VICTORY
Night was falling fast over the Australasian lines. The darkness was
welcome, for it brought a certain rest and coolness to the thousands of
sun-baked and weary men. For two days they had slaved like
navvies--digging, sand-bagging, reorganising trenches, improving
communications, and bringing up supplies, Maxims, and ammunition. It
was not the usual thing. Indeed, it was most unusual. Only the Staff
knew why, for this war has taught us that we must not advertise our
coming events. Of course the Tommies groused. They always do. It is
the privilege of the soldier. And Bill Buster was not behind in this
land of moaning.
"Thinks I'm an old mule. Me feet's skinned, me back's skinned, me
heart's skinned carryin' them blessed boxes of crackers. Oh, why did I
leave me little happy home?" he exclaimed, wiping the sweat off his
sunburnt brow.
"Had to--ye frizzly-faced bushwhacker," said Paddy.
"All this means that there's something doing," remarked Claud, cleaning
his monocle with a piece of rag.
"Ay, there's gaun tae be an attack. Say yer prayers the nicht, boys,"
added Sandy.
"Thank God!" uttered Claud. "I'm sick of inaction. I don't mind
death; but it's a beastly bore waiting to be killed. One can't quite
regulate supplies. Now, if to-morrow was the day for our dispatch, we
might have a beano out of our spare biscuits and Woodbines to-night."
"It ain't all beer and skittles, as you say," Bill said. "Next war I'm
goin' to be a general or a Navy bloke. Them's the safe jobs. These
ole Turks have a spite at me. Think I'm a sort o' runnin' man."
"Let them come!" Paddy exclaimed. "We'd bate the life out of thim.
Teach thim manners, the dirty blaggards!"
"Don't be too cocky about that. We're only hanging on the edge of this
cliff by the skin of our teeth. The German Staff say they'll push us
into the sea, and you bet they'll have a good try."
"It's a soft snap, if they come. They can't beat us," interjected
Bill, who had all the self-assurance of the Australian born.
"That's where our boys always err," answered Claud. "They
underestimate the power of the enemy. That isn't the thing in war.
It's all very well to be confident, but it's equally important to be
prepared to the last cartridge and bomb. Pluck's a very good thing,
but pluck without brains is as useless as an engine without coal. If
these Turks make a big show, they'll give us a run for our money. Now
I'm going to sleep."
Claud wrapped himself in his coat for a snooze. The others followed
suit, little dreaming what the dawn would bring. While they slept,
secure in their innocence of things, the General and Chief of Staff sat
keen and anxious in their dug-outs; for the dawn was the time stated
for the attack. Everything was prepared; still, they had all that
mental worry which only an officer knows. They smoked and talked--and
talked. While they passed these anxious hours their subordinate
commanders were quietly filling up the reserve trenches with supporting
troops. The gunners, too, were busy checking ranges and noting down
the approximate position of the magazines and other stores as supplied
by the map of Tony Brown. The doctors were also alive. They were
clearing out the field hospitals preparatory to the gruesome slaughter
ahead. Out at sea a flotilla of gunboats and destroyers had quietly
arrived and were circling round, waiting for the coming fray.
Everything had been thought of; everything was ready.
"It's getting light, sir," said the chief, looking out of his dug-out
about 3.30 A.M.
"Very well; 'phone the brigadiers. Tell them to be prepared for the
bombardment in accordance with our pow-wow of yesterday."
"Very good, sir." The 'phone transmitted the order and the chief sat
down again.
Boom! echoed a gun in the Turkish line. A shell crashed right over the
General's dug-out. Tony Brown's information was right. The battle had
commenced. A sense of relief spread over the General's face. His
suspense was at an end.
Boom! Boom! Boom! went the other guns. More shells, more splinters,
and here and there the moan of a dying or wounded man. But this was
only the preliminary business. In ten minutes every Turkish gun, from
the giant howitzers to the more simple field pieces, were pounding
shrapnel, common shell, and high explosives into the Australasian
lines. There was no excitement; the men were used to the game. They
crouched in holes or hard against the stony sides of the trenches.
Still, the noise was deafening, and the gunners' aim was often good.
Shells burst on the parapets and destroyed them, frequently killing or
burying the men behind. Others burst above and sent their balls of
death into the heads or backs of the crouching men. High explosives
crashed with an unnerving boom in and around the trenches, pounding,
killing, and maiming. Maxims rattled out a hail of lead, rifles
squirted bullets into every corner where a living soul was likely to be
found. There was no romance in this sort of business. It was
butchery, blood, anguish, and death. Hell is the only word that fits
such a bombardment. Those who read such things sit at home in tears
and terror. Yet the men who live through them sit calm, even cool, and
often in smiles.
