THE STRAITS IMPREGNABLE
THE STRAITS
IMPREGNABLE
BY SYDNEY DE LOGHE
LONDON
JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET, W.
1917
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
TO THE FIRST AUSTRALIAN DIVISION
_This Book, Written in Australia, Egypt and Gallipoli, is true._
CONTENTS
PAGE
CHAPTER I
THE CALL 1
CHAPTER II
ENLISTED 13
CHAPTER III
TRAINING 24
CHAPTER IV
THE VOYAGE 39
CHAPTER V
IN EGYPT 49
CHAPTER VI
THE SOLDIER’S LIFE 60
CHAPTER VII
THE PASSING OF WINTER 72
CHAPTER VIII
MUDROS 92
CHAPTER IX
THE LANDING IN GALLIPOLI 103
CHAPTER X
IN THE FIRING LINE 132
CHAPTER XI
ACTION FRONT 146
CHAPTER XII
THE DAY’S BUSINESS 167
CHAPTER XIII
A PERILOUS EXPEDITION 191
CHAPTER XIV
DEATH AND THE BATTERY 203
CHAPTER XV
ROUTINE 208
CHAPTER XVI
A FLAG OF TRUCE 234
CHAPTER XVII
THE MARCH OF MONOTONY 254
CHAPTER XVIII
REALITIES 265
CHAPTER XIX
THE LAST OF ANZAC 280
THE STRAITS IMPREGNABLE
CHAPTER I
THE CALL
The afternoon was wearing out, and I began to think of home and tea.
I stopped working, straightened my back, ran moist fingers through my
hair, and sat down on the log. The axe went tumbling to the ground.
“Watch-and-pray” and “Wait-and-see” got up from the fallen gum suckers,
and trotted forward with waving tails and glistening, slippery tongues.
I made haste to get rid of them. They began to play, biting ears and
growling, but went back at last, laid keen black heads on narrow paws and
watched me out of grave brown eyes.
To Gippsland spring had come. The day had been a day of spring until
evening beckoned afternoon away. Now a little breeze—gentle, but rather
cold—came out of the west and wandered through the tops of the gum
suckers. The scent of eucalyptus came with it; and behind it followed
the voices of countless rustling leaves. It moved among the wattle tops
where they wound along the river; it moved across the rape crops and over
the grassy flats beyond. It bent the sedges in the lagoons where the
first black ducks were feeding, and where, on warmer nights, big eels
bubbled below the sunken logs. I raised my forehead to the cool; and, lo!
the breeze had gone!
Through the rape crop sheep were streaming. Anxious ewes pulled hurriedly
at the broad green leaves or watched with care their frolicking
youngsters. On the flats, round the salt trough, the bullocks chewed and
meditated. Smoke climbed up by the river bend; and outside her cottage
moved Mrs. Pigg, bringing in the washing, pulling vegetables, feeding the
fowls. Small and busy the distance showed her.
Behind me, and on either side, the suckers pushed up their heads. High
over them leaned spectral trees: blackened, leafless, stripped of bark,
weary with long waiting. About the ground great trees had fallen: grim
logs—knotted logs—logs scarred with the breath of summer fires. Here and
there showed feeding sheep; and this way and that way ran well-worn pads
leading to the waterholes in the wattles. Over the hillside spread a
faint green carpet where was shooting the young grass.
Out from hidden gullies floated cries of sheep. Mournfully they travelled
across the hillside—now the voice of a ewe whose lamb had strayed, now a
lamb hungry and alone. Other sights and sounds began to fill the evening.
Small finches came hopping into the suckers, dodging and peeping and
swinging through the boughs, and preening themselves between the leaves.
Gay was the twittering as the hunt for supper went forward. Then a
jackass swooped into a tree top, threw up tail, raised high head and
pealed out frenzied laughter. Other tree tops joined the madman chorus.
Next a magpie hopped upon the big log and glinted an evil eye at me; and
then forgot me to ruffle sombre shoulders, and join the evening hymn.
The sun was on the horizon, and shadows moved quickly across the lower
lands. First they filled the reedy lagoons, the big wattle groves, the
belts of scrub. They moved from bramble bush to grass tussock, from
fallen log to waterhole. Faint wisps of fog rose about the river. It was
late; I was hungry; it was time for home.
I put out a hand for my coat, picking up the axe as well; and
“Watch-and-pray” and “Wait-and-see” sprang forward with glad barks. I
pushed them off and got up.
“Hullo there, Guv’nor,” a harsh voice shouted from the ruined gate, and
old Scottie came through the gap on his ancient chestnut mare. The long
sunbeams shone upon his weather-beaten face, with its broken yellow teeth
and small hard beard. He wore an ulster, with a sugar-bag hanging out of
the pocket. In the bag he had dived a horny hand, and now it came out
filled with letters and papers. “Here you are, Guv’nor,” he shouted again.
I went forward and took the packet, picking out all that belonged to
me. What was left I handed back. “There are one or two for the Piggs,” I
said. “You might take them over.”
