Transcriber’s Note
Italic text displayed as: _italic_
Bold text displayed as: =bold=
The Anzac Book
[Illustration: “The Australian and New Zealand troops have indeed
proved themselves worthy sons of the Empire.”
GEORGE R.I.]
The
Anzac Book
Written and Illustrated in Gallipoli by
The Men of Anzac
_For the benefit of Patriotic Funds
connected with the
A. & N. Z. A. C._
Cassell and Company, Ltd
London, New York, Toronto and Melbourne
1916
The Copyright in all
the Contributions, both
pictures and writings,
contained in THE
ANZAC BOOK is
strictly reserved to the
Contributors.
LITERARY CONTENTS
PAGE
INTRODUCTION. BY LIEUT.-GEN. SIR W. R. BIRDWOOD ix
EDITOR’S NOTE xiii
THE LANDING. BY A MAN OF THE TENTH
(A. R. PERRY, 10th Batt. A.I.F.) 1
THE REMINISCENCE OF A WRECK. BY LIEUT. A. L. PEMBERTON (R.G.A.) 7
AN AUSTRALIAN HOME IN 1930. BY “SOLDIEROO” (2nd Field Co., Aust.
Engrs.) 9
NON NOBIS. BY C. E. W. B. 11
THE ÆGEAN WIND. BY H. B. K. 14
OUR FATHERS. BY CAPT. JAMES SPRENT, A.M.C. (3rd Field Amb.) 14
GLIMPSES OF ANZAC. BY HECTOR DINNING (Aust. A.S.C.) 17
PARABLES OF ANZAC. 23
THE YARNS THAT ABDUL TELLS. BY A. P. M. 24
THE GRAVES OF GALLIPOLI. BY L. L. 25
TO A LYRE-BIRD. BY H. J. A. (8th Batt. 2nd Infantry Brigade) 26
THE NEVER-ENDING CHASE. BY AM. PARK 30
ANZAC DIALOGUES. BY N. ASH 31
FROM QUINN’S POST. BY PTE. V. N. HOPKINS, A.M.C. 32
THE HAPPY WARRIOR. BY M. R. 33
HOW I SHALL DIE. BY PTE. CHARLES LOWRY (9th Aust. Batt.) 34
BEACHY. BY TED COLLES (3rd L.H. Field Amb.) 35
THE ANZAC HOME—AND A CONTRAST. BY E. CADOGAN (1/1 Suffolk
Yeomanry) 41
FLIES AND FLEAS. BY A. CARRUTHERS (3rd Aust. Field Amb.) 44
ANZAC TYPES:—
1. WALLABY JOE. BY W. R. C. (8th Aust. L.H.) 45
2. THE DAG. BY E. A. M. W. 47
3. BOBBIE OF THE NEW ARMY. BY “TENTMATE” (11th London Regt.) 49
THE INDIAN MULE CORPS. BY B. R. 50
HILL 60. BY C. J. N. 50
JENNY. BY LANCE-CORP. F. C. DUNSTAN (B Depot, 6th A.A.S.C.) 53
MARCHING SONG. BY C. J. N. 54
FURPHY. BY Q. E. D. 56
FROM MY TRENCH. BY CORP. COMUS (2nd Batt. A.I.F.) 57
ABDUL. BY C. E. W. B. 58
A CONFESSION OF FAITH. BY CAPT. JAMES SPRENT (A.M.C.) 59
OUR FRIEND THE ENEMY. BY H. E. W. 60
ARMY BISCUITS. BY O. E. BURTON, N.Z.M.C. 61
THE LOST POEM. BY R. A. L. (1st Aust. Stat. Hosp.) 65
A LITTLE SPRIG OF WATTLE. BY A. H. SCOTT (4th Battery, A.F.A.) 67
THE TRUE STORY OF SAPPHO’S DEATH. BY M. R. 68
THE EVERLASTING ARGUMENT. BY C. D. MC., R.S.D.
