and I—sat in another variety of dug-out; this time an open one—open
to all that blows and falls. Our repast consisted of an exceedingly
stringy rabbit, extracted from a tin of an ominous purple hue—an
evil-looking dish eked out with somebody or other’s baked beans,
which are all very well in their way, but when used as an unvarying
vegetable at all meals begin to pall; bread, with the crust like a
cinder, to which fondly cling bits of sacking and mules’ whisker; the
corpse of a cheese; and the whole washed down with tea made in the
stew dixie, and tasting more of dixie and stew than of tea.
As I lean back against the clay wall of my dug-out, and innumerable
particles of dust cascade down my neck, a soft reverie steals over my
senses. It seems to me to be about six or seven o’clock on a murky
November afternoon in London. I have splashed home from my work in
the wind- and rain-swept streets—the motor-buses have covered me with
black mud—my umbrella has afforded me the most inadequate shelter.
But these things seem of little account to me here in Gallipoli. I
see myself reaching my home in the best of spirits, entering the
hall, and shutting off the outer darkness. My sense of contrast gives
me a lively notion of dry clothes, of a comfortable room, of a genial
fire, and of an absorbing book. In future I shall be grateful for the
rain and the mud and the murky streets for making these good things
seem by contrast so much more valuable.
Think of it! To sink into a great arm-chair in front of my library
fire, after a hard and anxious day’s work, and contemplate the near
approach of an excellent evening meal. How comfortable and warm and
hospitable my room appears as I lean back and listen to the rather
depressing, smothered rumble of the traffic in the street below.
Thick curtains hide away the melancholy November London atmosphere.
Sweet-smelling logs crackle cheerily on the hearth; a reading-lamp by
my side sheds subdued lustre on the immediate vicinity of my chair.
My servant glides into the room noiselessly over the soft carpet, and
places the evening paper by my side. I choose a cigar from my case,
light it, and then I am perfectly content—and my contentment is due
to contrast between my content with the existing situation and my
past discontent with other situations at other times and in other
places.
After a refreshing siesta I go upstairs, exchange my workaday clothes
for a smoking-suit. Two or three bachelor friends are due to dine
with me, and by the time I have dressed and descended again to the
sitting-room they are there ready for my greeting.
And what a pleasant evening it is with their company. We talk of old
times, old acquaintances, and old places. We talk of our big-game
shoots, of our campaigns, and of our travels, the recollection of
which seem so delightful now that distance lends enchantment to the
view. Dinner is over; a glass of brandy and old port, some smokes,
and we are just adjourning to the next room——
“Wake up, old chap—three o’clock. Your turn for the trenches. It is
snowing hard and the Turks are very active.”
Contrasts indeed!
E. CADOGAN,
1/1 Suffolk Yeomanry.
[Illustration:
its not what you were.—]
[Illustration:
but what you are to-day—]
[Illustration:
DAVID BARKER 15.
AFTER
B. HARTMAN
The Ass: “Are you wounded, mate?”
The Victim: “D’yer think I’m doing this fer fun?”]
FLIES AND FLEAS
Regarding these two particular pests, my attitude in the past has
been characterised by the utmost forbearance; I tolerated them and
looked upon them as harmless and possibly of some usefulness to the
community. The Gallipoli specimens, however, have changed my state of
“benevolent neutrality” into one of most deadly warfare. No “Hymn of
Hate” has yet been composed which would give expression to the hatred
which has possessed me.
Do you but go into the trenches in the endeavour to perform your duty
to your country, and the flies immediately try to dissuade you by
getting into your eyes, ears, nose and mouth. Nothing will drive them
away; they delight in this; they are entirely without pity. Retire
to your dug-out in the hope of escaping their attentions, and they
are sure to follow you. Smoke till you all but asphyxiate yourself,
and you find them as active as ever. Nothing that human ingenuity can
devise will cause them to retreat; they defy our puny efforts. You
may imitate the Kaiser and “strafe” them for all you are worth, but
it is only waste of breath; they glory in this and come back all the
more.
