to play in intermittent flashes, like a heavenly searchlight, from
far across the hidden Narrows and Asia Minor, and put to shame the
puny bursts of light from the handiwork of man. The boats were still
at it, but their dull booming was now intermixed with the rumble of
distant thunder.
The lightning becomes more vivid. There is a rattling, crashing roar
from the artillery of the skies that can never be equalled by any
earthly batteries. Surely the Creator is in angry mood to-night, as
comes a deafening peal, followed by vivid flashes of forked lightning
in fantastic shapes. One seems a long arm with hooked fingers, as
though the Most High would grasp one or both of the contending armies
and hurl them into the seas. The lightning plays around the steel
points of the bayonets of the motionless sentries, standing ever
ready under the parapets, and keeping a ceaseless watch the night
through on the enemy trenches.
Trench and traverse, hill and valley, are revealed by a brighter
light than that of day. The rude wooden crosses, marking the places
where, alas! too many of Australasia’s best have fallen, are brought
out in bold relief against the dark background of holly scrub, and
the narrow strips of winding roadway on the long hillsides from the
beach—the work of months—up which perspiring fatigue parties toil
with rations, water, ammunition and other necessary stores the day
long, are laid out as a relief map by Heaven’s electricity.
A rattling, crashing roar, such as I have never heard in any
Australian thunderstorm, is followed by a deafening clap, and a huge
ball of fire falls earthward at terrific speed in the direction of
Constantinople, followed by a sound as of a shattering explosion,
which causes the very hillsides to quake, traverse and parapet to
tremble, and the roofs of dug-outs to send down a shower of stones.
[Illustration: THE SILVER LINING
Sunset over Imbros as seen from Anzac
_Drawn by C. E. W. BEAN_]
The ships have long given up the unequal struggle to make their
voices heard against those of the elements, and as the storm passes
over, and the rumblings of the thunder become more and more distant
and the lightning less vivid, the veil is drawn from the face of the
moon, and the White Lady sails out into her own once more.
The storm has had its effect on those manning the trenches. The
bubbling rattle of the machine-gun, the sharp crack of Turkish
rifles, and the heavier report of our own arms, which usually
punctuate the night, are noticeable by their absence. The turmoil of
an hour ago has turned to unbelievable quiet.
I. A. SAXON,
21st Australian Battalion.
[Illustration: Decoration]
SENSE OR ——?
There’s a certain hard-hearted old censor
(Which is not meaning any offence, sir)
Who won’t let us tell,
When we say “I’m quite well,”
Where we’ve planted the water condenser.
And that same stony-hearted old censor,
When we speak of the shell-smoke as dense, sir,
Will rule it out straight—
And the same if we state
That some of our non-coms, are denser.
And yet this same rigid old censor
(Whose business must now be immense, sir)
Will let it go through—
Tho’ he knows it’s not true—
If we tell her our love grows intenser!
But though mostly this rigid old censor
Is a far stiffer bar than a fence, sir,
Yet he let down the rails
For our Christmas mails,
So three jolly good cheers for the censor.
C. D. MC. (Sergt.).
[Illustration:
C. E. W. B.]
OUR SAILORS—THE AMPHIBIOUS MAN
_Our special correspondent having been permitted the exceptional
privilege of obtaining some insight into the work of the Navy, we are
enabled to publish the following invaluable article_:
But was that really he? That stylish pair of khaki-coloured overall
trousers surmounted by a serviceable-looking British warm patrol
tunic of the same excellent material? At first glance it was hard to
distinguish him from the dapper-looking foot-gunner, with whom he
was engaged in lively conversation. Their words were inaudible to us
onlookers, but from what one could gather the foot-gunner was making
some interesting comments on the system of naval pinnaces.
And was this all of the representative of the greatest naval power
that ever placed foot upon the land? But as the observer drew nearer,
the flash of illumination came. For there, poised elegantly on the
bows of the natty blue trench sou’wester was the emblem of Britain’s
naval supremacy, the silver anchor in a golden hoop.