(11th Aust. A.S.C.). 68
THE UNBURIED. BY M. R. (N.Z. Headquarters) 69
THE STORY OF ANZAC. (SIR IAN HAMILTON’S DISPATCHES) 71
ANZACS. BY EDGAR WALLACE 95
TO MY BATH. BY H. H. U. (Northamptonshire Regt.) 96
ANZAC LIMERICKS. BY C. D. MC. 96
HOW I WON THE V.C. BY “CROSSCUT” (16th Batt. A.I.F.) 98
ICY. BY E. A. M. W. 102
THE TROJAN WAR, 1915. BY J. WAREHAM (1st Aust. Field Amb.) 104
THE PRICE. BY CORP. COMUS (2nd Batt. A.I.F.) 104
KILLED IN ACTION. BY HARRY MCCANN (Headquarters, 4th Aust. Light
Horse) 105
A GREY DAY IN GALLIPOLI. BY N. ASH (11th A.A.S.C.) 106
MY ANZAC HOME. BY CORP. GEORGE L. SMITH (24th Sanitary Sect.,
R.A.M.C.T.) 107
WHAT FRANK THOUGHT. BY A. J. BOYD (A.N.Z.A.C.) 108
ARCADIA. BY BOMBARDIER H. E. SHELL (7th Battery, A.F.A.) 110
THE CAVEMAN. BY J. M. COLLINS (9th Batt.) 113
AN ANZAC ALPHABET. BY J. W. S. HENDERSON (R.G.A.) 115
THE KAISER TO HIS SECRETARY. BY H. B. C. 119
THE ANZAC THUNDERSTORM—FROM THE TRENCHES. BY I. A. SAXON
(21st Aust. Batt.) 122
SENSE OR ——? BY C. D. MC. (SERGT.) 123
OUR SAILORS—THE AMPHIBIOUS MAN. BY LIEUT. A. L. PEMBERTON 124
POSSIES. BY “BEN TELBOW” 125
MR. AEROPLANE. BY H. G. GARLAND (16th Aust. Batt.) 126
ANZAC IN EGYPT:—
1. MAHOMED—AND AUSTRALIA. BY C. 127
2. ANZAC IN ALEX. BY L. J. IVORY (4th Howitzer Battery,
N.Z.F.A.) 128
GREY SMOKE. BY R. G. N. (11th Aust. A.S.C.) 131
A WAIL FROM ORDNANCE. BY LIEUT. KININMONTH (A.O.C.) 132
“DINKUM OIL” 134
THE BOOK OF ANZAC CHRONICLES:—
1. THE FLOOD. BY “GENESIS GALLIPOLI” 135
2. THE BOOK OF JOBS. BY W. R. WISHART (No. 1 Aust. Stat.
Hosp., Anzac) 136
3. THE PERFECTLY TRUE PARABLE OF THE SEVEN EGYPTIANS. BY CAPT. A.
ALCORN (No. 1 Aust. Stat. Hosp.) 138
THE SILENCE. BY PTE. R. J. GODFREY (7th Aust. Field Amb.) 141
THE GROWL. BY E. M. SMITH (27th Batt.) 142
MY LADY NICOTINE. BY H. G. GARLAND 142
THE RAID ON LONDON. BY “PRIVATE PAT RIOT” 143
SING! 145
ANOTHER ATTEMPT AT AN ANZAC ALPHABET. BY “UBIQUE” (21st
Indian Mtn. Battery) 146
TO SARI BAIR. BY “BEN TELBOW” (10th Aust. Batt.) 148
ON WATER FATIGUE. BY TROOPER GEORGE H. SMITH (7th Light Horse) 148
WHEN IT’S ALL OVER.... BY HARRY MCCANN (4th A.L.H) 151
SPECIAL A. & N. Z. A. C. ORDERS:—
1. THE LANDING 152
2. THE BATTLES OF AUGUST 152
3. ARRIVAL OF 2ND AUSTRALIAN DIVISION, AND SINKING OF THE
“SOUTHLAND” 153
4. LORD KITCHENER’S MESSAGE 153
5. GEN. BIRDWOOD RELINQUISHES COMMAND OF A. & N.Z. ARMY CORPS 154
6. THE EVACUATION OF ANZAC 154
7. TELEGRAMS 156
FOUR DESIGNS FOR “THE ANZAC MAGAZINE” COVER 159
CORRESPONDENCE 161
ANZAC FASHIONS: SUMMER 162
” ” WINTER 163
ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS 164
ADVERTISEMENTS 165
LIST OF PLATES
A.N.Z.A.C. BY W. OTHO HEWETT. (_Colour_) _Frontispiece_
FACING PAGE
LIEUT.-GEN. SIR W. R. BIRDWOOD x
“AT THE LANDING AND HERE EVER SINCE.” BY DAVID BARKER.
(_Colour_) 22
“KITCH.” BY C. LEYSHON-WHITE. (_Colour_) 32
ABDUL. BY TED COLLES. (_Colour_) 58
ANZAC SKETCHES. BY DAVID BARKER. (_Colour_) 66
SOMETHING TO REMEMBER US BY. BY TED COLLES. (_Colour_) 70
MAP OF ANZAC. DRAWN BY PRIVATE R. T. GOULDING (N.Z. Inf.) 90
THE NEW STAR. BY TED COLLES, AFTER F. J. LEIGH. (_Colour_) 96
THE SILVER LINING. BY C. E. W. BEAN. (_Colour_) 122
OUR REPTILE CONTEMPORARY. BY DAVID BARKER. (_Colour_) 134
“APRICOT AGAIN!” BY DAVID BARKER. (_Colour_) 142
EACH ONE DOING HIS BIT. BY W. OTHO HEWETT. (_Colour_) 164
INTRODUCTION
By SIR W. R. BIRDWOOD
It is my privilege to have been asked to write an Introduction
for THE ANZAC BOOK, and to convey the cordial thanks of all the
inhabitants of our little township here to those who have so kindly
given us the free use of their brains and hands in writing and
illustrating this book in a way which does as much credit to them as
the fighting here has done to the Force. We all hope that readers of
our book will agree in this, while those who are more critical will
perhaps remember the circumstances under which the contributions have
been prepared, in small dug-outs, with shells and bullets frequently
whistling overhead.
It may be of interest to readers to hear the origin of the word
“Anzac.”
When I took over the command of the Australian and New Zealand Army
Corps in Egypt a year ago, I was asked to select a telegraphic code
address for my Army Corps, and then adopted the word “Anzac.” Later
on, when we had effected our landing here in April last, I was asked
by General Headquarters to suggest a name for the beach where we had
made good our first precarious footing, and then asked that this
might be recorded as “Anzac Cove”—a name which the bravery of our men
has now made historical, while it will remain a geographical landmark
for all time.
Our eight months at “Anzac” cannot help stamping on the memory
of every one of us days of trial and anxiety, hopes, and perhaps
occasional fears, rejoicings at success, and sorrow—very deep and
sincere—for many a good comrade whom we can never see again.
I firmly believe, though, it has made better men of every one of us,
for we have all had to look death straight in the face so often, that
the greater realities of life must have been impressed on all of us
in a way which has never before been possible. Bitter as has been my
experience in losing many a good friend, I, personally, shall always
look back on our days together at “Anzac” as a time never to be
forgotten, for during it I hope I have made many fast friends in all
ranks, whose friendship is all the more valuable because it has been
acquired in circumstances of stress and often danger, when a man’s
real self is shown.
In days to come I hope that this book will call to the minds of most
of us incidents which, though they may then seem small, probably
loomed very large before us at the time, and the thought of which
will bring to mind many a good comrade—not only on land, but on the
sea. From the day we were put ashore by Rear-Admiral Thursby’s
squadron up till now we have had the vigilant ships of His Majesty’s
Navy watching night and day, in all weathers, for any opportunity
to help us. We will all of us look back in years to come on _Queen
Elizabeth_, _Prince of Wales_, _London_, _Triumph_, _Bacchante_,
_Grafton_, _Endymion_, as well as such sleuth-hounds of the ocean
as _Colne_, _Chelmer_, _Pincher_, _Rattlesnake_, _Mosquito_, and
many others, as our best of friends, and will think of them, their
officers and ship’s company, as the truest of comrades, with whom it
has been a privilege to serve, and as the best of representatives of
the Great Fleet and Service which carries with honour and ensures
respect for the British flag to the uttermost parts of the earth.