What we frequently distrust in the way of tucker holds no terrors
for the Gallipoli flies; they delight in taking risks if only to
impress us with their fearlessness. Stepping boldly on the edge of
a syrup-covered biscuit, they immediately get their feet entangled;
but they will not retreat—that would be against all their traditions.
Instead, they will struggle their way towards the centre, where they
gladly give up the contest and die.
They are born conquerors. I doff my hat to them in spite of my hate.
With the setting sun the flies retire, but operations are simply
handed over to their allies, the fleas; and no worthier ally could
be found than those pilgrims of the night. You may feel beat to the
world, but there is no rest for you; as soon as you lie down to enjoy
a well-earned rest the attack commences. Advancing in open or close
formation, according to circumstances, the enemy attacks on every
flank with fixed bayonets, in the handling of which his units are
experts. If driven off, they come again in still greater numbers;
they appear to have unlimited reserves of reinforcements which can
be mobilised on the shortest notice. Their organisation is perfect.
Counter-attacks in the dark are all in the favour of the enemy, and
morning finds that they have withdrawn their forces to advantageous
cover in the blankets, from which it is impossible to dislodge them.
Keating’s Powder is of no avail against the Gallipoli fleas; it
requires a still higher explosive to have any effect.
The honours have so far fallen to the enemy. Personally, I would
be inclined to discuss terms of peace, but I doubt not he is too
depraved to accept my advances.
A. CARRUTHERS,
3rd Australian Field Ambulance.
[Illustration: C LEYSHON-WHITE ’15]
ANZAC TYPES
1.—WALLABY JOE
His real name matters little; suffice it that he was known among his
comrades as “Wallaby Joe.”
He came to Gallipoli via Egypt with the Light Horse. Incidentally,
he had ridden nearly a thousand miles over sun-scorched,
drought-stricken plains to join them.
Age about 38. In appearance the typical bushman. Tall and lean, but
strong as a piece of hickory. A horseman from head to toe, and a dead
shot. He possessed the usual bushy beard of the lonely prospector
of the extreme backblocks. Out of deference to a delicate hint from
his squadron commander he shaved it off, but resolved to let it grow
again when the exigencies of active service should discount such
finicking niceties.
His conversation was laconic in the extreme. When the occasion
demanded it he could swear profusely, and in a most picturesque vein.
When a bursting shell from a “75” on one occasion blew away a chunk
of prime Berkshire which he was cooking for breakfast, his remarks
were intensely original and illuminative.
He could also drink beer for indefinite periods, but seldom committed
the vulgar error of becoming “tanked.” Not even that locality
“east of Suez,” where, as the song tells us, “There ain’t no Ten
Commandments and a man can raise a thirst,” could make his steps
erratic.
He was very shy in the presence of the softer sex. On one occasion
his unwary footsteps caused him some embarrassment. Feeling thirsty
he turned into one of those establishments, fairly common in
Cairo, where the southern proprietors try to hide the villainous
quality of their beer by bribing sundry young ladies of various
nationalities and colours to give more high-class vaudeville turns.
The aforementioned young ladies are aided and abetted by a coloured
orchestra, one member of which manipulates the bagpipes.
A portly damsel had just concluded, amidst uproarious applause, the
haunting strains of “Ta-ra-ra boom-de-ay.” She sidled up to Joe with
a large-sized grin on her olive features.
“Gib it kiss,” she murmured, trying to look ravishing.
But Joe had fled.
Henceforth during his stay in Egypt he took his beer in a little
Russian bar, the proprietor of which could speak English, and had
been through the Russo-Japanese War.
When the Light Horse were ordered at last to the front, Joe took
a sad farewell of his old bay mare. He was, as a rule, about as
sentimental as a steamroller, but “leaving the old nag behind hurt
some.”
