A WEARY DAY
Mac sat in the dust, his back against a bank, with his rifle leaning
slantwise across him, and his equipment hanging awkwardly. Beside him
sat Smoky, and both were melancholy. The sun beat strong in upon them,
and the dust clung thickly to their perspiring bodies. The shady side
of the wide communication trench was exposed to shrapnel, which the
Turks had kept up more or less continually since the failure of their
night attack. Against the opposite bank lay a body, half-covered by a
blanket, and the padre was quietly removing the dead man's
identification disc and the contents of his pockets. His two cobbers
had gone on to the top to dig him a grave, and had both been wounded by
shrapnel.
Mac and Smoky were sad. It was not the sorrow of grief, nor yet the
thoughts that a speedy end might any time be theirs; but rather they
were touched partly by the sight of the good old padre silently
removing the soiled, time-worn articles from his pockets, small things
which would be so greatly valued and revered by his people away in a
sunny Wairarapa homestead, and partly the vision of a fine strapping,
cheery fellow passing so rapidly from laughter to cold silence.
Thoughts such as these, deep and sincere as they were, cast but a
passing shadow over their careless, happy natures. Friends of
bush-whacking and shepherding days, camp mates of the past, and casual
cobbers in Cairene escapades day after day went West; and always there
came the momentary sadness, and, maybe, the remark, "Poor old Bill.
They hooked him this morning. He was a good old sport." That was his
requiem and, save for a few stray thoughts in the silent watches of the
night, old Bill went unremembered.
The Turkish dead lay thick between the lines; but there was no knowing
whether they had finally abandoned the attack. Their shelling
continued, and the rifle fire indicated a nervous temperament.
Consequently the squadron still remained in reserve as near as possible
to the firing line. Mac could see through a sap which ran to the edge
of the precipice the beach and the cool, wonderfully cool-looking
water. The few lucky beggars were splashing there, for practically
every man was up in the firing-line. There were no troops to spare in
those days--the line was but thinly held, and, if the Turks broke
through anywhere, the whole position must be involved in disaster.
The day dragged slowly on to early afternoon. Then their troop was
stirred into animation and excitement by the information that they and
two other troops were to make a counter-attack "Light as possible,
fifty rounds of ammunition only... First and second trenches ... some
machine guns and a few Turks... Clear them out and come back," were
the orders.
They filed silently and with set faces to their assembly positions.
They were in for something serious. They had all seen the waves of
advancing Turks in the early morning dissolve away. Mac thought he
didn't mind how soon peace was declared, and felt a bit tired of the
war, but, still, here was their first real, live chance. A heavy
covering fire had been opened all round the Anzac lines, and the enemy
replied with equal force. His troop slipped over the parapet, and lay,
awaiting the word, among the many dead, Turkish and Australasian, of
last night, and of three weeks earlier. Minutes passed slowly, five,
ten, twenty, thirty--what on earth did this mean? The sun blazed
fiercely on the flattened figures, the smell was awful, and the fire
slackened not a bit. Mac had examined his breech a dozen times,
adjusted and readjusted his ammunition to facilitate its easy handling,
and had made certain several times of the firmness of his bayonet. He
had thrown away his bayonet scabbard. It was long and might trip him
up. If he came back he could recover it; if he didn't--it wouldn't
matter. He had heard it said that waiting was the worst time of all,
and he longed to be off, even into that hail of bullets which whizzed
low over his head.
More minutes marched funereally by, and then he heard in the trench
behind the sound of voices, and an order passed along the line to
clamber back into the trench. Surely there was some mistake, thought
Mac, but no, it was repeated, and they wormed themselves back over the
parapet, gathered hazily that the attack had been deemed inadvisable,
and sauntered tiredly back to their old place in the communication sap.
Talking it over later. Smoky and the Trooper came to the conclusion
that the cancelling of the attack was the best thing that had ever
happened for them. Theirs would have been the fate of the enemy in
their shattered attacks of the previous night, though, having made up
their minds to it, and stood the forty-five minutes' strain of waiting,
it had seemed a bit tough not to be repaid with a whack at the Turks.
