"THE LONG, LONG TRAIL"
The British soldier on the march is really rather a wonderful person; he is
so entirely self-contained. This, by the way, refers not so much to his
manners as to his methods.
To begin with, he has to carry all his goods and chattels on his person.
The infantryman has his pack and equipment, a wonderful assortment of
articles that bristle out from him like the quills on a porcupine, and
which he generally describes as "The Christmas Tree"; with which, too, he
can do most things, from preparing a meal for himself to digging a trench.
The "gunners" and the cavalry, while fortunately for them not obliged to
carry a pack, may take only what they can cram into their haversacks or
pack on to their saddles, and that is necessarily somewhat limited in
quantity. Kit bags and tents are of course left behind. In fact, when we
struck the caravan road leading into Palestine we were destined for many
months to a nomadic, gipsy-like existence, sleeping under the stars, and
scratching for our meals with what means our ingenuity could devise.
I remember seeing, the morning we left Kantara, a steam-roller puffing
stolidly along the road--a ludicrous sight, too, there in the desert--and
it seemed when we left it behind that we were snapping the last link which
bound us to civilisation. As it transpired later, this particular trek was
considerably more civilised than any we had hitherto taken; we had, in
fact, most of the ha'pence and few of the kicks experienced by our
predecessors. Indeed, we had ample opportunity of seeing how much they had
accomplished, and how extraordinarily well it had been done.
As I have said, the railway for the most part ran parallel with the road,
and at no time was it more than a mile away. Every third day the train
brought a load of forage and rations to the appointed stations on the line,
to which each unit sent its representatives to bring back supplies for
three days.
We had, if I remember rightly, fresh meat and bread for one day, and the
remaining two bully-beef and biscuits; in any case we certainly did not
starve. Watering was rather more difficult, particularly just now, for the
Bedouins, who somehow manage to exist in this barren land, were very fond
of tampering with the pipe-line and then fading quietly away, with the
result that exasperated engineers were dashing up and down with white lead
and repairing tools, so that water was generally unobtainable from this
source.
The trouble was that although the main was covered up, the continual
movement of the sand left it exposed to the tender mercies of these
Bedouins. Later, the engineers gathered scrub from the surrounding desert
and replanted it in the embankment covering the pipe, thus binding the
sand, and forming a firm and permanent barrier to future depredations. To
obviate the present difficulty, large cisterns were erected at most of the
stations on the line, and were fed from two-thousand gallon tanks brought
up from Kantara on the train. Always our first business at the end of a
day's trek was to ride away and look for the railway station, with its one
solitary hut and the half-dozen tents occupied by the water-guard.
I have ventured to mention these details in order to show how very
carefully the move across the desert of even one small unit, especially a
mounted unit, had to be planned out from beginning to end, if it was to
have rations and water in the right place at the right time; the least
hitch and men had to go foodless for a day or even longer.
At Pelusium we had an exciting moment: the country hereabouts consists of a
series of hillocks from behind one of which, without the slightest warning,
reared up a monster of grotesque shape emitting unseemly noises.
Simultaneously the horses reared up and made a spirited attempt to return
to home and friends, and it was not until the turmoil had subsided a little
that we realised what this uncouth beast was.
It was a Tank.
We had been mightily intrigued by hearing of the appearance in France of
these monstrous engines of war, but as a cloud of secrecy hung over all
their movements, had never up to that moment seen one. Those used on this
front were much smaller than their French relations, and were as a matter
of fact a comparative failure in Palestine. Whether the sand was too much
for them, or the rough country over which they had to operate, I do not
know, but after the third attempt on Gaza I believe they were never used.
One could easily understand their striking terror into anybody, however,
especially if their appearance on the scene were the least bit unexpected,
for they were uncanny objects.
Another shock, but one we were able to bear with equanimity, was when we
came across those desirable residences occupied (freehold) by the gentlemen
of the Expeditionary Force Canteens. Even the most confirmed pessimist
brightened up when we sighted one. Then there would be a searching in
wallets for the very needful "feloos," and a careful scrutiny of nosebags
to see if there were any holes large enough to allow one precious tin to
escape. You would see a man staggering along with a nosebag slung across
his shoulder and a wild look in his eye, while his lips mumbled
incessantly. "One tin OxfordanCambridge sausages; one tin
chickenanhampaste; one tin pears...."
Then he would butt into some one similarly engaged, and in the exchange of
pleasantries that ensued both would forget what they wanted. And the
pandemonium once you did get inside the marquee! How anybody was ever
served was a wonder, for the air was thick with the names of all the
dainties and comestibles under the sun; but the people behind the counter
were lightning calculators, jugglers, and equilibrists combined.
