warm spell at “Chatham’s”[4] some time ago, congregate after this war
the following incident will be told and retold:
Bill Blankson was a real hard case, happy-go-lucky, regardless of
danger. Bill was put on sapping for over a fortnight, and at the end
of that time had a growth of stubble that would have brought a flush
of pride to his dirty face if he had seen it. But he hadn’t seen
it—one does not carry a looking-glass when sapping.
At the end of the fortnight he was taken off sapping and put on
observing.
Anyone who has used a periscope knows that unless the periscope is
held well up before the eyes, instead of the landscape, one sees only
one’s own visage reflected in the lower glass.
Bill did not hold the periscope up far enough, and what he saw in it
was a dark, dirty face with a wild growth of black stubble glaring
straight back at him. He dropped the periscope, grabbed his rifle,
and scrambled up the parapet, fully intending to finish the Turk who
had dared to look down the other end of his periscope.
He had mistaken his own reflection for a Turk’s.
FOOTNOTES:
[4] Chatham’s Post at the southern end of the line was attacked by
the Turks for several days in November.
[Illustration: Decoration]
THE YARNS THAT ABDUL TELLS
One of the chief pastimes of the Turks who live behind the black and
white sandbags opposite (writes an officer who knows them intimately)
is that of listening to stories told by the storytellers in the cafés
of the Asia Minor villages. The hero of these stories is very often
a certain Nastradi Hodja (who really existed at one time, and made a
reputation by his wit as well as through his stupidity). Here is an
example of the sort of story about Nastradi which especially pleases
the Turk:
Nastradi Hodja’s wife woke up one night through hearing a noise. She
got up, and going out on to the landing on the upper floor, outside
her bedroom, called out:
“Nastradi, what was that noise?”
Nastradi’s voice came up from below. “Don’t pay any attention to it,”
he said. “It was only my shirt that tumbled down the stairs.”
“Does a shirt make such a noise?” she asked.
“No,” was the reply; “but I was in it.”
A. P. M.
[Illustration: Grave site]
THE GRAVES OF GALLIPOLI
The herdman wandering by the lonely rills
Marks where they lie on the scarred mountain’s flanks,
Remembering that wild morning when the hills
Shook to the roar of guns and those wild ranks
Surged upward from the sea.
None tends them. Flowers will come again in spring,
And the torn hills and those poor mounds be green.
Some bird that sings in English woods may sing
To English lads beneath—the wind will keep
Its ancient lullaby.
Some flower that blooms beside the Southern foam
May blossom where our dead Australians lie,
And comfort them with whispers of their home;
And they will dream, beneath the alien sky,
Of the Pacific Sea.
“Thrice happy they who fell beneath the walls,
Under their father’s eyes,” the Trojan said,
“Not we who die in exile where who falls
Must lie in foreign earth.” Alas! our dead
Lie buried far away.
Yet where the brave man lies who fell in fight
For his dear country, there his country is.
And we will mourn them proudly as of right—
For meaner deaths be weeping and loud cries:
They died pro patria!
Oh, sweet and seemly so to die, indeed,
In the high flush of youth and strength and pride.
These are our martyrs, and their blood the seed
Of nobler futures. ’Twas for us they died.
Keep we their memory green.
This be their epitaph. “Traveller, south or west,
Go, say at home we heard the trumpet call,
And answered. Now beside the sea we rest.
Our end was happy if our country thrives:
Much was demanded. Lo! our store was small—
That which we had we gave—it was our lives.”
L.L.
[Illustration: Decoration]
TO A LYRE-BIRD
Oh, Lyre-bird! tethered to the earth,
Thou envy’st not the skylark in the sky,
But pour’st a thousand mocking notes of mirth,
Drowning the ravished songsters singing nigh.
If wing’d—so pure thy voice—thou might’st aspire
To drown indeed the whole seraphic choir!