"Bit hot," said Claud, looking at his hat, which had been pierced by a
shrapnel bullet.
Bill ejaculated something unprintable and dropped a hot piece of shell
he had intended to collar as a curio.
"I weesht I had a hauf o' whisky; this is a dry job," said Sandy, as he
cuddled closer against the side of the trench.
"May ould Allah have mercy on yis when I get yis wid me can-opener!"
muttered Paddy as he fingered his bayonet.
Boom! Boom! Boom! crashed three more shrapnels above them, scattering
lead and iron in all directions. Old keys, brass fittings, nails, iron
knobs and other things tumbled in, too.
"Queer shrapnel--eh?" said Claud, picking up one of these curios--and a
sign that the Turks were surely scarce of the real stuff.
"Don't mind bullets," growled Bill; "but I objects to them chuckin' an
ironmonger's shop at my ole head. It ain't nice----"
Boom! Boom! came two more.
"A miss!" said Sandy, signalling a "wash-out" with a shovel.
Boom! crashed another almost overhead. It was a narrow shave. Sandy,
with that caution of his clan, resigned the post of marker. The gods
were favouring this genial quartette, but in many parts of the line men
lay dead, dying, and maimed. They bore their wounds with a wonderful
patience, and few complained. Comrades ripped out their field
dressings and staunched the blood. Doctors, regardless of whizzing
shells and bullets, crept from patient to patient. Stretcher-bearers
manfully did their job. Over shell-swept zones they carried and pulled
the wounded to succour and safety. Despite the danger, men even found
time to note and praise the deeds of these Red Cross heroes. The name
of the R.A.M.C. ought to be printed in letters of gold on the dome of
St. Paul's. It is one reminiscent of heroism, faith, hope, and charity.
Now, during all this gun and rifle firing not a reply was sent. The
Staff allowed the Turks to expend their shells and bullets. That is
always good business in war. It adds to the enemy's problem of supply.
This bombardment lasted for two hours. No doubt the Turks were well
pleased. But immediately they ceased their fire there was a universal
Boom! from the Australian lines. Battleships, cruisers, torpedo boats,
howitzer batteries, field batteries, and Maxim guns sent back salvo
after salvo of a deafening and devilish kind.
The unerring aim of our gunners paralysed, for a time, the initiative
of the Turkish Staff. This tremendous reply was unexpected. And the
British shells burst in their magazines, their supply depôts, their
headquarters dug-outs in a startling way. Never was gunnery so deadly.
Never was slaughter so sure. Regiments waiting _en masse_ for the
assault were torn and butchered. Trenches were burst and destroyed.
It was death, desolation, and disaster of an unexpected and amazing
kind. Such is the value of information in war. A good Intelligence
Officer is equal to a complete division of all arms.
Yet this bombardment did not deter the Turkish assault. It had been
arranged; it had to go on. When the British bombardment ceased, they
leaped boldly from their trenches and came on _en masse_. A strange
silence now pervaded the Australasian lines. Not a shot was heard. It
was the calm before the storm. They allowed the Turks to advance. On
they came, great, dark, strong-looking men. They shouted "Allah!"
"Allah!" as they ran. This cry for "Allah" was a bad sign. The Turks
expected "Allah" to do what they felt they had not the confidence to do
themselves. Still, the German task-masters had given them a certain
assurance by sending them forward elbow to elbow, line upon line.
In brief, this attack was meant as an overwhelming flood of bayonets
upon the Australasians' lines. The Turkish Staff argued that, after
all, these troops were only volunteers; they could not withstand a
violent offensive movement. But they did; they even surprised their
General and the Staff. And the ability to wait for a signal to shoot
was in itself a sign of perfect control, excellent fire discipline.
The Turks were now close to the barbed wire entanglements. This was
the moment desired. A whistle sounded in the lines.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Z-r-r-p! went thousands of rifles and dozens of
machine-guns. Gad! How these Turks withered and fell. It was brutal,
yet it was inspiring. Shrieks, curses, and groans were mixed with
pitiful cries for "Allah!" "Allah!"
Bravely these Turkish soldiers died, and bravely the more fortunate
came on. They tore through the barbed wire with a fiendish frenzy and
leaped down on to parts of their enemy's lines. With that mad ferocity
which only a Moslem fanatic can display, they plugged their bayonets
into the first opposing man. Cold steel is hard to face. Few armies
can face it. Only Russians, Britishers, and Japs are good at the game.
And these sons of John Bull stood up to the test with a magnificent
courage. They plunged, thrust, hacked, butted, cursed, and fumed in
this awful combat. Civilisation had gone. Primitive lusts were
triumphant. Blood flowed in streams, men fought with gaping wounds,
dying men fell crying to Allah or to God according to their race and
creed. There was no time to moralise on the hellish side of modern
war. There was only time to fight or die.