One of them, balanced perilously on the top of a couple of packing-cases,
was hurling tins of fruit in all directions; and another performed
incredible feats with an armful of bottles; while a third, standing over an
immense crate, shied packets of biscuits across the counter to the
clamorous throng on the other side. A weary-looking youth who had been for
some time chanting dolefully: "Two packets of biscuits, please--two packets
of biscuits, please...." stopped one packet with his eye. In the confusion
the next man to him, on the same errand, helpfully removed the packet,
placed two piastres on the counter, and departed swiftly to his own place,
leaving the weary one ruminating, possibly, on, "Where did that one go to,
'Erbert?"
At another place, I remember, besides the packets on which were the magic
names of Cadbury or Fry, the veal patties, the tins of paste, and bottles
of sauce, there were large bottles of sustenance brewed by one Bass--at
half a crown the bottle--and others with black, red, or white labels on
them, containing a more potent but very nourishing liquid.
At such times as these, it was the custom, when the day's trek was done, to
"win" as much wood as possible from the nearest station--a sleeper was
extremely useful--build a huge fire, and sit round it in the approved
manner, singing songs and drinking wassail, which latter occasionally
worked out to as much as one tot per man, if you got there early. These
were special occasions, however. As a general thing we were too tired to do
more than roll into the blankets very soon after the evening meal.
It was so cold at nights, too, that some nicety of judgment was necessary
in order to get the best out of our blankets, of which we had two, together
with a greatcoat, cardigan-waistcoat, and cap-comforter or balaclava
helmet, this last a very stout bulwark against the cold blast. The first
business was to dig a shallow, coffin-shaped trench large enough to contain
two; it was much better for two men to bivouac together, since by putting
one blanket only to sleep on, we had three with which to cover ourselves,
besides our greatcoats. Nobody took any clothes off, with the exception of
boots and putties. One man who did so, protesting he was unable to sleep in
his clothes, found in the morning a couple of large beetles preparing to
set up house in his riding-breeches, which materially and permanently
altered his views.
[Illustration: "THE LONG, LONG TRAIL." [_To face p. 80._]
The pillow universally used was a nosebag filled with the next day's feed,
and very comfortable it was, especially now that there were no ravenous
mules to break loose and poke an inquisitive muzzle under our ears. Then
with our cap-comforters on, and perhaps the spare shirt wrapped round the
head, we were snug for the night.
In the mornings there was little temptation to linger between the blankets,
for we were usually awakened by the remarkable change in the temperature of
that hour just before dawn; it was precisely as if a stream of cold air had
suddenly been turned on. Besides, the horses had to be fed, our belongings
had to be made into the neat roll which is strapped on the front of the
saddle, the daily Maconachie had to be devoured, after which came the
saddling-up ready for an early start.
For the first hour or two the journey in the fresh morning air was pleasant
enough; pipes and cigarettes were lit and chaff bandied about. But the very
monotony of the country soon banished any attempt at conversation, and hour
after hour we jogged along in silence. With the exception of ourselves
there was no living thing in sight, no sign of human habitation; even the
wire road was deserted. As the nearest line of low hillocks loomed up and
was passed, you knew the next would be precisely the same, and the next, as
far as the remote horizon. In places the route was strewn with bones of
horses and camels, while here and there a human arm or leg protruded from
the sand, for the Turks did not dig very deeply, and the desert soon gives
up its dead. At Romani especially the ground was littered with bones, great
ravens hung over the putrifying bodies of animals, and a horrid, fetid
smell pervaded the atmosphere. We were glad to get away from this Golgotha
of the desert.
Another rather curious feature was the appearance in the midst of the dunes
of a broad, flat expanse of sand covered with glittering white particles,
damp and salty to the taste, and exactly like the bed of a shallow lake.
Curious, because these "subkuts," as they are called, were seldom found
near a well, and it was difficult to see whence came the water with which
obviously at some time of the year they were covered.
We welcomed them for strictly utilitarian reasons; it was a great relief to
the horses to pull the guns and waggons over the firm sand for an hour or
two. Sometimes, indeed, it took half a day to cross a subkut.
At one point we came across one of the strangest things I have ever seen in
the desert. This was a small hill literally blazing with poppies! Whether
some migrating birds had dropped the seeds here or whether there was some
botanical reason for their appearance, I do not know, but it was a
beautiful and wonderful sight; a riot of scarlet in a barren land. It was
worth a bad quarter of an hour from nostalgia to get a glimpse of home,
after the horror we had just left.
Occasionally the dreary monotony of the days was broken by the visits of
Turkish scouting aeroplanes which hovered about us for a quarter of an hour
or so, until they had found out all they wanted to know, while the long
line of guns and waggons broke up and scattered itself over the desert,
lest the Turks should also feel inclined to drop a little present. This
kindness was always denied to us, however.
Apart from these visits mile followed mile almost without incident. But
there came a day, to be marked prominently as one of these days when
nothing seems to go right.
