love him--
And now ... he lies there under the hill, with a wooden
cross above him.
That's where it gets me twisted. The rest of it I don't mind,
But it don't seem right for me to be off, and to leave
old Jim behind.
Jim, just quietly sleeping; and hundreds and thousands more;
For graves and crosses are mighty thick from Quinn's
Post down to the shore!
Better there than in France, though, with the Germans' dirty work:
I reckon the Turk respects us, as we respect the Turk;
Abdul's a good, clean fighter--we've fought him, and we know--
And we've left him a letter behind us to tell him we found him so.
Not just to say, precisely, "Good-bye," but "_Au revoir_"!
Somewhere or other we'll meet again, before the end of the war!
But I hope it'll be in a wider place, with a lot more room on the map,
And the airmen over the fight that day'll see a bit of a scrap!
Meanwhile, here's health to the Navy, that took us there, and away;
Lord! they're miracle-workers--and fresh ones every day!
My word! those Mids in the cutters! aren't they properly keen!
Don't ever say England's rotten--or not to _us_, who've _seen_!
Well! we're gone. We're out of it all! We've somewhere else to fight.
And we strain our eyes from the transport deck, but "Anzac"
is out of sight!
Valley and shore are vanished; vanished are cliff and hill;
And we'll never go back to "Anzac" ... _But I think that
some of us will!_
GALLIPOLI
[By L. H. ALLEN, in the _Sydney Morning Herald_.]
1
Winter is here, and in the setting sun
York's[1] giant bluff is kindled with the ray
That smites his gnarléd sides of red and dun:
And the spired obelisk that points the way
Where heroes looked, the first of English blood
To break the spell of Silence with a cry
Startling the ancient sleep in prophecy
Of you, my people of the Lion-brood.
2
Does his old vision watch that alien hill,
Embrowned and bleak, where strain upon the height,
Amid sharp silences that burn and chill,
Those heroes' sons, set in sterner fight
Than primeval war with solitude?
Lo now, the sullen cliff outjets in smoke.
And life is groaning death, blooded and broke!
So fell ye, brothers of the Lion-brood.
3
I weep the dead; they are no more, no more!
Oh, with what pain and rapture came to me
Full birth of love for dazzling-sanded shore,
For heaven of sapphire, and for scented tree!
Keen-eyed and all desire I feel my mood
Still fruitless, waiting gust of quickening breath--
And lo, on darkened wing the wind of death
Summoned austere the soul to nationhood.
4
Where cornfields smile in golden-fruited peace
There stalk the spirits of heroes firmly-thewed
As he that sailed their path to win the Fleece
For gods that still enchant our solitude.
I weep the dead; they are no more, no more!
Their sons that gather in the teeming grain
Walk sadlier than the men of hill and plain,
Themselves are harvest to the wrath of war.
5
I weep the dead; they are no more, no more!
When dusk descends on city and on plain,
Dim lights will shine from window and from door,
And some will guard the vigil of dull pain,
Yet, in the city or in solitude,
There is a burden in the starry air,
An oversong that cries, "The life is fair
That made its triumph nobler with its blood."
6
If English oaks should fret with shade their tomb,
Let them have burial here; for one would say
"I shall sleep soft if some once haunted room,
Keep token of me when I take my way."
And one again, "The boon of quietude
Is sweet if that old corner of the stream
Where last I saw the creepered window gleam
Keep memory of my days of lustihood."
7
Some blossoming orchard-plot, some fencéd field,
Some placid strip of furrow-stainéd earth,
Or some grey coil of cottage smoke shall yield
Tribute to them that brought their kin to birth.
And this, in city or in lonely wood,
Shall be the guerdon of the death they died,
The cry of Folk made one in pangs of pride--
"They fell, not faithless to the Lion-brood."
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Mount York, in the Blue Mountains, New South Wales, where stands
a monument erected in memory of three intrepid Australian explorers:
Blaxland, Lawson, and Wentworth.
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TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES
Italic text is denoted by _underscores_
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p241 "There was an envelope famine on Gallipol." replaced with
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End of Project Gutenberg's Trooper Bluegum at the Dardanelles, by Oliver Hogue