Boys! Hats off to the British Navy.
It may be that, in thinking of old “Anzac” days, the words of the
Harrow school-song will spring to one’s mind:
“Forty years on, growing older and older,
Shorter in wind, as in memory long,
Feeble of foot, and rheumatic of shoulder,
What will it help you that once you were strong!”
But it has indeed helped us all to have been with strong men at
“Anzac,” and whatever the future may have in store, I, personally,
shall always regard the time I have been privileged to be a comrade
of the brave and strong men from Australia and New Zealand, who have
served alongside of me, as one of the greatest privileges that could
be conferred on any man, and of which I shall be prouder to the end
of my days than any honour which can be given me.
No words of mine could ever convey to readers at their firesides in
Australia, New Zealand and the Old Country, one-half of what all
their boys have been through, nor is my poor pen capable of telling
them of the never-failing courage, determination and cheerfulness of
those who have so willingly fought and given their lives for their
King and country’s sake. Their deeds are known to the Empire, and
can never be forgotten, while if any copy of this little book should
happen to survive to fall into the hands of our children, or our
children’s children, it will serve to show them to some extent what
their fathers have done for the Empire, and indeed for civilisation,
in days gone by.
I sincerely hope that every one of my old comrades may meet with all
the good fortune his work here has deserved, and live to a ripe old
age, with happiness, and be occasionally reminded of old times by a
glance at THE ANZAC BOOK.
[Illustration:
W R Birdwood (signature)]
ANZAC,
_December 19, 1915_.
[Illustration: “LIEUTENANT-GENERAL SIR W. R. BIRDWOOD
Has been the soul of Anzac. Not for one single day has he ever
quitted his post. Cheery and full of human sympathy, he has spent
many hours of each twenty-four inspiring the defenders of the front
trenches, and if he does not know every soldier in his force, at
least every soldier in the force believes he is known to his chief.”
_Sir Ian Hamilton’s dispatch._]
EDITOR’S NOTE
This book of Anzac was produced in the lines at Anzac on Gallipoli in
the closing weeks of 1915. Practically every word in it was written
and every line drawn beneath the shelter of a waterproof sheet or of
a roof of sandbags—either in the trenches or, at most, well within
the range of the oldest Turkish rifle, and under daily visitations
from the smallest Turkish field-piece. Day and night, during the
whole process of its composition, the crack of the Mauser bullets
overhead never ceased. At least one good soldier that we know of, who
was preparing a contribution for these pages, met his death while the
work was still unfinished.
THE ANZAC BOOK was to have been a New Year Magazine to help this
little British Australasian fraternity in Turkey to while away
the long winter in the trenches. The idea originated with Major
S. S. Butler, of the A.N.Z.A.C. Staff. On his initiative and that
of Lieutenant H. E. Woods a small committee was formed to father
the magazine. A notice was circulated on November 14th calling for
contributions from the whole population of Anzac. Any profit was to
go to patriotic funds for the benefit of the Army Corps.
Between November 15th and December 8th, when the time for the sending
in of contributions closed, THE ANZAC BOOK was produced. As drawings
and paintings began to come in, disclosing the whereabouts of some
of the talent which existed in Anzac, a small staff of artists
was collected in order to produce head- and tail-pieces and a few
illustrations; and a dug-out overlooking Anzac Cove became the office
of the only book ever likely to be produced in Gallipoli.
It was after the contributions had been finally sent in, and when the
work of editing was in full swing, that there came upon most of us
from the sky the news that Anzac was to be evacuated. Such finishing
touches as remained to be added after December 19th were given to
the work in Imbros. The date for the publication was necessarily
delayed. And it was realised by everyone that this production, which
was to have been a mere pastime, had now become a hundred times more
precious as a souvenir. Certainly no book has ever been produced
under these conditions before.
Except for this modification in the scheme of its production, THE
ANZAC BOOK remains to-day exactly the same as when it was planned
for the Australian and New Zealand Army Corps still clinging to the
familiar holly-clothed sides of Sari Bair.
The three weeks during which this book was being produced will be
remembered by the men of Anzac as being the period during which
we were visited by the two fiercest storms which descended upon
the Peninsula. During the afternoon of November 17th the wind from
the south-west gradually increased to more than half a gale, and
brought with it, after dark, a most torrential thunderstorm. A day
or two later this subsided, leaving a dishevelled Anzac. But the
wind swung slowly round to the north, and by November 27th it was
blowing a northerly blizzard; and the next day five out of every six
Australians, for the first time in their lives, woke to find a white
countryside and the snow falling. How deeply that snow impressed them
can be seen in these pages—for dust, heat and flies were much more
typical of Gallipoli.
The book was composed from first to last in the full prospect of
Christmas at Anzac, and it remains a record, perhaps, all the more
interesting on that account. The Printing Section of the Royal
Engineers, especially Lieutenant Tuck and Corporal Ashwin, and
Lieutenant G. L. Thomson, R.N.A.S., and certain Naval Officers helped
us with some drawing-paper, ink and paints, and the Photographic
Section with some excellent panoramas; but for the rest, the
contributors had to work with such materials as Anzac contained:
iodine brushes, red and blue pencils, and such approach to white
paper as could be produced from each battalion’s stationery.
The response to the committee’s request for contributions was
enormous, and in consequence the editors have been able to use
only portions, even if they be a half or a quarter, of the longer
articles and stories submitted to them—but they have done this
without hesitation, rather than reject the articles altogether.
The competitions for certain contributions resulted as follows:
COVER—Private D. Barker, _5th Australian Field Ambulance_;
DRAWING—Trooper W. O. Hewett, _9th Australian Light Horse_; DRAWING
(_Comic_)—Private C. Leyshon-White, _6th Australian Field Ambulance_;
PROSE SKETCH—H. Dinning, _9th Co., Australian A.S.C._; PROSE
(_Humorous_)—Second-Lieutenant J. E. G. Stevenson, _2nd Field Co.,
Australian Engineers_; VERSES—Captain James Sprent, _3rd Australian
Field Ambulance_; VERSES (_Humorous_)—T. H. Wilson, _A Co., 16th
Battalion A.I.F._ The greater number of the contributors were private
soldiers in the Army Corps. The sole “outside” contribution is Mr.