“Shiver my corrugated iron!” he was saying—using a phrase I
remembered having heard so often as a young sub-midshipman (or
“spotty,” as they are affectionately known by their seniors) on the
old _Bellicasus_—when, noting the presence of company, he turned with
a polite smile to the intruders and waved his apologies. It was then
that one noted the true stamp of the man. He was a sailor every inch
of him, from the drop of salt spray that dangled lazily from the tip
of his nose to the purple-tinted seaweed that clung affectionately to
the soles of his boots; and his speech was laden with that peculiar
crispness and alertness which we associate with sailors; they imbibe
it from the salt atmosphere of the gun-room and the ward-room. But
what struck one most about him was his youthful appearance. “What’s
What” would probably give his age as 29 (though he did not look a
day more than 28½), and yet from the three bands on his cuff it was
obvious to one of the writer’s experience in naval matters that he
must be a subaltern-commander.
“Is it much like what you thought it would be after all your
training?” I asked.
“Yes, pretty much,” was the reply, with an oddly reminiscent smile.
“Iron is heavier than water, and a pinnace afloat is worth six
aground.”
Here, I realised, was a man of perception—one who was fitted to guide
the destinies of a great nation.
“And the landing of all these vast quantities of stores,” I urged;
“is not that a great task?”
“We do not land them,” he said impressively and decisively, with the
air of one closing an argument. “We unship them.”
I nodded understandingly. So that, then, was the key to the great
mystery.
Lieut. A. L. PEMBERTON,
H.Q. Staff, 24th Siege Bde.
R.G.A.
[Illustration:
A very present
Help in
trouble.
C. E. W. B.]
POSSIES
“Possie!” exclaimed the inquiring General. “What is ‘Possie’?”
“That, sir,” said the C.O., “is Australian for recess, either firing
or sleeping. It’s a contraction of ‘position.’”
“Now that’s where you’re wrong,” said the Chief Staff Officer, in a
tone which admitted no argument. “Posse!—p-o- double s-e. Posse—a
small force. Your firing recess is manned by a small force—what?”
And the C.O. was overcome by very great emotion.
“BEN TELBOW.”
[Illustration: Men running for bunker]
MR. AEROPLANE
(_With compliments to the R.N.A.S. in the Dardanelles_)
Hurrah for Mr. Aeroplane,
A-sailin’ in the blue;
I’m glad to see you up again—
Me compliments to you.
I’m Tommy Brown, Australian,
Who’s fightin’ here on land;
An’, strike me, Mr. Flyin’ Man,
I’d like to shake your hand.
Sometimes I feel I’d like to streak
Beside you in the sky;
An’ then my nerves go all a-shake
To think you’re up so high.
By jingo! how your bloomin’ grit
Must make old Jacko dance;
An’ don’t he fuss to make a hit,
When given half a chance.
But on you go inquirin’,
As if the job were fun,
An’ Jacko was a-firin’
A nipper’s toy popgun.
[Illustration: Airplane and bullets]
You give the battleships the wink,
They gets their guns to bear;
An’ then—oh, strike me blue an’ pink—
Then don’t the Turkies swear!
* * * * *
Ah, well—beyond the hills you go;
We wish you best o’ luck.
Remember, all the boys below
Enjoy your bloomin’ pluck.
H. G. GARLAND,
16th Aust. Battalion.
[Illustration: Decoration]
ANZAC IN EGYPT
1. MAHOMED—AND AUSTRALIA
Mahomed was Mahomed. He was also a guide. The combination meant that
he knew everything, and what he didn’t know he made up, and what he
made up he told so often that at last he believed it.
We were on the usual Nile excursion—made by nearly the whole
Australasian force at one time or another—to Memphis and Sakkara.