On the Peninsula and under fire his sterling qualities were not long
in coming to the surface. Living all his life in an environment in
which the pick and shovel plays an important part he proved himself
an adept at sapping and mining. At this game he was worth four
ordinary men. No matter how circuitous the maze of trenches, he could
find his way with ease. He could turn out all sorts of dishes from
his daily rations of flour, bacon, jam, and of course the inevitable
“bully” and biscuits. An endless amount of initiative showed itself
in everything he did. His mates learned quite a lot of things just by
watching him potter about the trenches and bivouacs. His training at
the military camps of Australia and, later, in Egypt, combined with
the knowledge he had been imbibing from Nature all his life, made him
an ideal soldier.
He was used extensively by his officers as a scout. As the Turkish
trenches were often not more than twenty yards from our own, needless
to say the scouting was done at night, the Turks’ favourite time
to attack being just before dawn. Often during these nocturnal
excursions a slight rustle in the thick scrub would cause his mate to
grasp his rifle with fixed bayonet and peer into the darkness, with
strained eyes and ears and quickened pulse.
“A hare,” Joe would whisper, and probably advise him to take things
easy while he himself watched.
This went on for some time until one night his mate came in alone,
pale-faced and wild-eyed. Interrogated by the officer on duty, he
informed him that Joe had been shot.
We brought the body in. He had been shot through the heart—a typical
affair of outposts.
Tucked away in one of the innumerable gullies, a little grave, one
among hundreds, contains the body of one of Nature’s grand men. On
the wooden cross surmounting it is the following:
+———————————————————————————————————+
| No. 008 TROOPER J. REDGUM, |
| 20th Australian Light Horse. |
| Killed in Action. |
+———————————————————————————————————+
W. R. C.,
8th A.L.H.
2.—THE DAG
Yes; ’Enessy was a dag if ever there was one! I remember the day ’e
came into camp at Liverpool ’e was wearin’ ’is best Sunday grin, and
when some bloke wot was in the mob yelled out “Marmalade,” ’e turns
round and says to ’im: “Wot’s your complaint, mate?” The bloke ’e
repeats “Marmalade.” And ’Enessy says: “Ah! That’s wot I thought it
was. You’d better see a doctor, and ’ave it operated on right away,
me man!”
’E could eat like a ’orse. Blime! The way ’e used ter stoke up on
ther bread and jam was a treat for sore eyes. ’E always used ter ask
to be put on the job of picket round the quartermaster’s store, and
they never tumbled to ’is game for a long while. ’E used ter watch
’is chance, and every night would slip in and pinch a loaf of bread
and a tin of jam, and as ’is job consisted of keeping the cook’s fire
a-going all night, ’e always ’ad a cup of coffee ready when ’e wanted
it. One night ’e nips into the store to git ’is usual bit of supper,
and ’e bangs right into the bloke wot was just put in new at the Q.M.
that day.
“Wot are you doin’ ’ere?” asks the bloke.
“Blime! I thought I ’ad a fair cop,” says ’Enessy, quick as
lightning. “I ’eard someone moving about in ’ere, and thought it was
a chap pinchin’ stuff.”
“And who are you?” says the bloke.
“Me! I’m the bloomin’ picket,” says ’Enessy.
“Oh! Alright, picket,” replies the bloke. “I sleep in here, so you
needn’t worry about the store while I’m here.”
“Alright, mate!” says ’Enessy. “Can yer give us a bit of grub? Fair
dinkum, I’m ’ungry!”
So ’e gets ’is grub after all, but ’e couldn’t come the double no
more after that.
When ’e came over the water and first sees the Turkish trenches, ’e
says: “Strike me pink! But where’s them Turks they talk about?”
Says I: “They’re right there behind them sandbags, old cock! And
don’t you forget it, neither!”
“And don’t they come out and show themselves?” ’e asks.
“Wot for?” says I.
“Why, for us blokes to shoot at, of course!” ’e says.