Edgar Wallace’s poetic tribute to the Australian and New Zealand
Force, which is included in these pages with the consent of the
author.
The thanks of those particularly concerned in the production are
especially due to General Birdwood, for his close and constant
interest; to Brigadier-General C. B. B. White, who, though at the
time burdened with most anxious duties, never failed to give some of
his few spare moments to the solving of difficulties incidental to
this publication; to the Commonwealth authorities and the Publicity
Department in London; and particularly to Mr. H. C. Smart, for his
untiring assistance, invaluable advice, and for the help of his
outstanding ingenuity in organisation, and of the splendid business
system and abundant facilities which he has created in the Australian
Military Office in London; to the War Office and the Admiralty, and
the Central News for permission to use valuable photographs; and
to many others, both in the A. and N.Z. Army Corps and outside it,
who have given their best help to make this book a success. For
the Staff—C. E. W. Bean, editor; Privates F. Crozier, T. Colles,
D. Barker, W. O. Hewett, C. Leyshon-White, artists; A. W. Bazley,
clerk—the work has been a labour of love for which only they realise
how little thanks they deserve.
THE ANZAC BOOK STAFF.
ÆGEAN SEA,
_December 29, 1915_.
[Illustration: The Ideal
And the Real.]
[Illustration:
C. LEYSHON-WHITE
1915
COMPLAINTS of the SEASON]
The Anzac Book
THE LANDING
_By a Man of the Tenth_
Come on, lads, have a good, hot supper—there’s business doing.” So
spoke No. 10 Platoon Sergeant of the 10th Australian Battalion to his
men, lying about in all sorts of odd corners aboard the battleship
_Prince of Wales_, in the first hour of the morning of April 25th,
1915. The ship, or her company, had provided a hot stew of bully
beef, and the lads set to and took what proved, alas to many, their
last real meal together. They laugh and joke as though picnicking.
Then a voice: “Fall in!” comes ringing down the ladderway from the
deck above. The boys swing on their heavy equipment, grasp their
rifles, silently make their way on deck, and stand in grim black
masses. All lights are out, and only harsh, low commands break the
silence. “This way No. 9—No. 10—C Company.” Almost blindly we grope
our way to the ladder leading to the huge barge below, which is
already half full of silent, grim men, who seem to realise that at
last, after eight months of hard, solid training in Australia, Egypt
and Lemnos Island, they are now to be called upon to carry out the
object of it all.
“Full up, sir,” whispers the midshipman in the barge.
“Cast off and drift astern,” says the ship’s officer in charge of
the embarkation. Slowly we drift astern, until the boat stops with
a jerk, and twang goes the hawser that couples the boats and barges
together. Silently the boats are filled with men, and silently drop
astern of the big ship, until, all being filled, the order is given
to the small steamboats: “Full steam ahead.” Away we go, racing and
bounding, dipping and rolling, now in a straight line, now in a
half-circle, on through the night.
The moon has just about sunk below the horizon. Looking back, we can
see the battleships coming on slowly in our rear, ready to cover our
attack. All at once our pinnace gives a great start forward, and away
we go for land just discernible one hundred yards away on our left.
[Illustration: —North flank—
Suvla from Anzac.]
Then—crack-crack! ping-ping! zip-zip! Trenches full of rifles upon
the shore and surrounding hills open on us, and machine-guns,
hidden in gullies or redoubts, increase the murderous hail. Oars
are splintered, boats are perforated. A sharp moan, a low gurgling
cry, tells of a comrade hit. Boats ground in four or five feet of
water owing to the human weight contained in them. We scramble out,
struggle to the shore, and, rushing across the beach, take cover
under a low sandbank.
“Here, take off my pack, and I’ll take off yours.” We help one
another to lift the heavy, water-soaked packs off. “Hurry up, there,”
says our sergeant. “Fix bayonets.” Click! and the bayonets are fixed.
“Forward!” And away we scramble up the hills in our front. Up, up we
go, stumbling in holes and ruts. With a ringing cheer we charge the
steep hill, pulling ourselves up by roots and branches of trees; at
times digging our bayonets into the ground, and pushing ourselves up
to a foothold, until, topping the hill, we found the enemy had made
themselves very scarce. What had caused them to fly from a position
from which they should have driven us back into the sea every time?
A few scattered Turks showing in the distance we instantly fired on.
Some fell to rise no more; others fell wounded and, crawling into the
low bushes, sniped our lads as they went past. There were snipers
in plenty, cunningly hidden in the hearts of low green shrubs. They
accounted for a lot of our boys in the first few days, but gradually
were rooted out. Over the hill we dashed, and down into what is
now called “Shrapnel Gully,” and up the other hillside, until, on
reaching the top, we found that some of the lads of the 3rd Brigade
had commenced to dig in. We skirted round to the plateau at the head
of the gully, and took up our line of defence.
As soon as it was light enough to see, the guns on Gaba Tepe, on our
right, and two batteries away on our left opened up a murderous hail
of shrapnel on our landing parties. The battleships and cruisers were
continuously covering the landing of troops, broadsides going into
the batteries situated in tunnels in the distant hillside. All this
while the seamen from the different ships were gallantly rowing and
managing the boats carrying the landing parties. Not one man that is
left of the original brigade will hear a word against our gallant
seamen. England may well be proud of them, and all true Australians
are proud to call them comrades.
[Illustration: South Flank—
Gaba Tepe from Anzac.]
Se-ee-e-e ... bang ... swish! The front firing line was now being
baptised by its first shrapnel. Zir-zir ... zip-zip! Machine-guns,
situated on each front, flank and centre, opened on our front line.