A boat had been arranged, and Mahomed tried to entertain us on the
boat. He did. Knowing our absence from home and wives, he gave
us a full account of his three wives; also some obscure, but not
uninteresting, details of their feelings towards each other. Each was
“a pearl,” and he didn’t know which was the pearliest. The idyllic
peace of Mrs. Mahomed in triplicate was enough to make one a follower
of the Prophet.
His next dissertation was on the Koran. But theology doesn’t appeal
much to soldiers. Padres have reduced their services to a maximum of
twenty minutes. Before long our astute guide recognised a necessity
of a change of subject. He gave us riddles—_the_ riddle of the
Sphinx: How one could divide equally between two men a ten-gallon
flask of water with only three-and seven-gallon flasks to do it
with. The best of us took nine moves to do it in; Mahomed did it in
five—and looked humble. Then he gave us another: Four men and their
wives are on one side of the Nile, and have to pass over to the
other; but their jealousy will not allow any man to be alone with a
lady not his wife. Mahomed threw this problem at us with an air of
triumph. There was the boat, there were the four men, there were the
four wives, there was the Nile.
The Nile was certainly there, and our puffing, stodgy steamer had
gone two or three miles before we gave it up. We did give it up.
Mahomed manipulated the ladies and their spouses with ease, landed
each on the other side, all conventions being strictly observed.
Then the Pyramids came into view. We were rather tired of the
Pyramids. But the guide wasn’t. What would a guide be without
Pyramids—or the Pyramids without guides? So we heard again all their
history. Each new Mahomed throws in a thousand years or two more or
less. But what is a thousand years in Egypt?
We were tiring of the Pyramids. Mahomed started on the other
bank—Napoleon, Napoleon’s towers, Napoleon’s granaries, Napoleon’s
fortifications.
Now there is a limit to all things. We could stand Moses Island; we
could listen to the accounts of Pharaohs, Pyramids, Sphinxes, and
Mrs. Sphinxes. But Napoleon! Napoleon hadn’t even known Australia.
However, Mahomed was wound up. He was inspired. He was even intrepid.
What if the infidel dogs did cut down his baksheesh; they should have
the whole story. So the British (and the Australasians) in Egypt went
to the wall. Napoleon reigned. He got it all.
It was then that our youngest subaltern put in an easy under-arm, and
Mahomed hit out!
“Yes, we know all that about Napoleon,” said the sub., “but what
about Sir George Reid?”
We waited breathless. Was it a boundary hit or a catch at point?
“Oh,” said Mahomed, “I know all about Saint George Reid. He a great
man. There is his mound over there.”
“Ah!” we exclaimed. And then, with happy inspiration, someone asked,
“Is he dead?”
“Oh, yes; dead a hundred years. Saint George Reid, a very good and
great man. He has a fine tomb. If a sick man goes there, he gets
cured quickly.”
We tipped Mahomed generously.
C.
2. ANZAC IN ALEX
I hardly think old Benci’s little wineshop in Alexandria will be
known to many of the A.N.Z.A.C., or to many Alexandrians for that
matter. But in case any of you find yourselves ever in Alexandria
again, this is how you will discover it:
Standing at the head of the Rue Cherif Pacha—everyone in Alexandria
knows the Rue Cherif Pacha who knows anything at all about the
place—with the Kodak Company’s fine shop on your right hand and His
Britannic Majesty’s fine Caracol on your left, you could reach it in
three bomb-throws, if the last of the three happened to be a “googly”
and swerved in from the off, just round the corner into the Rue
Attarine. So, you see, it is right opposite the Attarine Mosque; and
as you sit of an evening at Benci’s doorway, smoking his cigarettes,
with his wine at your elbow, and watch the motley, polyglot crowd
ceaselessly passing, you have your eyes always coming back to the
carved and inlaid door of the old temple, and up the graceful minaret
into the great lift of a night sky glorious with such liquid gold
of stars that memory of herself will take you back to many a mellow
night when stars of even more melting loveliness bent above you in
your own homeland down South.