And, listening to thee—captive in thy chains—
I think me of a singer such as thou
Who captured Nature’s notes for lovely swains,
And echoed them behind a mountain plough;
And moiled and sang, to prove to Gods above
The charm of earthly singing and of love.
Leave to the soaring minstrel of the sky
Her privilege of song at heaven’s gate;
Leave to the nightingale the charms whereby
She lights the grove and hushes strife and hate.
As great a boon—oh, blessed bird!—is thine,
Gyv’d to the soiling earth, yet singing still divine!
H.J.A.
8th Batt., 2nd Infantry Brigade.
GRAVES AT ANZAC
[Illustration: The Cemetery in Shrapnel Valley]
[Illustration: The Grave of a Brigadier—Col. H. N. Maclaurin, killed
April 27, 1915]
[Illustration: A Cemetery by the Beach
_Photographs by C. E. W. BEAN_]
THE HOPELESS DAWN
[Illustration:
DAVID BARKER
Gallipoli, 15.
“STANDING TO!”—4.30 a.m.]
THE NEVER-ENDING CHASE
[Illustration:
C. LEYSHON-WHITE
15
ANZAC]
Whilst seated one day in my dug-out,
Weary and ill at ease,
I saw a gunner carefully
Scanning his sunburnt knees;
I asked him why he was searching,
And what he was looking for,
But his only reply was a long-drawn sigh
As he quietly killed one more.
AM. PARK.
ANZAC DIALOGUES
It was a fine day, and they were standing by waiting for instructions
from the warrant officer to commence unloading and loading; and in
the general murmur of voices one noted the broad tones of the British
Tommy and the harsher ones of Tommy Kangaroo, the latter less careful
of his grammar than the other; also the loud-voiced directions of
the Indian Tommy, or rather Johnny, who condescended now and then to
break into pidgin-English (with a smile).
Presently from amongst a group sitting in the shelter of a stack of
bully beef came the request: “Give us a light, mate,” in the blunt
style which belongs to Tommy Kangaroo.
“Aw, yes,” replies Tommy Atkins, or “Kitch,” as he is beginning to be
called. “Aw, yes.” And while the other is pulling at his fag: “Have
you got any baadges, choom?”
“No, I gave mine to a little nipper who used to sing on the stage at
the El Dorado in Cairo.”
“Did you now! She must have a fine stack of baadges now, that ’un.
You’re about the fifteenth lad that I know has given his baadges
to ’er. Aw, thanks”—taking back his cigarette. “I see you’re from
Austra-alia. What State did you live in?”
“Vic,” is the reply.
“I wonder if you knew my brother? He went to Victoria a couple of
years ago. Got a job on the ra-ailways, he did, and wanted me to come
out too. I’ll go when this is over; but ’ee’s married now, ’e is, and
got a couple of pet lambs that ’e said was given to ’im by a chap
named Drover; ’is name is Dobbs.”
“Never met him, matey, but he is all right, you bet. A Pommy[5] can’t
go wrong out there if he isn’t too lazy to work.”
“Ah, yes, he tells me they called ’im Pommy, but that they was
good lads. I could not understand them slinging off at ’im and ’im
thinking they were treatin’ ’im like as ’e was one of themselves.”
“Oh, well, yer see, mate, we don’t call the like of ’im ‘Pommies’
because we dislike ’em, but just as a matter of description. Of
course, sometimes one of ’em gets ’is back up and calls us sons of
convicts in return for us chuckin’ off at ’im, and then he’s told
lots of things—sometimes true and very often untrue; but Australia’s
all right, mate. You need not be ashamed to be called a ‘Pommy’ out
there.”
“Blime, there’s old ‘Beachy’[6] at it again,” breaks in another.
“’Ee’s a fair cow, ’e is. Made me spill two buckets er water this
mornin’, and our flamin’ cook told me I was too lazy to go down for
it. I’ll give ’im ‘Beachy’ after this job is over if ’e don’t look
out. Hallo, Johnny, Beachy catch-em mule, eh?”