One mornin’ early while we was standin’ to arms ’e lights up a
bumper, so I tells ’im not to let the officer cop ’im or there’d
be trouble. Just then along comes the bloomin’ officer, so ’Enessy
sticks ’is lighted bumper down south into ’is overcoat pocket, and
’olds it there out of sight. The officer sniffs about a bit, then ’e
asks ’Enessy: “Are you smoking?”
“No, sir!” says ’Enessy.
“Well, I can smell smoke!” says the officer. Then ’e looks pretty
’ard at ’Enessy and says: “What’s your name?”
“’Enessy, sir.”
“Well, Henessy, your pocket’s on fire!”
’Enessy looks, and hang me if that bloomin’ cigarette ’adn’t set fire
to ’is coat pocket. But the officer only says: “Don’t do it again!”
and whips off.
It was when we came out of the firin’-line for a week’s spell that
’Enessy met ’is Waterloo. ’E was detailed for guard down at the
drinkin’ water, and ’e was to take all his nap and camp down there.
The first night, when ’e was doin’ ’is shift ’e sees a dark shape
movin’ along and challenged it three times, but never gets no answer.
So ’e ups with ’is gun and lets fly. When the corporal rushes along
to know what the blazes was the matter, ’Enessy ups and tells ’im,
so they goes forward together pretty careful, and soon they sees a
black heap lyin’ on the sand ahead of them. Gor blime! If ’Enessy
’adn’t gone and shot one of them poor little Indian donkeys which ’ad
strayed along the beach. Well, ’e was chaffed pretty considerable by
’is cobbers,[9] and got fairly sick of hearin’ about it.
Next night when ’e was doin’ ’is shift again, ’e sees another black
shape movin’ along the beach, so thinkin’ ’is cobbers were ’avin’
a joke with ’im, ’e picks up a big stick and goes forward with it.
’E ’ad gone about twenty yards, when suddenly there was a flash and
a report, and ’Enessy drops down with a bullet through ’is chest.
Strike me pink! A real Abdul ’ad come up this time, and it wasn’t no
bloomin’ donkey, neither! ’Enessy was ’it pretty bad, but ’e grabs
’is rifle and lets fly, and one more bloomin’ Abdul ’ad gone to join
’is Prophet. Next day ’Enessy was taken away on a ’ospital ship, but
that was near three months ago. I ’ear that the blighter is back on
the beach now, and you will be able to see him yourself when ’e comes
back to the squadron. But strike me! ’E’s a bloomin’ dag!
E. A. M. W.
[Illustration:
“Remember that little grey mare of Gumtree Flat....”]
3.—BOBBIE OF THE NEW ARMY
Bobbie’s gone sick.
This probably doesn’t interest you. But, oh, how _we_ miss him.
So we must tell somebody.
Bobbie, the ever-smiling embodiment of breezy youth; the spirit of
cheerfulness; the Beau Brummell of the trenches.
Bobbie landed with the regiment, and went through thick and thin with
it. But always with a smile and never a scratch. Bullets flew off
Bobbie at a tangent.
Of our officers, three only of the original arrivals were left when
Bobbie went. He had watched the others go away one by one, some
wounded, some sick, and some—well, just left,
“Where the foe and the stranger will tread o’er their heads
When we’re far away on the billow.”
Bobbie had grown quite proud of his staying powers, which carried him
through three months of real hardship and trying work night and day.
But for Bobbie’s smile in adversity and his way—for he has a way with
him—many of his brave boys would have given up. But Bobbie’s bright
example spurred them on and they “stuck it,” like their idol.
Bobbie’s only a youngster, but he is made of the real “stuff that’s
bred in the army.” When he found himself exalted to the command of
a company his head didn’t swell. The added responsibilities were
not too heavy for Bobbie’s shoulders, which really were not broad
relatively when compared with his broad smile. Bobbie acted like a
tonic to a man run-down.
But, at last, Nature (in collusion with the M.O.) asserted her
imperious will, and Bobbie just had to go to hospital. So Bobbie
bowed to the inevitable, and, still smiling, went away.
Bobbie in hospital! What a picture! His bright smile, his rosy
cheeks, and his immaculately parted hair, framed in snowy-white
pillows. Bobbie—the irresistible!