We awoke to a bluster of blinding sand so that the morning was darkened
with it. Breakfast in consequence was a fiasco, and very empty, very angry,
we faced the trail head-on to the sandstorm. Hour after hour it continued
with no sign of abatement, and with caps pulled down to shield the eyes and
handkerchiefs tied over nose and mouth we struggled on. The day seemed a
thousand years long; and when at last we did come to a halt, it was found
that we had overshot the watering-place by some miles! Back we trailed
wearily to the right place and there made the pleasing discovery that the
water had to be pumped up by hand, with the aid of the cumbersome old
"shadouf." We felt then that the gods had no more to offer us.
How many hours passed I do not know, but the stars had come out and the
storm had almost spent its violence, when we rode back sleepily to the
camping-ground. I may add that this was the only time I was really and
earnestly grateful for an army-biscuit; it was the sole article of food
untouched by the sand!
A day or two later our route took us on to the sea-shore and we knew then
that we were approaching the end of the journey; moreover, if further
indication were necessary, every halting-place now was populous with men,
all, like ourselves, marching towards El Arish, which is the only native
town in the whole desert. It was here that the ancient River of Egypt once
flowed until some violent upheaval of the earth's surface caused it
completely to disappear. Arab tradition has it that the river now flows
underground, which probably accounts for the fertility of the wadi, or
valley, and ultimately for the existence of the town.
Approaching the place we passed a very large grove of date-palms beyond
which the white roofs and walls shimmered in the setting sun. The Turks
were expected to make a great stand here, not only because of its strategic
position but also for its value as a port. When our aircraft reconnoitred
the ground about the middle of December, they discovered that for some
unknown reason the enemy had departed bag and baggage in the night, and the
cavalry, after a terrible march of nearly thirty miles, had nothing to do
but walk in and take possession. This was something of an anti-climax,
considering the preparations the Turks had made for putting up a stern
fight.
But as usual they retired with a sting in their tails. At Maghdaba, some
twenty miles down the wadi, they left a garrison in immensely strong
positions, with orders, apparently, to delay our advance at all costs.
Our horses and men were deadly tired after their long march, and the
watering problem was acute. There was literally no water between El Arish
and Maghdaba, and the wells at the latter place were in the hands of the
Turks. However, the Imperial Camel Corps, the Anzacs, and the Royal Horse
Artillery, entirely oblivious to everything but their objective, captured
the whole series of redoubts and the survivors of the garrison, who fought
on till they were completely surrounded.
El Arish was chiefly remembered by us because we were able to take all our
clothes off for the first time in ten days, and indulge in the unwonted
luxury of sea-bathing. Throughout all our subsequent wanderings in
Palestine no joy ever approached that of a complete bath; indeed, it is
ludicrous to note the number of places about which everything was
obliterated from the memory save the fact that one had a bath there.
From El Arish onwards the track was now thick with marching men, and at
Sheikh Zowaid, another spot of green in the desert, we came to a great
camp, where it was easy to read the signs of a coming "show." The bivouac
areas were crowded with troops of all arms, and as fast as one brigade left
another marched in to take its place.
There is a subtle difference between a concentration camp near the front
line and one down at a base; something more purposeful, perhaps, in the
former than in the latter. There is, withal, considerable less ceremony.
Here there were canteens--observe the plural--of surpassing magnificence.
In the mere attempt to get near them we experienced something of what our
people were going through at home. The queues were prodigious! As two
canteens were rather close together we had carefully to note which queue we
were in lest we should inadvertently find ourselves at the end of one when
we ought to have been at the head of the other, or _vice versa_. In the
latter case the unobservant one would have his correct and ultimate
destination described with a wealth of epithet and in a variety of
dialects.
The ever-enterprising Y.M.C.A. had a marquee, too, where we could sit in
comparative comfort, where we met men from other units with whom we
exchanged views on how the campaign should be run, on the appalling
iniquity of those A.S.C. people at the base, who lived on the fat of the
land while the fighting men starved--a slight but very popular exaggeration
with the troops--on the possibility of a mail within the next year or two,
and on similar great matters.
After this we gave each other cap-badges or buttons as a sign of mutual
goodwill and returned to our palatial burrows in the sand, a perilous
journey in the dark across an area literally honeycombed with similar
burrows, into which we fell with monotonous regularity. Our progress was
punctuated by a series of muffled but pungent remarks from people whose
faces we had stepped on, or who had been suddenly interrupted in a snore of
powerful dimensions by the violent impact of a hard head against the
diaphragm. By the time we had reached our own place the remarks had swelled
to a chorus with a deplorable motif.
Next day we started for Rafa, the last stage of the march, which brought us
to the southern border of Palestine. And, let me record the fact with due
solemnity, we celebrated our arrival by cleaning harness!