“Beachy no good—mule good,” replies the tall spare Indian, with a
smile, as he tries to bring his pair of mules under the shelter of
the stack. “Mule very good,” he says, as he squats in front of his
pair.
“’Ow long yer been ’ere, choom?” asks Kitch of Kangaroo.
“Nearly six munce now. Blime, I could do with a spell now, too. I’m
beginnin’ to get a ’ump like a camel from carryin’ these flamin’
boxes.”
“Aw, yes, but it’s better than bein’ in the trenches, ain’t it?” asks
Kitch.
“Blime, no,” is the reply. “A man’s got a chance to hit back there,
but down ’ere it’s up to putty. It’s bad enough to be eatin’ bully
beef, but carryin’ it as well is rotten. I couldn’t look a decent
bullock in the face now for what I’ve said about ’im when ’e’s
tinned.”
“Did yer ’ear wot was doin’ up at Narks Post larst night, Bill?”
“Yes; some d——d gobblers thought they would catch our mob nappin’ but
missed the bus, and some of ’em are still runnin’ yellin’ to Aller
to stick to ’em. Blast ’em! I’ll give ’em Aller when I get a chance.
Keepin’ a man stuck on ’ere when ’e might be havin’ a good time
somewhere else. I’ll bet——”
“Come on, Bill, ’ere comes the W.O.,”[7] says his mate.
“D—— ’im—see yer later, matey; and I’ll try to get a badge for yer.”
“Don’t forget, choom. Ah want it to send to my married sister’s
little lass. She thinks youm lads be prime boys.”
“Prime boys,” mutters Bill, as he grabs his case of bully. “Yes,
prime boys jugglin’ Best Prime Bully Beef.”
“D—— it—shut up, Bill,” says his mate. “You’re always growlin’—you’ll
want flowers on your grave next.”
N. ASH.
FOOTNOTES:
[5] Pommy—short for pomegranate, and used as a nickname for
immigrants.
[6] “Beachy”—a battery of Turkish guns, well known on Anzac Beach.
[7] W.O.—Warrant Officer.
FROM QUINN’S POST
Celestial star that crossed my path,
Leaving fair visions in my soul;
Oh! why did you e’er leave your realm
And break my heart? With mournful dole
Now restless night doth me pursue,
And fiends do tempt my soul to hell.
Ah! gentle maid, if you but knew
My inner shrine, and it could tell
My hidden love, as deep, as true,
As gentle as sweet birds at play;
Drift back, bright star, and comfort me
In this unending, dreary day.
V. N. HOPKINS,
Pte., A.M.C., att. 17th Aust. Bn.
[Illustration:
C. LEYSHON-WHITE
15
“KITCH”
_Drawn With an Iodine Brush by C. LEYSHON-WHITE_]
[Illustration: The Happy Warrior]
_The Happy Warrior_
(A SOLILOQUY) SOMEWHERE IN THE ANZAC ZONE
I
In my sandy dug-out by the sea
Of Saros beyond Samothrace,
I’m as happy as happy can be,
And I’m bent upon washing my face
Before I go into my tea;
But the water’s so scarce in this land
That we do all our washing with sand—
And we _always_ have sand in our tea.
[Illustration: D. B.]
[Illustration: D. B.]
II
In my fly-filled dug-out by the sea
Near Anzac, beyond Samothrace,
Both the cook and colonel agree
That you _must_ have some semblance of grace
At breakfast, at dinner, and tea,
To prevent you from damning the eyes
Of the savage and pestilent flies—
For you _always_ have flies in your tea!
III
In my shell-swept dug-out by the sea
Of Saros, beyond Samothrace,
I’m as happy as happy can be,
Tho’ the shrapnel comes flying apace
Over moorland and mountain and lea—
For I wish you to quite understand,
Tho’ the hens have vacated the land,
Yet we _always_ have shells with our tea!
[Illustration: D. B.]