Thousands of bullets began to fly round and over us, sometimes barely
missing. Now and then one heard a low gurgling moan, and, turning,
one saw near at hand some chum, who only a few seconds before had
been laughing and joking, now lying gasping, with his life blood
soaking down into the red clay and sand. “Five rounds rapid at the
scrub in front,” comes the command of our subaltern. Then an order
down the line: “Fix bayonets!” Fatal order—was it not, perhaps, some
officer of the enemy who shouted it? (for they say such things were
done). Out flash a thousand bayonets, scintillating in the sunlight
like a thousand mirrors, signalling our position to the batteries
away on our left and front. We put in another five rounds rapid at
the scrub in front. Then, bang-swish! bang-swish! bang-swish! and
over our line, and front, and rear, such a hellish fire of lyddite
and shrapnel that one wonders how anyone could live amidst such a
hail of death-dealing lead and shell. “Ah, got me!” says one lad
on my left, and he shakes his arms. A bullet had passed through
the biceps of his left arm, missed his chest by an inch, passed
through the right forearm, and finally struck the lad between him
and me a bruising blow on the wrist. The man next him—a man from
the 9th Battalion—started to bind up his wounds, as he was bleeding
freely. All the time shrapnel was hailing down on us. “Oh-h!” comes
from directly behind me, and, looking around, I see poor little
Lieutenant B——, of C Company, has been badly wounded. From both
hips to his ankles blood is oozing through pants and puttees, and
he painfully drags himself to the rear. With every pull he moans
cruelly. I raise him to his feet, and at a very slow pace start to
help him to shelter. But, alas! I have only got him about fifty
yards from the firing line when again, bang-swish! and we were both
peppered by shrapnel and shell. My rifle-butt was broken off to the
trigger-guard, and I received a smashing blow that laid my cheek on
my shoulder. The last I remembered was poor Lieutenant B—— groaning
again as we both sank to the ground.
When I came to I found myself in Shrapnel Gully, with an A.M.C. man
holding me down. I was still clasping my half-rifle. Dozens of men
and officers, both Australians and New Zealanders (who had landed a
little later in the day), were coming down wounded, some slightly,
some badly, with arms in slings or shot through the leg, and using
their rifles for crutches. Shrapnel Gully was still under shrapnel
and snipers’ fire. Two or three platoon mates and myself slowly
moved down to the beach, where we found the Australian Army Service
Corps busily engaged landing stores and water amid shrapnel fire
from Gaba Tepe. As soon as a load of stores was landed, the wounded
were carried aboard the empty barges, and taken to hospital ships
and troopships standing out offshore. After going to ten different
boats, we came at last to the troopship _Seang Choon_, which had the
14th Australian Battalion aboard. They were to disembark the next
morning, but owing to so many of us being wounded, they had to land
straightaway.
And so, after twelve hours’ hard fighting, I was aboard a troopship
again—wounded. But I would not have missed it for all the money in
the world.
A. R. PERRY,
10th Battalion A.I.F.
[Illustration: One for Chanak.]
[Illustration:
_Photograph by C. E. W. BEAN_
THE SUNRISE OF APRIL 15, 1915
The small boats taking troops to the shore can be seen beside the
transports and close to the land]
THE REMINISCENCE OF A WRECK
[It may be necessary to explain that wood—for the roof-beams
of dug-outs and the shoring up of trenches in wet weather—was
priceless in Gallipoli. But whilst this book was being compiled
Providence sent a storm. In the morning the beach was littered
with portions of a wrecked schooner, stranded lighters, pieces of
pier—all strictly the property of H.M. Government as represented
by the officer commanding the Royal Engineers. “A gift from
Heaven,” one Australian was heard to remark as he looked at the
desolate scene next morning. Nor were his British brethren less
grateful.—Eds.]
The storm had ceased, the sea was calm, the wind a trifle raw,
And miles and miles of wreckage lay upon the sandy shore;
And every time the waves came up they brought a little more.
The Sergeant and the Junior Sub. in contemplation stood.
They wept like anything to see such quantities of wood—
And then they smiled a furtive smile which boded little good.
The wood lay round in lovely heaps and smiled invitingly.
“Do you suppose,” the Sergeant said, “that this is meant for me?”
“I doubt it,” said the Junior Sub. “Here comes the C.R.E.[1]
“If fifty kings and fifty queens and fifty C.-in-C.’s
Presented fifty indents and bowed low upon their knees,
I hardly think that they would get more than a few of these.”
The Sergeant and the Junior Sub. walked on a mile or so,
Until they found a shelving bank conveniently low;
And there they waited sadly for the C.R.E. to go.
“Oh, timbers,” quoth the Junior Sub., who spoke with honeyed speech,
“I hardly think it _safe_ for you to lie upon the beach.”
And as he spoke he stroked the backs of those within his reach.
The timbers leapt beneath his touch and hurried plank by plank;
They crowded round to hear him speak, and lined up rank on rank—
But one old timber wagged his head and hid behind a bank.
“The time has come,” the Sergeant said, “to talk of many things—
Of bully beef and dug-outs, of Kaisers and of Kings,
And why the rain comes through the roof, and whether shrapnel stings.
“Some good stout planks,” the Sergeant cried, “are what we chiefly
need,
And four by fours and spars besides are very good indeed—
So if you’re ready, sir, I think we may as well proceed.”
“Oh, C.R.E.!” remarked the Sub., “I deeply sympathise.”
With sobs and tears they sorted out those of the largest size,
While happy thoughts of days to come loomed large before their eyes.
Next morning came the C.R.E. to see what could be done;
But when he came to count the planks he found that there was none—
And this was hardly odd, because they’d collared every one.
Lieut. A. L. PEMBERTON,
R.G.A.
TAYLOR’S HOLLOW,
8.12.15.
[Illustration:
C. E. W. B.
Study of a battalion in Repose.]
FOOTNOTES:
[1] C.R.E.—Officer commanding Royal Engineers.
AN AUSTRALIAN HOME IN 1930
When you come to an old spotted gum right on the saddle of Sandstone
Ridge, after an eighteen-mile ride from Timpanundi, you’re very close
to Freddy Prince’s war selection. There’s a well-made gate in the
road fence on your left, and it bears the legend, “Prince’s Jolly.”
Through that the track will lead you gently uphill into a wide and
gradually deepening sap, until you think you’ve made some mistake.