“Right-o, sir,” he answered, and pulled the old mare round, and started
away at a jog-trot. Through the suckers man and beast disappeared—an
elderly man and a very elderly beast.
I leaned against the gateway and opened the letters. There was news from
home, telling of weather five weeks old, and a garden party older yet.
Still I read it all twice. An agent had written of some bullocks, and
there was a third note about sheep. I pushed everything into my coat
pocket, and picked up the papers. Four were there—I had not been to the
township for a day or two. I opened the oldest of them, dated four days
ago, and turned the pages in a hurry—I was hungry and thinking of tea.
But I forgot tea. Across the middle leaves ran staring headlines. Austria
was at the throat of Servia, and war was a matter of hours. All Europe
was arming.
I opened another paper. Events had gone forward. Austria had begun the
journey of chastisement. From East to West of Europe sounded the clamour
of war. I scanned the pages, and threw the paper down. The next I opened,
and again the next. No line of hope!
I leaned and read.
Dusk was deepening, and slow grey fogs wended across the flats.
“Watch-and-pray” and “Wait-and-see” sat erect upon their haunches,
peering up to know why I delayed. The evening had grown still again,
birds and sheep alike were silent; but from the Piggs’ cottage smoke
climbed in cheerful wreaths. Pigg and his wife were at tea now, old
Scottie no doubt with them: they were talking of war and ruin, though
half a world lay between.
I picked up the fallen papers and put the axe upon my shoulder. “Here,
‘Watch-and-pray,’ here, ‘Wait-and-see,’ we’re off at last!” I took the
path through the ti-tree, though it was boggy still from the rains, and
brought the dogs to heel as we passed beside the river through flocks of
dozing sheep. Out of the calm skies first stars were coming. We reached
the cattle-yards, and pushed a way through the loose barbed wire. The
breath of honeysuckle was blown from Scottie’s cottage, but the place was
dark and empty. Scottie had not come back.
We left the yards to go along the path which crossed the hillside; then
dipped into the gully and climbed the opposite bank. The horses stood
under the pepper trees in a lazy, drowsy circle. I glanced into the
buggy-shed to see that all was secure. I pulled open the garden gate. It
was evening now, full evening, grey and a trifle chill; and among the
grasses crickets shrilled and from the waterhole by the lightwood tree
rose the voices of amorous frogs.
A score of perfumes met me at the garden gate. The peaches, pears, and
apples were a-flower; and the lemon trees and oranges budded. When we
came to the house, I reached down the dogs’ meat from the shelf beside
the window, and led the way to the kennels, which were among piles below
the flooring. The dogs began to bark again, and ran to their places,
sitting down to be chained up. I chained them, gave them their meat and a
goodnight pat, and went round to the back once more.
The house key came from its hiding-place, and I unlocked the door and
went inside. In the kitchen it was nearly dark: in the front room it was
darker; but there were matches by the lamp on the table. Then I opened
the front door and went on to the verandah. Roses had climbed all above
it, all round it, all across it; and on either side the flowering peaches
leaned for support. I pushed aside the rose branches and stepped down
into the garden. The stars were shining and, across the creek, lights had
come out in every farmhouse. The milking was over at the Browns’, for a
drowsy stream of cows returned to the paddock. I watched them a moment,
and next went to the back of the house again. At the woodheap I picked
up an armful of sticks to carry into the front room. Quite soon the fire
was started, and it burned brightly. Then forwards and backwards I went
into the kitchen, bringing the kettle to put on to the fire, carrying in
plates and knives and forks, bread, butter. The table laid, out I went to
the woodheap again, and this time chopped big logs. In the chill evening
the axe blows sounded sharp and clear. It meant three journeys to the
front room with the logs; but those made, I was ready for the night.
I took off boots and leggings, throwing the spurs into the corner. I went
into the bedroom and washed, splashing water all over the place. Then I
found the frying-pan and lard, and began a dish of eggs and bacon. The
kettle boiled for the tea. Soon the bacon was cooked and the eggs were
ready; all was there, and the fire shining. I drew in a chair and began
to eat. Presently out of a pocket the papers came, one by one to be read
through. Long after I had finished eating, by the light of the lamp and
the fire I sat reading on.
At last I got up. A kettle of water boiled, and I carried into the
kitchen the supper things and washed up. In ten minutes the business was
over. I made the bed ready, and put more wood on the fire. By this time
it was eight o’clock. For a moment I waited by the mantelpiece, looking
into the flames; but they were too hot, and drove me on to the verandah.
Once more the perfume of countless blossoms met me in the dark.
There was no moon; it was all starlight, and on the right hand the
Southern Cross swung round. At the garden end, the big waterhole
glimmered through gaps in a broken fence, and from it came love-songs of
a thousand frogs, while in the overhanging branches of the lightwood two
cranes kept mournful watch. Each night they stood there at this hour,
peering down into the reeds below.