[Illustration: Decoration]
HOW I SHALL DIE
I only wait the eventide,
The rising of the moon—
My little barque I’ll gently slide
Into the still lagoon.
Here storms are fierce and nations wage
Across the seas their strife,
And death’s wild billows break their rage
Against the rocks of life.
I only wait the last, long call—
Perchance a short farewell—
Then gently for the mists to fall
O’er silent hill and dell.
Private CHAS. LOWRY,
9th Aust. Battalion.
[Illustration: Ships near shore]
BEACHY
Outside was a cold, dark, windy and cheerless night, and the world
seemed cowering under the black, threatening rain-pall above, which
could be felt rather than seen. Inside my host’s diggings we were
lounging back in the warmth and light, smoking and yarning of other
times and places, while the partner of his home brewed the warm,
fragrant, comforting decoction which seemed to contribute so much
to the mood and proper appreciation of such friendly comfort in the
midst of the audible turmoil of unfriendly outer circumstances.
Once again from outside there came a whir and rattle past the door,
and I smiled significantly and glanced in that direction.
“Oh, don’t go until after the next one,” urged my host’s companion,
seeing my attention diverted to things outside of our present cheery
circle.
With this my friend seemed to concur, and drew himself closer to the
fire. “Yes, there’s plenty of time yet,” he said. “There’ll be a lot
more of ’em. So you might as well sit tight in, safely and comfy, and
try another cup.”
I didn’t need much coaxing, and thrusting the thought of the long,
unpleasant journey home out of my mind, I settled down to further
cheery chat and the enjoyment of stimulating internal comforts.
The conversation seemed to have progressed but a little further when
above the wind outside could be heard again the warning roar and
rumble, fading away and terminating in a muffled clang and clatter
in the distance. “That settles it, Billo, old chap,” I said, half
rising. “Pass over my coat. If I hurry off now I’ll be just in time.”
But my friend didn’t move to oblige. “Now, what’s the use of
hurrying?” he urged once more. “They’ll be passing every minute now
for a long time yet. So why not settle down and enjoy yourself a bit
longer? ’Taint very often you come this way.”
By the time I had finished my reply to his persuasions I found,
again, that my chance had gone—and I would have to wait now, anyhow.
And so the time passed. We talked and talked, while a useful youth
who lived near by, and had attached himself to my friend Billo, made
three reappearances with hot water for the cups that cheered as the
night went on.
“I wonder where ‘Razzy’ is?” presently remarked my host; “the jug
wants refilling.”
Just then the disturbing rumble passed the door again, and I rose
to my feet. “Don’t bother to disturb him,” I said. “I suppose he’s
retired to his digs. Besides, now’s my chance to scoot too; I’ve a
long way to walk. Throw me that coat.”
Finding that all protestations were useless, my friends reluctantly
allowed me to go, but not without wilily expressed forebodings as to
what unpleasantness might await me outside now that I had refused to
enjoy their society and comforts any longer.
They accompanied me to the door, and a cold blast of wind met us.
There were ominous thunder rumbles in the murky distance.
“A boshter[8] night for a walk,” I remarked, buttoning my coat about
me.
“Yes,” grinned my friend, peering out into the darkness. “And they’re
running to a peculiar sort of time-table to-night—passing about every
seven minutes. You’d better get a wriggle on. There’s a short cut
that way,” he added, pointing to the right, “just past the corner of
the cemetery. That’s where they stop. So for God’s sake shake it up;
if you don’t, they won’t see you home at all. It’s an unhealthy night
to be out.”
I asked them to say good night to the youth “Razzy” for me, and to
thank him for his comforting ministration, then bade them farewell
and moved off.