The long hot day drew at length to a close. The setting of the sun
amidst the islands was full of wild beauty. The airy pinnacles of
Samothrace and the wild hills of Imbros, scarred and parched, stood
silhouetted against a glorious background of wonderful colouring, high
tones and low tones, an idealized Turner canvas. Out to the sinking
sun stretched a golden path, while to the right and to the left lay
untroubled leagues of blue. The gloaming slowly enveloped the horizon
to the north and south, the shining path of light broadened and
burnished, as the sun rested a moment, then disappeared, while the
island grew darker against the riot of deep colouring.
Resting on a clay ledge on the edge of the cliff which rose
precipitously to a height of 600 feet a few hundred yards from the
shore, Mac and Smoky drank in the glory of these rare moments. Both
sides were tired, the Turks weary of the carnage and their failure, and
the invaders of the hot, waterless hours of waiting, but conscious of
their successful defence and increased security. They discussed the
events of the day, the prospect of a swim on the morrow, and, as
always, of the long shandies, the ham and eggs, and the apple pie which
they would have on that great occasion when they returned once more to
New Zealand. Yes, a bush whare was all that Smoky would want for the
rest of his life, a possie where he could eat and drink and sleep just
as much as he wished. He aspired also to brands of tobacco other than
those the Army thought suitable to his taste. These pleasant
anticipations of the future were abruptly cut short by the order,
"Stand to." From Mac's point of view this was quite an unnecessary
proceeding, involving much inconvenience and discomfort, and, in the
early morning hours, loss of valuable sleep. Still, these things had
to be put up with, and "stand to" could be profitably spent cleaning
rifles and other gear. The issue of rum, when not stopped by the
higher command or absorbed by the A.S.C. and quartermasters, was
occasionally a relieving and pleasant interlude about this time.
"Stand to" ended, they composed themselves to sleep where they were,
which was still in the same communication trench in reserve. The
trench was five feet in width--in favourable spots it may have been
six--and the bottom was deep in dust, which, to a certain extent,
moderated the sharpness of ammunition pouches in the middle of one's
back. From the heaps of piled-up spoil above came irregular avalanches
of dust and dirt, and due care had to be taken to prevent it getting in
one's ears, eyes, nose and mouth. Still, notwithstanding these minor
discomforts, Mac had managed to get about an hour's sleep before
matters became trying. The artillery were immediately responsible for
it all--the artillery, for which, in spare moments from the firing
line, they had dug this communication trench and gun-pits beyond, and
had even dragged the pieces up. Now, at this infernal hour, they chose
to bring their ammunition up. Trains of mules arrived, halted close
alongside where Mac lay huddled against the bank, moved at right angles
across the sap, were relieved of their burdens and departed again, led
by their shadowy Indian muleteers.
Mac was hardened to being walked on by men, but mules laden with
eighteen-pounder shell...... Badly pinched and deeply angered, he
stuck it for a while. There was nothing to be gained by swearing, for
the mules and the Indians were equally indifferent. More mules were
followed by still more mules, which, as they turned, trampled on him
severely. Heavy hoofs were placed squarely on his shrinking person,
and he had at length to give them best. There was nowhere else to go,
so, leaning against the wall, he awaited brighter moments. Often he
cursed wrathfully, occasionally he smoked. This ruthless violation of
his valuable hours of sleep was a crime he would not readily forgive
the artillery, and he wished their bally guns had been shoved somewhere
else. The mules came and went for hours, occasional suspensions of
their comings and goings only creating in his breast false hopes.
Towards dawn he slept once more, only to be aroused again for the
purpose of swinging up towards the front line for support. No attack
came, and now, the sun rising above the eastern hills, he and his troop
trailed wearily back to their own bivouacs. His section four discussed
breakfast, the contents and limited possibilities of the larder, the
disappearance of firewood, which had been carried off by some person
during their absence, and the absolute non-existence of water.
"Breakfast be blowed!" said Mac. He crawled into his niche in the side
of the trench, covered himself in his grey blankets, head included, for
protection from flies, left breakfast worries to the others, and passed
into the deep slumber of the utterly weary.