Then look to your left, and behold the front entrance to Freddie’s
dug-out.
An old shell-case hangs near by, and when you strike it you’ll hear
an echo of children’s voices, and a small platoon of youngsters
charge you at the double. First time I blew in it was just on
teatime, and my first glance in at the well-lit gallery and the smell
of the welcome food are worth the recollection. Fred came out and led
my cuddy round to the stable sap, where he was given what had been
on his mind for some hours past. I didn’t lose much time in settling
down to tea—it was already too dark to look around outside. Besides,
as Fred explained, there was nothing to see of the homestead bar the
inside, and by the third year of excavation most of that had been
dumped into the gully and pretty well all washed away.
The meal finished, we played games with the kids. Fred seldom read
the papers—he said he didn’t want to strain the one eye that was
left to him—so Mrs. Prince retired to absorb the news I had brought
in their mail-bag, and to prepare herself to issue it to her husband
later.
Long after the children went to burrow, he and I smoked and pitched
away about the past. He told me how he and many others had come to
adopt the underground home. It had been the case of making a penny do
the work of a pound, and Fred himself had done the work of a company.
It had been a hard struggle, but the missus was a treasure, and never
growled except when things were going well—as some people will do.
It was just a case of dig in, dig up, and dig down. Anything in the
way of iron or steel was prohibitive. Timber was too expensive, and
in any case the timber that stood on the selection he had been forced
to sell in order to stock the farm. It had been a problem of years,
but he had made a job of it; and when he showed me round the house I
didn’t grudge him his little bit of pride.
The main gallery opened to the surface at the front and back, and
was about forty-five paces long. It was driven through hard ground,
and was well arched so that it required no timber. On one side there
was a branch to the pantries and the galley, and on the other side
the dining-room and the bedrooms, which were really one big chamber
with solid pillars of earth left at intervals, forming a group of
rooms each with a dome roof and canvas partitions. A borehole had
been put through to the surface at the centre of every room for
ventilation and light, a device of reflectors enabling one to bring
the sunlight in at all hours of the day.
Once, as we sat and smoked, a subdued chattering came from the
adjoining room. I looked up and saw the top of a periscope over the
partition. Instantly it disappeared with a noise like the scattering
of furniture. Then a voice: “Oh, daddy, do you know what?”
“What’s happened, Kit?” replied the father.
“Two of your biscuit photo-frames are smashed.”
“Oh, never mind, old girl,” said Fred; “it’s time they began to break
up after fifteen years. Go to sleep, both of you.”
As I lay awake next morning I overheard some homely details. How the
baldy steer had hopped over O’Dwyer’s parapet into his lucerne patch;
and Jimmy ought to have widened the trench last week when he was told
to; and the milking sap hadn’t been cleaned out the previous day
because Georgie had forgotten he was pioneer; and Jerry O’Dwyer had
shot two crows from the new sniper’s pozzy[2] down at the creek—and
so on.
When we sat down to breakfast Mrs. Prince was primed with news. “I
told Fred,” she said, “I didn’t believe we’d taken Lake Achi Baba;
the latest cable says it’s still occupied by the German submarines.”
Fred nodded as if he didn’t care much.
“Achi Baba used to be a hill once, wasn’t it, daddy?” chipped in one
of the youngsters.
“Yes, it used to be one time,” replied his father, looking into
the blue puffs that drifted away from his pipe and out past the
waterproof sheet of the dug-out door. In those blue mists of the past
what he saw was the bald pate of the great hill, with the howitzers
tearing earth out of the crest of it by the hundredweight, while the
Turkish miners ever heaped the outside of it with the spoil from
their tunnels. “Yes, it was a hill once.”
Thus Freddy and his wife and family live their life as happily as if
there were no war.
“SOLDIEROO,”
2nd Field Co., Aust. Engrs.
FOOTNOTES:
[2] Pozzy or Possie—Australian warrior’s short for “position,” or
lair.
[Illustration: F. R. CROZIER]
NON NOBIS
Not unto us, O Lord, to tell
Thy purpose in the blast,
When these, that towered beyond us, fell
And we were overpast.
We cannot guess how goodness springs
From the black tempest’s breath,
Nor scan the birth of gentle things
In these red bursts of death.
We only know—from good and great
Nothing save good can flow;
That where the cedar crashed so straight
No crooked tree shall grow;
That from _their_ ruin a taller pride—
Not for these eyes to see—
May clothe one day the valleyside....
Non nobis, Domine.
C. E. W. B.
THE “RIC”
[Illustration:
TED COLLES
FROM
SKETCH
BY
C. M^cCRAE
New Arrival (as something hums past the parapet): “’Strewth! Wot’s
that?”
Officer: “Only a ricochet.”
N.A.: “An’ d’we use ’em, too, sir?”]
[Illustration: THE DESTROYER ON THE FLANK
_Drawn by GILBERT T. M. ROACH_]
THE ÆGEAN WIND
The winter winds of Lemnos,
They blow exceeding fast;
There’s nothing quite so stiff on earth
As that persistent blast.
It ducks around the corners,
Through all the hills it shoots;
It blows the milk from out your tea,
The laces from your boots.
Is this the soft Ægean wind
Which Byron raved about,
That whirls across the ridges
And turns you inside out?
Or is it some invention
Which Providence has made
To give a breezy welcome to
The Third Brigade?
H. B. K.
[Illustration: OUR FATHERS]
Wandering spirits, seeking lands unknown,
Such were our fathers, stout hearts unafraid.
Have we been faithless, leaving homes they made,
With their life’s blood cementing every stone?
Nay, when the beast-like War God did intone
His horrid chant, was our first reckoning paid
For years of ease. Their restless spirits bade
Us fight with those whose Homeland was their own.
Rest easy in your graves, the spirit lives
That brought you forth to claim of earth the best.
Ours it is now, and ours it shall remain;
Mere jealous greed no honest birthright gives.
Shades of our fathers, hear our faith confessed,
We shall defend your Empire or be slain.
Capt. JAMES SPRENT,
A.M.C. (3rd Field Amb.).