Bobbie, we were loath to lose you; Bobbie, we miss you; but, Bobbie,
won’t there be a weeping and a wailing when the nurses have to let
you go?
Still, “it’s an ill wind that blows nobody good.” Bobbie’s chocolate
sweetened the bitterness of parting; Bobbie’s tinned fruit sustains
us in his absence; Bobbie’s cigarettes sooth our sorrow.
“TENTMATE,”
11th London Regt.
FOOTNOTES:
[9] Cobbers—mates.
[Illustration: Decoration]
THE INDIAN MULE CORPS
My work in the A.S.C. has brought me very much in touch with the
Indian Mule Corps; and I don’t think “The Anzac Book” would be
complete without some mention of that admirable body of men.
What should we at Anzac have done without “Johnnie” and his sturdy
little mules? Horse or motor transport could not have faced the
difficulties of Anzac. The mules are sometimes stubborn and
unmanageable, but we knew that before. And the drivers are—most of
them—hard workers, intelligent and anxious to please. I often marvel
on a rough day, when the loaded carts, nearly up to their axles in
mud or sand, are beached on that wild seashore, on the watery edge of
which they are kept during the day; and wonder still more when, after
standing there for a few hours, the mules draw them out when the
convoy leaves at night. For the mules do not like the sea, and when
the weather is rough it is very difficult to get the little beasts
anywhere near it.
One thing, however, really does hang up work for a time, and that is
“Beachy Bill” in action. Even then some of the “Johnnies,” who are
less fearsome than the rest, go on with their work, and have from
time to time been hit.
Therefore, all praise to the Indian Mule Corps.
B. R.
[Illustration: Decoration]
HILL 60
As some far swimmer, turning, views once more
England’s white cliffs, and strongly cleaves t’ward shore,
But, tide-encumbered, faints; so far and dear
Thy crystal arms and pillared throat appear,
Love, to thy soldier who makes earth his bed
In this grey catacomb of unnamed dead.
Thy voice, o’er tossing seas of eves and dawns,
Comes like dim music heard on magic lawns;
And, when in prayer thou kneelest, this grim brow
Feels the cool benison of hands which thou
Wouldst often grant. Now know I ’twas not vain
Our love, whose memory softens present pain.
C. J. N.
[Illustration:
_Drawn by F. R. CROZIER_
“HILL 60”]
JENNY
For the delightful diversion which little Jenny, with her frolics
and gambols, provided for the A.S.C.’s when they really had a moment
to spare another medium will have to be sought. Though of short
duration, her life appeared a charmed one whilst it lasted. Her
freedom of action was the envy of every soldier along the beach. Her
disregard for the enemy’s bullets and shells commanded our unbounded
admiration. But whether her immunity for six months was due to
the kindness of the Turks or their bad shooting, or her own good
judgment, who can say?
Jenny’s origin is enveloped in some obscurity; but it is said that
with her parents, Murphy of Red Cross fame and Jenny Senior, she
toddled into our lines when quite a mite; and, once having crossed
over the border into civilisation, the three emphatically refused to
return whilst the objectionable Hun element obtained in their native
country.[10]
Jenny the younger was no mere mystic mascot for the humouring of
an especially created superstition. Her congenial company and high
spirits, her affectionate ways and equable temperament, were the
factors which gained for her the obvious rank of “Camp Pet.” Her
friendly regular visits will be missed, and the picture of her
patrician head and dark-brown shaggy winter’s coat. Her refined voice
was music compared with the common “hee-haw” which characterises her
kind, or the peremptory foghorn of the sergeant-major.
But now she is no more. Our sorrow is immeasurable. The mother never
left the babe whilst it suffered excruciating agony through a deadly
shrapnel pellet. Skilful, indefatigable attention, innumerable
applications of the “invincible iodine,” proved futile. Jenny Senior
is grief-stricken, and now lies upon the neat little grave in which
her infant was placed by the big Australian playmates who now mourn
their irreparable loss.