I blundered along the sloppy, unpaved footway, peering tensely
into the uncanny blackness about me, and hurried uneasily in the
direction of a patch of faint pale blotches that I hoped and took to
be the monuments in the little burying-ground down beyond. I found
that my direction was right, and presently I was hurrying past it
as fast as I could manage in the wind and darkness. From somewhere
behind me—it sounded miles and miles away through the noise of the
wind—a faint low moaning sound reached my ear. I stepped forward
uneasily, but before I had advanced a yard it had become more
prolonged, and growing ever louder and closer until I seemed to
feel it coming—coming with tremendous and ever-increasing speed:
a horrible, nerve-shattering, deafening, wailing shriek. I stood
dazed and paralysed—rooted to the spot. With a scream of hellish
intensity—it was all within a second, really—it was on me. There was
a flash of blinding light, then everything ended so far as I was
concerned.
My next interest in life was a feeling that I had just been hurled
up at the moon, over it, and had descended slowly, ever so slowly,
like a feather, to earth again. In fact, I wasn’t quite sure that I
was not a feather; and I opened my eyes carefully and tried to feel
myself. “’Ssh-sh-sh! Don’t disturb yourself—remain quiet and comfy,”
said a persuasive voice beside me. I looked around as far as I could
move, and knew that I was in a hospital, but where or of what kind
I could not think for the moment. I lay awhile gazing blankly and
unthinkingly at a low white ceiling above me. Presently I fell to
wondering.
[Illustration: ACHI BABA, SEEN FROM ANZAC
(The dug-outs and paths of Anzac are seen in the foreground. Above
them on the sky line is the massive Kilid Bahr plateau, the near
promontory in the centre is Gaba Tepe, and above is the peak of Achi
Baba. The British position at Helles comprised the distant coast up
to a point a little astern of the destroyer.)
_Drawn by G. T. M. ROACH_]
[Illustration: RACING BEACHY BILL
_Drawn by H. C. WIMBUSH_]
In what suburb, in what town (it seemed to have been hundreds of
years ago that it had happened), and what part of Australasia could
it be that a peaceful citizen, walking a darkened street, homeward
bound, could be violently assailed, near the resting-place of its
harmless sleeping dead, by an awful uncanny horror descending from
the black unknown? Was I cursed, haunted, bewitched—or what? Then
there came to me the vague memory of a friend, one whom I familiarly
knew as “Billo,” and in some way associated with my terrible,
mysterious experience. But somehow it didn’t seem to fit in with the
slowly gathering evidence of my returning senses, for it seemed to me
that “Billo” had long before quitted suburban civilisation for some
great adventure—perhaps—yes, it was a war somewhere—in which I, too,
had later resolved to follow his example and do my share. Then how
came it that this terrible experience had befallen me in the midst of
the enjoyment and comforts of civilisation?
I had a positive though hazy memory of a comfortable, warm room,
pleasant drinks, cheery conversation; “Billo” and his companion, the
latter a rough, kindly sort of being—no, it could not have been a
woman; besides, “Billo” was a bachelor. I remembered that distinctly.
Suddenly it became clear to me, and I remembered a silent, rugged man
facetiously dubbed “’Enery” by my friend—a kindly chap, of very few
words, with whom I had not been long acquainted. Where had “Billo”
picked him up? There also came before me the memory of a small,
dilapidated man or youth, dark complexioned; somehow also attached
to “Billo.” His name was—yes, that was it.... Who the deuce was
“Razzy”? My mind here became dazed, and speculation drifted off into
a confusion of reflections: that “Razzy” was a foreigner of some
sort, living with us under the same conditions, yet in some way very
different and in a degree inferior; that the hour at which I left my
friend “Billo’s” home and his inexplicable associates was quite early
in the night—perhaps only nine-thirty. This latter fact seemed to
linger in my mind, for presently—with a hazy conviction that there
were sure to be other pedestrians abroad on a suburban street at that
hour—I heard my own voice asking no one in particular: “Was there
anyone else there?”
It came as no surprise to hear a man’s rough voice reply:
“Only a Maltese—at least, we think he was. He was blown to
smithereens. But don’t let ’em see you talking too much, mate.”