And in this awful combat The Kangaroos had a terrible time. Their
redoubt was invaded. Yet they did not yield. One great Turk charged
down on Claud. Sandy parried the thrust, the Turk recovered and thrust
again straight into poor Sandy's heart. He gasped, and fell lifeless
at Bill's feet.
With maddened fury Bill crashed his butt down on the foeman's skull.
Another Turk almost pinned Colonel Killem, but Paddy dashed forward,
struck up the bayonet, and killed the man with a blow.
"Thanks, Doolan, thanks!" shouted the Colonel as he turned to deal with
another man. This gallant defence, combined with the deadly musketry
on the less exposed parts of the line, completely smashed the first
Turkish attack. The enemy withered away, their survivors and wounded
creeping back into the shelter of their trenches.
"Don't fire, men! Don't fire at those poor devils," shouted the
officers as they watched them limp away.
This was chivalry, and chivalry can always be found in a British heart.
"Thank God for a breath," said Claud, leaning wearily against the
parapet. But the attack was not finished. The Turkish reserves were
swarming up the gullies and through the communicating lines. Lyddite,
shrapnel, and Maxims tore great gaps in their ranks. Yet on they came.
One regiment deployed from the top of a gully and made the charge.
"Rapid fire!" roared Killem. A terrific fusillade burst forth. The
Turks fell in heaps, moaning, shrieking, and yelling. The sight was
sickening. Heaps of dead and dying all around. But _again_ the
Turkish host came on. Two great columns of men burst out in front of
the New Zealanders and The Kangaroos.
This was really the most critical moment of the day. Here entered the
Drill Book maxim: "An attack should be met with a counter-attack." For
this was to be the last and desperate throw of the Turkish Staff. If
it broke the Australasian lines, the enemy would realise their boast of
pushing them into the sea. The New Zealanders and Kangaroos
appreciated the danger to the full. And so the command rang out:
"Prepare to charge!" Every man placed his foot for the jump.
"Charge!"
Up leaped Killem and his willing men, and at their side charged the New
Zealand boys. Grimly they gripped their rifles, bravely they ran and
cheered. A charge is a thrilling and soul-inspiring affair. Danger
and death pass away from the soldier's heart. He is alive, he is
filled with the tingling blood and full of the traditions of his race.
The Kangaroos met the Turkish host midway. A shock of men, a shock of
arms, a blind confusion, a horrible fierceness and hacking of human
flesh.
"Give it 'em, boys," roared Killem above the din. A Turkish officer
heard him and aimed his revolver at Killem's head. But Doolan was
there again. He pinned his man through the chest, and, with an oath,
flung him off his bayonet--dead.
Claud got lost in the _mêlée_. He found himself surrounded. Bravely
he fought, but a bayonet was stuck in his shoulder, and he fell into
the struggling mass of wounded men. Bill, though wounded in the head,
fought with the madness of a fiend. With Doolan, he kept close to the
Colonel's heels, preserving the body and life of the bravest man in the
Australasian force. In that awful hour Killem could often be heard
shouting out, "Thanks, boys, thanks!"
At last tenacity and courage told. The Turks broke and fled, yelling
in pain and fear. But the price of victory had indeed been costly.
Still, it was worth it all. The position had been saved.
Australasians had again written deep in the annals of war a story of
valour as great as Corunna or Waterloo.
* * * * *
"Paddy," shouted Bill as they jumped back into the trenches.
"Yis."
"Where's Claud?"
"He's hit," interjected a sergeant. "I saw him fall."
"What--dead?"
"Couldn't say." And the sergeant passed on. War does not allow of
sentiment or lengthy harangues.
"Curse them!" said Bill, throwing down his rifle in anger. And then
this great, strong man collapsed with grief. When a soldier weeps it
is sad. This was but the climax of a highly nervous day. Bill's
heart, like every bushman's heart, was full of that faith and devotion
which passes all understanding. Claud was a pal whom he loved like a
mother or a brother.
"D---- their bullets! I'm going back to get him," he muttered,
preparing to jump out again.
"Paddy Doolan's wid you," said the Irishman. They both jumped out into
the still bullet-swept zone.
"Come back, you fools," roared a sergeant.
There was no answer. Bill would not allow discipline or danger to
interfere with the call of duty or friendship. On their hands and
knees they crawled round the heaps of dead and dying.
"Here he is--here he is, poor boy! Poor boy!" said Paddy as he gazed
at the pale, bloodless face of Claud below some battered Turks.
"He's livin', he's livin'. God be thanked!" mumbled the faithful
Irishman as he crossed himself. Bending near, he pulled the listless
form from under the dead weight of the men above. Claud groaned.