But you never saw such a restless crowd in an Australian or New
Zealand street as this double line of dapper Europeans and of sallow
Egyptians, Syrians, Armenians and hungry-looking Greeks, threading
the low swirl of khaki tunics and Arab rags. And ever and anon the
stream ebbs before your “garry-driver’s” long-drawn “Haa-sib” (mind
out), to let pass some official dignitary or some riotous party of
Kangaroos, or some handsome, red-tabbed officer of the regular staff,
or maybe ’tis an even more handsome and stalwart private of the
ranks, beside some dear, dainty, winsome thing under one of those
little fly-away hats, with that dark kiss-curl clinging close to her
cheek—you know exactly the kind of maid and the kind of curl I mean.
And still the tall, quiet minaret and the broad, quiet heaven seem to
lean together; and one grows pensive sitting at Benci’s narrow door
of a summer evening.
Old Benci himself is a brisk little Italian, doubtless of middle
age. I think it must have been as a mark of affection that we called
him “Old Benci,” for his hair still keeps something of its youthful
brown. He has not a word of English and about two of French, but
you know at once from his open, sunny face that, like most of his
compatriots, he has a heart of gold; and, at a price to fit a
ranker’s pocket, he keeps a Chianti that is first-rate.
It was Tillett who found him for us. Tillett is a New Zealand Medical
Corps man, grey-headed, full of years and the experience they have
brought him; equally at ease in French, Italian and Spanish from his
early life on the Continent, and a dabbler in Greek and German by
way of diversion; but so quiet and unassuming withal, and so rarely
confidential about himself and his affairs, that we knew little of
him beyond that he was at that time doing odd jobs of healing for
the drivers of a New Zealand battery withdrawn from the Peninsula.
For us he was a most likeable chap, an excellent interpreter when
our mediocre French failed, and—his chief merit—the discoverer of
Benci and his tavern. With a palate tormented by stewed tea and the
heavy canteen beer beloved of the yokels of Old England, he had
traversed wellnigh every quarter of Alexandria in vain quest of the
cheap and honest draught wine that he knew must be there somewhere,
and yet must be neither that so very “ordinaire” red wine of France,
nor yet the wretched “health wines” of Greece, that carry in their
tang memories of the physician and the sick-bed of our pre-war days.
And between him and Old Benci there had grown up quite a sincere
affection, apart altogether from Chianti at P.T. 1 per glass.
It was delightful, the pantomime that went on whenever any of
us arrived without Tillett. With a countenance full of anxious
solicitude, Benci would point vaguely out into the night, carry his
forefinger to his own grey head, and then up would go his eyebrows
in interrogation. This we knew to mean, “Where is our friend of the
grey hair that you are here to-night without him?” And one of us
would answer by laying his face to the table and snoring heavily or
in mimic sentry-go along the passage. Oh, but it was good to see the
smile that broke and beamed across his honest face, with his pleasure
at finding himself intelligible to his country’s allies.
The rest of these allies, so far as our coterie was concerned, were
a sergeant of the Ceylon Tea-planters, back from Gallipoli in charge
of his company’s horses, and a Maori of that gallant, reckless band
whose “Komaté! Komaté!” rang along those hills in August—well-born
and well-educated, in physique strong and solid, but with movements
as quick and sure as a cat’s. In this tanned army only the full lips
and the slightly flattened nose betrayed his origin.
He and I had been friends at the same New Zealand ’varsity, but,
like so many of the best of his race, he was no “sticker,” and in
the third year of his medical course he had side-tracked himself on
troubled studies of mind and consciousness and refused to carry on
with his dull public health and medical jurisprudence. Since leaving
’varsity he had been living on his means, he told me, spending most
of his time in wandering. Napier, the tea-planter of Ceylon, was your
well-bred, clean-limbed, rather aggressively healthy-minded young
Englishman.