[Illustration:
_Drawn by F. R. CROZIER_
“Wandering spirits, seeking lands unknown,
Such were our fathers, stout hearts unafraid.”]
[Illustration:
C. E. W. B.
·Picture of a battalion Resting·]
GLIMPSES OF ANZAC
It’s the monotony we revile, not—to a like degree—hard work or hard
fare. To look out on the same stretch of beach or the same patch of
trench wall and the same terraces of hostile black and grey sandbags
day after day is to be wearied. There is the same sitting in the same
trench, shelled by the same guns, manned, perhaps (though that we
endeavour to avert), by the same Turks. Unhappily it is not the same
men of ours that they maim and kill daily.
And if one’s dug-out lies on a seaward slope there is, every morning,
the same stretch of the lovely Ægean, with the same two islands
standing over in the west.
Yet neither the islands nor the sea are the same any two successive
days. The temper of the Ægean at this time changes more suddenly and
frequently than ever does that of the Pacific. Every morning the
islands of the west take on fresh colour, and are trailed by fresh
shapes of mist.
To-day Imbros stands right over against you; you see the detail
of the fleet in the harbour, and the striated heights of rocky
Samothrace reveal the small ravines. To-morrow, in the early morning
light, Imbros lies mysteriously afar off like an Isle of the Blest, a
delicate vapour-shape reposing on the placid sea.
Nor is there monotony in either weather or temperature. This is
the late autumn. Yet it is a halting and irregular advance the
late autumn is making. Fierce, biting, raw days alternate with the
comfortableness of the mild late summer. This morning, to bathe is as
much as your life is worth (shrapnel disregarded); to-morrow, in the
gentle air, you may splash and gloat an hour and desire more. And
you prolong the joy by washing many garments.
Here in Anzac we have suffered the tail-end of one or two autumn
storms, and have had two fierce and downright gales blow up. The wind
came in the night, with a suddenness that found us most unprepared.
In half an hour many of us were homeless, crouching about with our
bundled bedclothes, trespassing tyrannically upon the confined
space of the stouter dug-outs of our friends—a sore tax upon true
friendship. They lay on their backs and held down their roofs by mere
weight of body until overpowered. Spectral figures in the driving
atmosphere collided and wrangled and swore and blasphemed. The sea
roared over the shingle with a violence that made even revilings
inaudible.
The morning showed a sorry beach. There were—there had been—three
piers. One stood intact; the landward half of the second was clean
gone; of the third there was no trace, except in a few splintered
spars ashore. A collective dogged grin overlooked the beach that
morning at the time of rising. The remedying began forthwith; so did
the bursting of shrapnel over the workmen. This stroke of Allah upon
the unfaithful was not to go unassisted.
With misgiving we foresee the winter robbing us of the boon of daily
bathing. This is a serious matter. The morning splash has come to
be indispensable. Daily at six-thirty you have been used to see the
head of General Birdwood bobbing beyond the sunken barge inshore; and
a host of nudes lined the beach. The host is diminishing to a few
isolated fellows, who either are fanatics or are come down from the
trenches and must clear up a vermin-and-dust-infested skin at all
costs.
Not infrequently “Beachy Bill” catches a mid-morning bathing squad.
There is ducking and splashing shorewards, and scurrying by men clad
only in the garment Nature gave them. Shrapnel bursting above the
water in which you are disporting raises chiefly the question: “Will
it ever stop?” By this you mean: “Will the pellets ever cease to whip
the water?” The interval between the murderous lightning flash aloft
and the last pellet-swish seems, to the potential victim, everlasting.
The work of enemy shell behind the actual trenches is peculiarly
horrible. Men are struck down suddenly and unmercifully where there
is no heat of battle. A man dies more easily in the charge. Here he
is wounded mortally unloading a cart, drawing water for his unit,
directing a mule convoy. He may lose a limb or his life when off
duty—merely returning from a bathe or washing a shirt.
One of our number is struck by shrapnel retiring to his dug-out to
read his just delivered mail. He is off duty—is, in fact, far up
on the ridges overlooking the sea. The wound gapes in his back.
There is no staunching it. Every thump of the aorta pumps out his
life. Practically he is a dead man when struck; he lives but a few
minutes—with his pipe still steaming, clenched in his teeth. They lay
him aside in the hospital.
That night we stand about the grave in which he lies beneath his
groundsheet. Over that wind-swept headland the moon shines fitfully
through driving cloud. A monitor bombards off shore. Under her
friendly screaming shell and the singing bullets of the Turks the
worn, big-hearted padre intones the beautiful Catholic intercession
for the soul of the dead in his cracked voice.
THE STORMS OF NOVEMBER
[Illustration: Transport in Trouble, November 17]
[Illustration: After the Blizzard of November 29]
[Illustration: Anzac Pier in the Storm of November 17]
_Photographs by C. E. W. BEAN_
[Illustration:
_Photograph by Central News_
General Birdwood taking a Dip]
[Illustration:
_Photograph by C. E. W. BEAN_
Shrapnel over Anzac Beach
The shrapnel cloud can be seen, and also the water off the beach
whipped up by the pellets from the shells]
At the burial of Sir John Moore was heard the distant and random gun.
Here the shells sometimes burst in the midst of the burial party.
Bearers are laid low. A running for cover. The grave is hastily
filled in by a couple of shovel-men; the service is over; and fresh
graves are to be dug forthwith for stricken members of the party. To
die violently and be laid in this shell-swept area is to die lonely
indeed. The day is far off (but it will come) when splendid mausolea
will be raised over these heroic dead. And one foresees the time when
steamers will bear up the Ægean pilgrims come to do honour at the
resting places of friends and kindred, and to move over the charred
battlegrounds of Turkey.
Informal parades for Divine Service are held on Sabbath afternoons
for such men as are off duty. Attendances are scanty. The late
afternoons are becoming bleak; men relieved from labour seek the
warmth of their dug-outs.
The chaplain stands where he can find a level area and awaits a
congregation. When two or three are gathered together he announces a
hymn. The voices go up in feeble unison, punctuated by the roar of
artillery and the crackle of rifle fire. The prayers are offered.
