VARIOUS MISFORTUNES
Mac, minus most of his clothing, squatted on a heap of rubble, keenly
following through his glasses naval tactics on the sea below. One
favourable point about Anzac was that, if one was bored with everything
else, there was always plenty to look at, especially with a good pair
of glasses. This morning, coming out on to the little flat top behind
his position, he discovered all the shipping in a turmoil. The whole
fleet of twenty or more transports was going helter-skelter for Imbros
harbour, the winches of a few laggards still rattled as they laboured
with their anchors, cruisers patrolled uneasily up and down,
fleet-sweepers moved about nowhere in particular, while destroyers
dashed round in wide circles, leaving behind them trails of heavy black
smoke and foaming white water. Only a couple of white hospital-ships
remained undisturbed.
"Submarines--damn them!" thought Mac. This was a new and unpleasant
development and not to his liking at all. He descried through the haze
the anchorage at Cape Helles, and noted that the vessels there--among
them a huge four-funnelled Atlantic liner--were also making off.
Towards evening all transports had disappeared, and cruisers and
destroyers resumed a leisurely patrol.
That was Saturday. In the early light of next morning, while the
mist-wraiths still clung to the hills and filled the dongas, Mac was
disturbed in his breakfast preparations by the sound of a heavier
cannonade than usual to the south. Going to an observation post he saw
a battleship aground off Gaba Tepe Point. The morning mists had just
revealed her, and now she was emptying her broadsides in rapid
succession up the great valley below Kilid Bahr. Another battleship
was right alongside attempting, apparently, to push her off. White
smoke from many bursting Turkish shells mingled with the heavy black
pall from the discharging broadsides. The bombardment continued for
some time, and Mac at length returned to his neglected breakfast
preparations, his going hastened by the fact that, carelessly exposing
his head, he had attracted the attentions of a sniper. When he looked
later, both men-o'-war were some distance away steaming west.
He learned afterwards that the _Albion_, in taking up her position on
the southern flank, had grounded in the mist, and that the _Canopus_
had come to her assistance, attempting, without success, to get her
off. The _Albion_ lightened herself by emptying her magazines through
her broadsides, and was finally towed off.
* * * * *
Then came the armistice, a day of interest and amusement, and of grim,
unpleasant work.
For almost a month, in no man's land, attack after attack had dwindled
away to nothing and there, five days before, Turkish losses had been
especially heavy. The enemy took the initiative in the matter, and
white flag negotiations proceeded on several occasions. Later, a
gorgeously apparelled Turkish staff officer came across and was taken
blindfolded to Headquarters, where an armistice for internment purposes
was agreed upon. Very considerate it was of Abdul to put the
proposition, Mac thought, for the condition of the atmosphere in the
neighbourhood was not conducive to his peace of mind, nor did it
improve his inclination to eat to know that those flies which nothing
could keep out of his food, had come from ----. And his internals
would squirm at the thought.
A peculiar quietness had marked the passage of the night, and with the
vanishing of the mists a strange silence filled the air. Since the
landing nearly a month back, the continuous music of rifle fire, with
its echoes and re-echoes among the nullahs and cliffs, had scarcely
ever ceased. And now, from opposing parapets, cautious heads began to
appear, Red Cross and Red Crescent flags were brought into the open.
Large burying parties followed, and soon thousands of Cornstalks and
Mussulmans were burying each others' dead. Thousands lined the
parapets, scanning those acres of which they had had before but wily
glances, or had scurried over in the wave of an attack. No one was
going to miss the show. The Cove was deserted, and the Infantryman and
the Service Corps man stood boldly side by side on the parapet.
Of the work itself little can be said. Mac was on duty in the first
line, and was not allowed to leave it to investigate the secrets of no
man's land, but he knew well enough of the huddled figures lying in
clusters in that green scrub, which hid much. But in parts the scrub
had been worn from the earth by the constant ripping of the bullets.
There, partly shielded by withering branches lay withering bodies,
mostly in strange postures, sometimes one above the other with rusting
rifles, discarded equipment, and odd bits of wire. Often scraps of
torn cloth clung to the jagged stems of shattered shrubs, and all was a
scene of desolation unutterable.
