MAC JOINS IN THE WAR
Mac's first morning at Anzac was one of deep interest. He regarded his
surroundings rather more after the fashion of a Cook's tourist than of
a soldier; or, maybe, he more closely resembled a schoolboy at his
first circus. No time was wasted over a scratch breakfast--bully beef
and biscuits were consumed more as a duty than a pleasure. Then,
together with many others of equally inquiring frame of mind, he betook
himself to the crest of the ridge which shut in the ravine on the
north. The scene from there was indeed pleasing--a sapphire sea
meeting a widely sweeping beach, a green, tree-dotted flat, and some
scrub-covered hills, all sparkling with dew and bathed in the clear,
tempered sunshine of an early summer morning. Mac's first impressions
of Turkey left nothing to be desired, and there seemed promise of
excellent bathing.
He gathered up shrapnel pellets and bits of shell casing, and with the
true instinct of a globe-trotter, thought already of mementoes to take
home. His tourist tendencies, however, soon evaporated, for he was
sent round on a fatigue to the landing, whence he returned a sweating,
blowing trooper, with a handleless, uncovered, paraffin tin of water.
As he stumbled back along the stony beach an enemy battery opened fire
without, it appeared, the Turks having precise knowledge of their
target, or else their observation was inferior. To them, ignorance was
bliss, just as the consistency with which they dropped salvos of four
shells about two hundred yards out to sea, was bliss to Mac. Moreover,
the paint-brush-like splash of the flying fragments demonstrated
exactly what military instructions had been endeavouring to impress
upon him for months concerning the field covered by a bursting shrapnel
shell.
It had not been a great strain on the intellect of the enemy to deduce
that the appearance of so many interested sightseers on the skyline
indicated the presence of fresh troops in the donga below, and he
consequently set about shelling it. Mac's regiment departed for the
trenches at this juncture, and so missed the excitement. They kept
along the shore for a short distance, then turned to the right, and
started straight up the steep, narrow badly-graded paths towards the
more or less flat summit, where they were to relieve an infantry
battalion. The sun was hot, and the way was steep, not to mention the
weighty burden of equipment. The cool sea drew farther away as they
soared gradually skywards, panting and perspiring. They reached their
trenches at last, pushed themselves along ditches too narrow to take
simultaneously both them and their gear, cast loving epithets at
telephone wires which caught their rifles, and waited interminable
times for the man ahead to move on. Towards midday, after dodging
backwards and forwards, time and again, like a freight train in a
railway yard, they collapsed at last in their appointed positions.
By evening Mac was thoroughly settled in his new home, and no longer
did he regard his situation as being in the least unique. He reviewed
the field of fire, studied the landscape, rather an extensive and
interesting one; and had a few long-range shots at Turkish trenches.
There was really no call for this, but it was rather amusing to be
potting away, at last, at an enemy position.
His trench was not an exciting spot, separated, as it was, by a ravine
from the enemy, and being only the protective flank of their own
position.
The mounted men were soon accustomed to the new life, and in three days
they might have been at it for ever. The days passed in a not
unpleasant routine. The fresh, bright, beautiful dawns were slightly
chilly, the early mornings were far from unpleasant, though the noonday
hours were warm, and afflicted with flies and smells; but, beneath the
shade of outstretched blankets and oil-sheets, the troopers whiled away
the time, sleeping mostly, some writing and some playing cards. There
was no reading material in those days.
The afternoon hours dragged drowsily past, until, with the lowering
sun, they woke to prepare the evening meal, the largest of the day.
Culinary operations were strictly limited by the short supply of water,
so that meals were usually confined to bully-beef, biscuits, marmalade,
bacon, or Maconochie. Both Colonials and Turks having completed their
evening repast, the cool, clear evenings were spent by the former in
sniping and artillery practice, and by the latter in expending
wastefully large quantities of small arms ammunition against the
opposite parapets. Then, too, the troopers reassumed their clothing,
most of which had been discarded during the day. As the gloaming
deepened, the sniping ceased, but the Turks, ever mindful of the
possibility of an attack, seldom throughout the night slackened their
fire, which rose spasmodically to violent outbursts, probably in
consequence of optical delusions on the part of a nervy follower of
Mohammed, or, maybe, in response to horse-play on the part of the
invaders. A Maori haka was sometimes responsible for the discharge of
many cases of enemy ammunition.