F. C. DUNSTAN, L.-C.,
B Depot,
6th A.A.S.C.
FOOTNOTES:
[10] This origin is a myth. The parents landed with the troops
on April 25, 1915. Murphy, who bore a red cross between his two
long ears, is said (in company with his master, Pte. Simpson, 3rd
Australian Field Ambulance) to have carried 72 wounded men from the
firing line through Shrapnel Gully, at the time when that valley
thoroughly earned its name, before his master met his death on one
of these errands of mercy. Murphy himself was subsequently hit by a
shell, but happily survives, and was, we believe, brought safely away
from Anzac.—EDS.
MARCHING SONG
Boots, belt, rifle, and pack—
All you’ll need till you come back;
All you’ll doff when you lie down to sleep;
All they’ll take off when they bury you deep.
Boots, belt, rifle, and pack.
Boots that went light down the Suffolk lane
Will shuffle and drag ere they tread it again.
Nails that rang gay on the cobbled street
Will have pierced through the sock into somebody’s feet.
Boots, belt, rifle, and pack.
Belt—for water-bottle and sword:
One to save life; the other—oh, Lord!
’Fore you’ve finished with them, you bet,
One will be dry and the other wet.
Boots, belt, rifle, and pack.
Rifle—the soldier’s only friend—
True, if you treat her well, to the end:
Feed her with five, and the tune she’ll play
Will reach the heart of a Turkish Bey.
Boots, belt, rifle, and pack.
Pack—that holds what a man most wants:
A shirt, an overcoat, socks and pants,
A Bible, a photo of heart’s desire;
But you’ll throw it away when you charge—or retire.
Boots, belt, rifle, and pack.
Leather and canvas, steel and wood,
They’ll stand by you if you’re good;
Keep them oiled and keep them dry,
They’ll see you home safely—by and by.
Boots, belt, rifle, and pack.
C. J. N.
[Illustration: TRANSPORT
DAVID BARKER]
FURPHY
It was the colonel who propounded the theory first, on hearing some
rumour more optimistic than reliable. “These furphies[11] are the
very devil,” he said.
Now, I had a theory about Furphy. I was waiting for an opportunity of
following it up, and it came this way:
I was on the beach one day when a friend met me and asked if I had
heard the latest dinkum. On learning that I hadn’t, he informed me
that Greece had declared war on Turkey, and was going to land 100,000
men within the next few days on the Peninsula. I inquired for the
source, and he said he got it from a fellow who had just gone along
the beach towards the left. I asked what the man was like. That sort
of puzzled him. He said he was a tall man—no, he thought he was
only middle height or perhaps a bit on the small side. His hair was
dark—no, now that he thought a bit, he fancied it was fair. In fact,
the more he tried to describe him the less could he remember him.
“He’s my Moses,” I said, and hurried off in in the direction he had
gone.
Passing through the sap to Shrapnel Gully, I met another friend.
“Heard the latest?” he inquired.
I said “No.”
“Four Italian staff officers seen on the beach to-day,” he said
breathlessly. “Two hundred thousand Italian troops being sent here.”
“Who told you?” I asked.
“Fellow just going into White’s Valley.”
“What was he like?” I inquired excitedly.
“An ordinary fellow—not tall, and not short.”
“His hair?”
“Well, it wasn’t dark—yes, it was—no, I don’t know.”
“How did he walk?”
“I never noticed,” he said; “in fact, he didn’t seem to walk at all.”
I left him standing, and got down the sap and over into White’s
Valley in a record time, and bumped into another acquaintance.
“Heard the news?” he said.
“No.”
“Why, three hundred thousand Italians have landed at Helles, and Achi
Baba is to be taken to-night.”
I asked who his informant was, and he began to flounder into
contradictions. I rushed off, knowing that I was well on the track of
Furphy.
In Victoria Gully I heard that Roumania had declared war, and 400,000
troops were marching through Bulgaria to Constantinople.