The room seemed to rock. I opened my eyes, and with difficulty caught
sight of the speaker. He was in khaki and wore an A.M.C. badge on his
arm. I was on a hospital ship.
“Then that _must_ have been poor ‘Razzy,’” I muttered at last. Before
my mind’s eye there seemed to unfold a dissolving scene. The cosy
rooms of my friend “Billo” became a dug-out in a hillside, lit by
a slush lamp made from bacon fat. “Billo” and his rugged, silent
companion were wearing the familiar time-tattered uniform that I knew
so well ages and ages ago (actually it was five days back); the door
through which I had passed into the unpleasant night was an oilsheet
tied down to keep the weather out; and the frequent rumbling roar was
not that of a passing suburban train which I was timing myself to
catch. On the contrary, it was the _intervals_ between that sound
which interested me. For each of those rushes past the door of my
friend’s dug-out was a hurtling Turkish shell, and I wanted to make
my escape at a reasonably safe moment. Also, the place where “they”
chiefly lobbed was the cemetery at the foot of the rugged track (I
had dreamed of it as the unpaved footpath of a new suburb), where
rest a score or more game Australian lads who had taken part in
the landing on Gallipoli. The unfortunate “Razzy,” by the way, was
but one of a gang of Maltese labourers brought by the authorities,
at a later and safer period, to help in the landing of stores from
the transports in the bay at Anzac. He had become friendly with my
luxury-loving friend “Billo,” and, in gratitude for various kindly
considerations, was willing to provide the hot water to make our
hot-rum drinks on that memorable night at “Billo’s” station on our
right wing. (I was quartered miles away on the extreme left.)
So it was near the cemetery that the unexpected shell got me; and
apparently “Razzy” also, who was returning to his camp a hundred
yards away. There seemed something so droll about the whole strange
illusion that, although in a state of dazed depression, I might have
laughed but for an indescribable pain in my left side. I saw that my
left arm was supported on something and lay above the bedclothes and
seemed very heavy.
“Feel comfortable?” said the A.M.C. man.
“Yes, except for the pain in my left hand,” I answered.
He looked down, and I followed his gaze.
“You haven’t got no left hand,” he said quietly.
I saw that he was right, and this new illusion struck me as being
about the last straw.
With a dazed sort of conviction I muttered: “Well, it’s a rummy
world”—and promptly lay back and drifted out of it for the time being.
TED COLLES,
3rd L.H. Field Ambulance.
[Illustration:
C.E.W.B.
Portrait of an Australian soldier returning from the field of glory
at Helles. May 11th 1915]
FOOTNOTES:
[8] Bosker, boshter, bonzer—Australian slang for splendid.
THE ANZAC HOME—AND A CONTRAST
I am sitting, at the moment of writing, in a dug-out, one of those
dismal, dark, damp holes cut into the clay of the Dardanelles,
serving us as a haven of refuge by day and by night from the
ubiquitous Turkish bullet.
The proportions of this extemporised dwelling resemble those of an
exceedingly small family tomb—one which might belong to a family too
proud not to possess a family tomb at all, but too poor to possess
one of adequate size and comfort (if one can speak of comfort in such
a connection). Its dimensions should be about ten feet by four, but I
am not enthusiastic enough at the moment to ascertain them precisely.
Its three walls are of crumbling clay. Where the fourth wall strictly
should be is an exit which lets in the draught. Over my head are
stretched waterproof sheets which let in the water. On the floor, in
fine weather, is an inch of dust, and in bad weather a proportionate
amount of slimy mud. A few sandbags ranged round the parapet threaten
to tumble in and annihilate my existence. I am sitting on a roll of
bedding. My haversack, water-bottle, field-glasses, webbing, pistol,
gas helmet, and india-rubber basin are arranged round my feet like so
many pet dogs begging for biscuit; and in such an entourage I think
of my room at home—and that is where this matter of contrast comes in.