The address is short and shorn of cant. This is no place for
canting formula. Reality is very grim all round. There is a furtive
under-watchfulness against shrapnel. One almost has forgotten what it
is to sit in security and listen placidly to a sermon at church.
The chaplains have come out to do their work simply and laboriously.
They are direct-minded, purposeful men. One is a neighbour in a Light
Horse regiment—a colonel. He flaunts it in no sandbagged palace. His
dug-out is indistinguishable from those of the privates between whom
he is sandwiched—mere waterproof sheet aloft and bed laid on the
Turkish clay; a couple of biscuit boxes with his oddments—jam, and
milk, and bread: writing materials and toilet requisites. A string
line beneath the roof holds his towel and lately washed garments. He
is a simple parson, hard-worked by day and night in and about the
trenches, careful for such comforts as can be got for his men in
this benighted land; lying down at nights listening to the forceful
lingo of his neighbours, and confessedly admiring its graphic if
well-garnished eloquence. He sees his duty with a direct gaze—a
faithful Churchman at work in the throes of war.
In a land of necessarily hard fare a regimental canteen in Imbros
does much to compensate. Unit representatives proceed thence weekly
by trawler for stores. One feels almost in the land of the living
when so near lie tinned fruit, butter, cocoa, coffee, sausages,
sauces, chutneys, pipes, tobacco, and chocolate. Such a repertoire,
combined with a monthly visit from the paymaster, removes one far
from the commissariat hardships of the Crimea.
The visualising of unstinted civilian meals is a prevalent pastime.
Men sit at the mouths of their dug-outs and relate the minutiæ of
the first dinner at home. Some men excel in this. They do it with
a carnal power of graphic description which makes one fairly pine.
One has heard a colonel-chaplain talk for two hours of nothing but
grub, and at the end convincingly exempt himself from any charge of
carnal-mindedness. Truly we are a people whose god is their belly.
But that we never admitted until this period of enforced deprivation.
Those comforts embraced by the use of good tobacco and deliverance
from vermin at night are the most desired; both hard to procure.
There is somehow a great gulf fixed between the civilian quality of
any tobacco and the make-up of the same brand for the Army. Once
in six months a friend in Australia dispatches a parcel of cigars.
Therein lies the entrance to a fleeting paradise—fleeting indeed when
one’s comrades have sniffed or ferreted out the key. After all, the
pipe, given reasonably good tobacco, gives the entrée to the paradise
farthest removed from that of the fool.
Of the plague of nocturnal vermin little need be said explicitly. The
locomotion of the day almost dissipates the evil. But it makes night
hideous.
The tendency is to retire late and thus abridge the period of
persecution. One’s friends drop in for a yarn or a smoke after tea,
and the dreaded hour of turning-in is postponed by reminiscent
chit-chat and the late preparation of supper. One renews, here,
a surprising bulk of old acquaintance. Old college chums are dug
out, and one talks back and lives a couple of hours in the glory of
days that have passed. Believe it not that there is no deliverance
possible from the hardness of active service. The retrospect, and
the prospect, and the ever-present faculty of visualisation are
ministering angels sent to minister.
Mails, too, are an anodyne. Their arrival eclipses considerations of
life and death—of fighting and the landing of rations. The mail-barge
coming in somehow looms larger than a barge of supplies. Mails have
been arriving weekly for six months, yet no one is callous to them.
Of incoming mail, letters stand inevitably first. They put a man at
home for an hour.
But so does the local newspaper. Perusing that, he is back at the
old matutinal habit of picking at the news over his eggs and coffee,
racing against the suburban business train. Intimate associations
hang about the reading of the local sheet—domestic and parochial
associations almost as powerful as are brought by letters.
And what shall be said of parcels from home? The boarding-school
home-hamper is at last superseded. No son, away at Grammar School,
ever pursued his voyage of discovery through tarts, cakes and
preserves, sweets, pies and fruit with the intensity of gloating
expectation in which a man on Gallipoli discloses the contents of his
“parcel.”
[Illustration: “AT THE LANDING, AND HERE EVER SINCE”
_Drawn in Blue and Red Pencil by DAVID BARKER_]
“’Struth! a noo pipe, Bill!—an’ some er the ole terbaccer. Blimey!
Cigars, too!—’ave one, before the mob smells ’em.... D——d if there
ain’t choclut! Look ’ere.... An’ ’ere’s some er the dinkum[3]
coc’nut-ice the tart uster make.... Hallo! more socks! Nev’ mind:
winter’s comin’. ’Ere, ’ow er yer orf fer socks, cobber?... Take
these—bonzer ’and-knitted. Sling them issue-things inter the sea....
I’m d——d!—soap for the voy’ge ’ome.... ’Angkerch’fs!—orl right
w’en the —— blizzards come, an’ a chap’s snifflin’ fer a —— week
on end.... Writin’ paper!—well, that’s the straight —— tip, and no
errer! The beggars er bin puttin’ it in me letters lately too. Well,
I’ll write ter-night on the stren’th of it. Gawd! ’ere’s a shavin’
stick!—’andy, that! I wuz clean run out—usin’ carbolic soap, ——
it!... Aw, that’s a dinkum —— parcel, that is!”
HECTOR DINNING,
Aust. A.S.C.
FOOTNOTES:
[3] Dinkum—Australian for “true.”
[Illustration: Decoration]
PARABLES OF ANZAC
I
FROM SHELL GREEN
_From a Correspondent in Australian Field Artillery, “Sea View,”
Boltons Knoll, near Shell Green._
I was looking out from the entrance of my dug-out, thinking how
peaceful everything was, when Johnny Turk opened on our trenches.
Shells were bursting, and fragments scattered all about Shell Green.
Just at this time some new reinforcements were eagerly collecting
spent fuses and shells as mementoes. While this fusillade was on, men
were walking about the Green just as usual, when one was hit by a
falling fuse. Out rushed one of the reinforcement chaps, and when he
saw that the man was not hurt he asked: “Want the fuse, mate?”
The other looked at him calmly.
“What do you think I stopped it for?” he asked.
II
THE TURK IN THE PERISCOPE
_The same Correspondent writes:_