These three, at any rate, were the centre of that bright little knot
of friends that, in a three months’ stay in Alexandria, had drifted
and stuck together in a community of tastes and ideas and downright
liking for one another. And though one or other of us might be held
by night pickets, or C.B., or on visits to our hospitable French
and Italian friends, yet on any night of the week, from seven till
midnight, you would find two or three of us forgathered at the back
of the little shop in the shadow of the great black casks and behind
the wooden grille that, while allowing us from the dim interior a
clear view of the street, yet shut us off effectively from the eyes
of the night patrol. For it was before Sir John Maxwell’s “Iron Law
of closing time” that we held our revelry _chez_ Benci, and it was
safe to wager that something was amiss if we went home by any but the
1.10 A.M. tram for Ramleh, or by carriage even later.
But those were our palmy days in Alexandria—the days before the swarm
of Tommies came, and our pockets began to empty, and an officious
picket in the fullness of its own importance went farther afield
than Sisters Street and patrolled the whole town in its lumbering
motor-wagons....
L. J. IVORY,
4th Howitzer Battery N.Z.F.A.
[Illustration: Decoration]
[Illustration: GREY SMOKE
F.R. CROZIER]
Old pipe! old comrade! friend o’ mine,
Have I then made you sad? Or is it just
That you and I’ve been drinking wine,
Embittered by this dull grey day; or must
It be that you too know
That smoke and hopes “grey” both may go?
Grey smoke of yours, grey thoughts o’ mine,
Seem strangely both in one accord to-day.
Perhaps it is that croon-song of the pine,
Recalling memories dear and far away—
Or is it that this grey day’s mystic spell
Foretells the end of hope and smoke in Hell?
Ah, no! old pipe, methinks this grey day came
To temper such as you and I to stand
The small and weary problems of life’s game,
And learn to cheer another one, whose hand
Has groped in vain, and vainly gropes
For better things than grey-like smoke and greyer hopes.
R. G. N., 11th Aust. A.S.C.
[Illustration: Battle scene]
A WAIL FROM ORDNANCE
We’re only in the Ordience,
Not troopers of the line;
We don’t attack no enemy,
Nor in the papers shine.
We just wait here from morn till night,
Expectin’ these ’ere shells
That makes our lives, what were so bright,
So many earthly ’ells.
We ’and out underpants and socks,
And boots and coats galore,
To them as gives and takes hard knocks
An’ soon gets used to war.
We keep their clothing up to dick,
Equip and arm ’em, too;
We rig out the returning sick
_Almost_ as good as new.
They blew us from our depot south
A bit along the beach,
We humped our blueys, nothing loath,
And settled out of reach.
Our store grew large and prosperous,
We laughed at Turk and Hun,
Until they trained on us one day
A blasted four-point-one.
Each morning they put in a few
To bring us from our beds,
From time to time the whole day through
They make us duck our heads.
One eye is cocked for cover,
And one ear is for the whiz,
An’, until the fuss is over, we
Postpone our daily biz.
Now, when the war is over,
And we return to peace,
Though we may live in clover,
Enjoying lives of ease—
A striking clock will wake us,
A blow-out make us run,
And cry again our old refrain:
“Gott straf’ that four-point-one!”
Lieut. KININMONTH,
A.O.C.
[Illustration: Young Officer: “Haw, haw, no shave?”
Australian: “He, he, no——razaw!”]
[Illustration: The above is a facsimile (slightly reduced) of our
quondam contemporary, _Dinkum Oil_, chiefly composed and edited by
Sergt. Noonan, 6th Battn. A.I.F. (previously editor of _Sniper’s
Shots_). The _Dinkum Oil_ (which is Melbourne for “True News”)
appeared during June and July, 1915, and circulated in the 1st
Australian Division.]