"That's a good sign, Paddy, eh?"
"Sure, an' he'll drink a glass wid us yet! But, Heavens! what a hole!"
exclaimed the Irishman, looking at the gaping wound in Claud's shoulder.
"Get his dressing out," said Bill.
Paddy made to rip the dressing out of Claud's jacket. Alas! man
proposes and the Turk disposes. A sniper's rifle pinged, and a bullet
hit Paddy in the arm. It fell, shattered and useless.
"Back, Paddy--into the trenches for your life. I'll carry Claud."
The brave Irishman, realising he was now useless, reluctantly obeyed.
Bill then heaved Claud over his shoulder and followed hard.
Bang! Bang! Bang! went the Turkish rifles. Claud was hit in the hand,
and poor Bill struck in the leg and back; then he fell exhausted into
the trench, the wounded Claud on top.
"Bravo! Buster--you're a white man, anyway," said the Colonel.
"A done man, Colonel," said Bill with a wan smile as he fainted away.
His wounds and Claud's wounds were bound with the Colonel's own hand.
Then commenced the weary procession through trench after trench to the
hospital below. They were but two in a cavalcade of thousands. They
passed from the zones of dead into the camp of tears and moaning. Men
shattered and dying were there; others, more fortunate, wetted their
lips and eased their way to God.
Poor Claud and Bill arrived, senseless, almost lifeless. But kind
hands staunched their wounds, allayed their thirst, and carried them on
board the ship for Alexandria. There they found the first taste of
that gentle peace which is soothing to the heart of every nerve-racked
soldier. Nourishment soon brought them round. And, strange to say,
both returned from the land of wanderings to the delights of reality at
the same time.
"Bill! Bill!" muttered Claud as he came round. "I'm here, ole sport,"
said Bill, holding out his pale, wan hand.
"Good! But where's Paddy?"
"Sure, an ould Paddy's here," roared Doolan from a berth on the other
side of the deck.
"Thank God!" And Claud tumbled into a more natural sleep, refreshed
with the thought that at least two out of his three friends still lived.
Sips of brandy, drops of milk, clean bandages, and willing Australian
nurses soon brought the genial three round to a more normal state. And
in speaking of Australian nurses, let me say that they are the finest
girls in the hospital world. They may laugh, they may flirt, but they
can work. They have no side and no false airs. They want to do their
job in the quickest, kindest, quietest way that can be found.
* * * * *
The great ship slipped through the breakwater of Alexandria. Hundreds
awaited her coming--nurses, doctors, and friends. Bill and Claud could
not get up to view the scene. But Paddy watched it all. His eyes
scanned the faces on shore. At last they rested on a familiar
figure--a girl with a beautiful form, a charming but an anxious face.
Yes, it was Sybil Graham. He slipped down to the ward below and
stepped to Claud's bed.
"I've seen her, and doesn't she look swate?"
"Who?" said Claud in a knowing way.
"Sybil, ye fathead! And, mind ye, mine's a kiss for bringing the news."
"Right, old chap; and I'll see that you get it," said the now excited
owner of this Australian girl's heart.
The boat was now alongside. Ropes were down and fixed. The shore
gangway was up, and, in response to the somewhat wild and frantic
shouts and grins of Paddy Doolan, Sybil Graham dashed up the steps
three at a time.
"Oh, Paddy!" she said, with tears in her eyes. "Where is he?"
"This way, ye darlint." And down into the ward leaped the now madly
excited Irishman. Sybil followed. As she reached the foot of the
stairs she saw her lover. Nurses, doctors, and patients were then
startled with a shriek of delight from a beautiful vision who pounced
to a bed and smothered her hero with kisses. Bill and Paddy watched it
all.
"Say, Miss Sybil, where do I come in?" said Bill with a sort of
well-feigned growl.
"Surely! There's _one_ for you, you dear, dear old bushman," she said,
kissing his black-bearded lips.
"Here, Sybil, isn't it Paddy's turn now? He brought the news of you."
"Oh, you lovable Irish rogue--you're worth the kissing--you helped my
boy to safety too." And so Paddy received his dues.
"And now, miss," said a smiling nurse, "we're going to take those three
lovers of yours to hospital in Cairo."
"How mean of you," said Sybil with a smile. "Of course, you can't
prevent me from seeing them there?"
"Certainly not, my girl. That will be the biggest part of their cure."
"Oh, by the way, I've news for you, boys," said Sybil, turning again:
"Bill, you've got the V.C."
"Paddy, you've got the V.C."
"Claud, you've got a commission."
"And you--eh?" smiled Claud.
"Well--yes."
"And very nice too," whispered a doctor into the nurse's ear as the
very happy girl went out.