Captain Fanlon says:
“We got up those sand ridges any old way—by digging in our bayonets
like Alpine staffs, clawing with our free hands, scrambling with
toe-holds and fighting up on all fours.
“We had just gained a knoll of sand and bush and taken protection
behind it for a minute’s breathing when one of my men, one of those
sturdy cattlemen who had made their way out of the wilderness to get
into the war for civilization, went down with a bullet in his leg.
“‘Nothing much,’ he said, as I bent over him to examine the wound, ‘and
don’t stop for me. Go on and come back for me later or maybe the Red
Cross lads will find me. A little thing like this isn’t going to—’
“He was smiling as he talked, but suddenly his head fell back, his
smile widening into a horrible grin. A bullet had taken him in the
neck. He was done for.
“Of course, and luckily, there were only a few of our thousands that
had been blown out of their boats and most of the lusty fighters of the
landing force had their ammunition in hand. They were going after the
Turks with the rifle volleys of deadly accuracy.
“Having come alive through the terrible ordeal of that shell and bullet
strand of open beach, the Australians and New Zealanders were fired to
the highest fighting pitch. Companies of them sang as they climbed and
pushed and struggled along—sang or rather yelled snatches of all manner
of songs though they didn’t sound much like songs. More like strange,
sustained savage war cries.
“There was no staying the impetuosity of some of them.”