[Illustration: OUR REPTILE CONTEMPORARY
_Drawn by DAVID BARKER_]
THE BOOK OF ANZAC CHRONICLES
1. THE FLOOD
And it came to pass that King Hun called together his mighty men and
said unto them:
2. “Behold I have dreamed a dream, and the Gott of Boasts hath
appeared unto me and said:
3. “‘Bring together all your ships of the sea, your wealth of the
land, and your mighty men of valour, including your first-born.
4. “‘For I say unto you, now is The Day.
5. “‘Ye shall go forth to battle against the kingdoms of the earth to
wage war against all who do not bow down to thee and call thee “_The_
One.”
6. “‘For I have decreed that thou shalt rule the earth to the
uttermost corners of it.
7. “‘Let thou and thy son take but six days’ rations in your
haversacks, for on the seventh day thou shalt dine at the Palace of
the Buckinghamites with the King of the Allyites as thy mess orderly.
8. “‘Forget not thy pomade nor thy tooth-brush, neither shalt thou
leave behind thy gases nor thine iron rations, for thou mayest have
need of them.
9. “‘And go ye forth to kill and plunder; spare none, but put all to
the sword; and put your trust in yourself alone—and—er, myself, if it
so please thee.
10. “‘For this is The Day.’”
11. And all his mighty men bowed down to him and said: “O King, live
for ever; verily thou hast truly said, and thy kingdom shall extend
to the ends of the earth and the heavens and to the depths of the
sea.”
12. So King Hun blew his bags out, smote him on the chest, and called
aloud, saying, “I am IT.”
13. And the same day he brought together all his legions of men and
his ships of the sea and all the wealth of the land: for they were
all ready.
14. And they counted and found umpteen million men of valour, two
ships, seventeen anchors, fourteen shillings and fivepence in gold,
umpteen billion rolls of paper money and ennygottsquantitee gas.
15. But they left the two ships at home, fastened to the seventeen
anchors.
16. And the King-of-all-the-Huns said, “It is enough, IMSHEE!”[22]
17. So they imsheed.
18. Now, it came to pass that the Huns ran amok both East and West,
North and South, and their cry was “Strafe!” and “Ber-lud!” and they
got both in abundance.
19. For they threw themselves on the neighbouring villages, breaking
through the back gate without warning, and slaying the watchdog and
the pig, the husbandman and his wife, the baby and the nurse, the cat
and the canary.
20. Nor even did the Boy-about-the-place have time to reach his
air-gun from off the shelf; for the Mad Mass tarried not to wipe its
sword, but only to quench its blood-lust and its thirst.
21. And when they had laid waste all that land, they boiled over into
the next.
22. But it came to pass that by this time the cries of murder and
children in torment had reached far and wide, and before another sun
had set two men met the horde of Huns.
23. And the Huns lifted up their bleary eyes and asked, “Gott strafe,
but who vas dis dat do dry stob our leedle game?”
24. And the Man-from-the-west with the strong arm and the iron jaw
proclaimed to the multitude,
25. “I am K. of K., and THIS IS THE END OF THE SECTION.”
26. And the Butchers all lifted up their voices with one accord,
saying, “Gott sh-sh-traf,” and “Hic, Ber-lud.”
27. But the Huns stopped, yea, verily.
28. And so it came to pass that the King of the Huns dined not at the
Palace of the Buckinghamites with the King of the Allyites as his
mess orderly—neither on the sixth day nor in the sixth year.
29. But the King of the Huns and Little Willie ate their iron rations
instead.
30. And the flood was over the face of the earth for many days and
many nights till the Mighty Winds arose and drove it back.
31. And behold, the King of the Huns said unto himself, “Verily, it
was a dream, and instead of ‘The Day’ is now nothing but ‘The Night.’”
32. So he fell asleep.
33. And great was the fall thereof.
GENESIS GALLIPOLI.
2. THE BOOK OF JOBS
And it came to pass that on the seventh day of the week of the fourth
month of the year, being the twenty-fifth Sunday after the Melbourne
Cup, there journeyed forth from the land of the Greeks, yclept
Lemnos, a mighty host.