During the hours of darkness many huddled forms lay in the bottom of
Mac's trench, overlapping and cramped, but, nevertheless, peacefully
sleeping. Here and there stood a sentry, his figure warmly cloaked and
his face periodically lit by the glow from his pipe. Occasionally
bullets hummed threateningly the length of the trench and these Mac
regarded with deep respect, and addressed in words of wrath. The
countless thousands which whistled crosswise over the trench, or else
with a spurt of flame struck the sandy parapet, left him unmoved. The
first half of his sentry-goes passed quickly enough, but the second
dragged a bit, his thoughts being exhausted, and those beastly whirling
enfilading bullets seeming to come more frequently.
At dawn all stood to, absorbed rum, of the liberally watered variety,
exchanged experiences of the night, and smoked. Then the routine of
the day began again, some dissolved once more into sleep, some remained
on guard, and others went on the long weary journey for water.
The first week on Walker's Ridge passed fairly uneventfully, and by the
end of it the garrison looked war-worn veterans. Water was very
scarce, and a shave, much less a wash, altogether out of the question.
In a moment of wild extravagance Mac had burst a couple of
tablespoonfuls on cleaning his teeth. Towards the end of this week,
being in support for twenty-four hours, they were able to go down to
the beach for a bathe. Never was bathing so much enjoyed, nor the
sun-bath after it--it was just like old Maoriland again. There was
always the pop-pop-popping on the hills above, the occasional thud of a
spent bullet in the scrub, and the more or less methodical bursting of
shrapnel shells somewhere along the shore; but all these circumstances
had become so much part of the scene that the troopers were seldom
perturbed. Sometimes a Turkish machine-gunner or sniper became a
little too accurate or shrapnel fell a trifle too thickly on the beach
to be comfortable, and were roundly cursed for their attentions.
On the night of their seventh day ashore, Smoky and Mac communed, and
agreed that campaigning so far had not been particularly trying; that
bully, biscuits, dirty water, and the same trenches were becoming
over-monotonous, and that the time had already come when something
ought to be done.
Their lust for more excitement was partly appeased that night. Old
Abdul supplied the initiative, and later must have regretted it sorely.
Shortly after midnight, the usual nocturnal battle-sounds rose in a
swift crescendo of bursting shells and rattling staccato of machine-gun
fire, which echoed in weird music from cliff to cliff and across the
ravines.
Mac--he was in a support trench--woke with a thrill to this grand din
of battle, speedily assumed his bandolier, water-bottle and revolver,
grasped his rifle, and trundled away up the sap after his disappearing
cobbers.
They bundled up into the support of the main position, which was being
attacked frontally by wave after wave of the enemy, who came on
bravely, but were being mowed down in hundreds by machine and rifle
fire. The defenders, in their eagerness, went out into the open to get
a better field of fire, and to meet Abdul with the bayonet. Mac had
rotten luck. His troop reinforced a flank position, where, no matter
how strongly they used their wills, no Turk would venture. He waited
and watched. In the gathering light of the dawn he could look more
deeply into the scrub that shrouded vision beyond twenty-five yards,
but nothing of interest revealed itself. He passed up ammunition and
absorbed eagerly all tidings brought from the front line by the
returning wounded. As the sun rose, and the firing, instead of coming
in the wild bursts, the lulls, and the wilder squalls of the earlier
morning, decreased to a steady interchange of shots, Mac realized that
the force of the attack was spent. With a deep sadness in his heart he
emptied the breach of his rifle--the rifle which he had tended with
great care and solicitude in anticipation of such an occasion as this.
He cursed gently and sadly as his troop filed sorrowfully back to their
support trench, where, spitefully shelled with shrapnel, he set about
the preparation of a belated breakfast for his section, two of whom had
retired to possies to sleep, and the other to the beach for water.