The hill climbed up behind the house and fell away before me. All over it
tall, barkless trees stood up—grimly some, some wearily—but each one a
spectator of the endless procession of day and night. Across the ground
other trees were lying. Bracken had closed round some and brambles had
clambered over others. I heard the rippling of the river, and here and
there caught the gleaming of waters: there beside the great white gums,
there below the willows, there before the bridge; and farther off, upon
the plains, showed there and there the farmhouse lights. Round all ran
the distant hills. Now from afar a dog barked, now a bull bellowed; and
ever, ever shrilled and croaked the crickets and the frogs.
The evening was cold enough for an overcoat, and, putting one on, I sat
down on the verandah step. Most nights this was my custom before turning
into bed. On and off, for two years, I had come out in the same way—on
starry nights, on moonlit nights; on nights of cloud, on nights of rain;
on nights of mist, of warmth, of cold. I had lain back on stifling nights
when the mosquito alone seemed abroad; and I had felt the breath of the
frost come down and had fled beaten to the fireside. For two years I had
watched the seasons come and go, and the stars swing round and round. Not
a night but I could tell when the moon would sail up behind the hills.
I had seen suns set in the West—and I had watched and watched until the
East grew rosy.
Two years had I owned and lived upon these lands. I had challenged the
wilderness, driving it ever back. I had known days of hope and days of
uncertainty; but victory was within sight. Where scrub had waved, now was
open country; where logs mouldered, now passed the plough. The fight had
cost two years—but I had won.
Over the silent meadowlands I looked, where rape and oats were growing.
“Two years have you spent here,” they seemed to say, “and this third year
is to be the year of your hopes. We shall repay your labours; wait but a
while.”
I looked to the gap in the hills where the moon would climb forth, moving
and mounting, presently to sail over lands where stalked sorrow and
desolation.
A voice asked, “Will you stay here for your payment? Or will you leave
it—to follow the moon?”
“Aye, but why should I follow the moon?” said I. “What hate have I to
take me there? No; hard have I toiled; let me remain.”
“Stay with your plough, then,” said the voice. “Muster your cattle and
count your sheep. But never more shall you dwell alone. A stranger shall
sit in your heart. A stranger shall abide with you to taunt you of your
choice.”
The dogs woke me up. Footsteps came slowly along the path behind the
house, and old Scottie went by on his way across the hill. Crowbar,
shovel, and axe were on his back, and laden thus he passed away into the
gloom of trees and suckers.
Through the wet winter we had pulled together fallen logs for burning;
and before a giant heap Scottie stopped, and laid down tools. He rested
a moment on the pile, to get breath no doubt; but quite soon started a
search among the standing trees and bracken. He was looking for kindling.
It was so dark—often I could not follow him. Presently he was back again
at the heap; and a tender flame crept up, changing gloom into fairyland.
An army of shadows were born, and leaped about the magic circle. Old
Scottie was plainly now to be seen, even his stumpy beard; and the axe
flashed when the flames danced on the blade.
The light grew broader and bolder, and flames licked through the
gathered logs, while on all sides moved Scottie, like a priest at the
altar—chopping, levering, and digging with axe, crowbar, or shovel.
Now he would hurry away with burning sticks to another pile, so that
furnaces grew out of half the hillside. With each breeze crossing the
river, flames leaped and logs roared; and flights of sparks raced up into
the night. The smoke coils were caught to the treetops, and the lofty,
leafy boughs, drawn into the maelstrom, were dashed about. From furnace
to furnace passed Scottie, tending their needs as a doctor watches his
patients.
The night was ageing; all but one farmhouse light had gone out; but I did
not think of sleep. I realised the cold and, rising, went inside. The
fire still burned. The alarm clock on the mantelpiece said a quarter past
ten. I went into the kitchen in search of cake, and next passed through
the back door into the open, and took the track cut in the hillside, the
track Scottie had taken. While I followed it, the light at the Smithsons’
disappeared. As I came up, Scottie peered at me through the smoke.
“Hallo, Guv’nor,” he shouted. Then he shouted again, waving a hand at the
fires, “They’re going well! Have you come to help? It wull take two tae
shift some of these!”
I nodded. He picked up the crowbar, I bent down for the shovel; and for
the next hour we made the rounds. By that time all the fires had taken
good hold and could be left until morning. We were hot, dry, and tired,
and with one accord found seats on a log. I crossed hands on the shovel
handle, laid my chin on them, and thus fell to watching the fog bands
form over the river. I was surprised Scottie was so quiet: he stopped
talking so seldom. Now he was content to spit and fill his pipe. This
filling was slow of completion and only ended when he had blown and
coughed and gurgled through the pipe stem.
“Guv’nor,” he said presently, and I stopped watching the river and looked
round, “the papers say there wull be a lot doing at home. We wull be
fighting Germany in a day or two. Don’t you say so, Guv’nor?”
“Yes,” I answered.
He smoked on, pressing a finger into the bowl of his pipe. “If it’s a big
thing, men wull go frae this country. Don’t you think so?”
“I expect so,” I said.
He cocked his head on one side. “Maybe one or two frae down here wull be
going.”
“I shall be going,” said I.