So numerous were the dead that all day long the burying went on. Some
of the workers, resting from their labours, attempted conversation with
the Turkish parties, but ignorance of each others' language proved a
difficulty. Still they smiled and gesticulated and exchanged
cigarettes.
Towards the middle of the afternoon, parties finished their work and
returned, no man's land became gradually untenanted, the curious were
satisfied, and melted from the parapets, a sudden heat shower damping
their ardour, and gradually the old scene came back. About four the
white flags with their red emblems disappeared and every one retired
discreetly into his trench. Soon a stray shot rang out, and the
armistice was over. Snipers were at their old dodges, and later in the
evening Mac's section received for some time the attentions of an enemy
mountain gun, which was new to this part of the line.
The following day brought a tragedy which sank deep into Mac's heart.
Out on the left flank, near where the _Albion_ had been ashore a few
mornings back, a man-o'-war had always lain since the days of the
landing. There had been some anxiety certainly on account of the
submarine excitement the other day; but now, slow, lazy movements on
the part of the destroyers and the reoccupation of old anchorages by
the cruisers, indicated that naval peace of mind was once more
restored. H.M.S. _Triumph_ had anchored soon after daybreak on the
southern flank.
Now, at midday, came the shout, "_Triumph's_ been torpedoed." Mac
jumped on his fire-step, and, looking down the trench, saw beyond it
sure enough the poor old _Triumph_ with a heavy list towards him. Some
of the fellows had seen the torpedo strike her right amidships, and a
great column of water rise high in the air and fall on her decks.
From all directions destroyers, mine-sweepers and pinnaces were
concentrating on the doomed vessel. Two destroyers had run their bows
alongside her hull, and her crew was swarming off. Her decks grew
steeper, but some of the crew seemed to be sticking to their guns to
the last in the after turrets. Mac could not discover whether these
shots were directed against the submarine or whether they were but the
last farewell of the old battleship. Fifteen minutes from the moment
she was struck, her decks lay almost at right angles to the water, then
the movement quickening, she turned bottom upward, only her red keel,
propellers and rudder showing to the troubled troopers who sadly
watched the demise of the famous old ship. A quarter of an hour longer
she floated, sinking lower and lower, then, with an easy motion, she
slid away from sight. For a few minutes a maelstrom of white, surging
water foamed and spurted, then, sadly and slowly, the host of small
craft which had rushed to the rescue made again for their stations.
Destroyers manoeuvred in vain search of the submarine, while
battleships and cruisers in a haze of smoke disappeared beyond the
horizon. Only a few bright tins, some boards, and a patch of oil
marked the spot on the peaceful, azure sea, where, an hour before, a
fine old ship, and fifty of her crew, had gone to their doom.
The troopers ate their lunch in stony silence. It seemed they had lost
an old friend.
Still, in going about the afternoon's work, they soon forgot their
sadness. They had been a fortnight in these trenches, and now they
were to be relieved by the Light Horse. It was good getting out after
a fortnight there, but it was a darned nuisance moving. When Mac had
all his gear up, there was not much of himself left in view. Valise,
bandolier, rifle, revolver, glasses, water-bottle, extra ammunition,
cooking utensils, haversack, a stove, the day's rations, a bundle of
fire-wood, and half a dozen odds and ends had to find space about his
person; the Q.M.S., too, usually had something to add to this load. A
heavy summer shower did not improve matters, and made the descent of
the steep clay paths one of speed rather than elegance. Once started
with so heavy a load, it was impossible to pull up. So the descent of
his regiment that afternoon from the plateau above was a weird and
wonderful sight, and resembled nothing more than a mixed avalanche of
perspiring troopers, mud and gear.
They took up their new abode on a steep northerly slope above the sea.
Instructions were that all habitations were to be made shrapnel proof,
but this was a matter of difficulty on so steep a face. Nightfall
found Mac and his section with an awninged platform, six feet square
and three feet high and partially walled, but far from shrapnel proof
and never likely to be. They were not inclined to meet trouble
half-way, so each disposed his equipment in its rightful spot. The
four partook heartily of a most sociable evening meal, and then
wandered off for a good long bathe in the pleasantly cool water of the
AEgean.
* * * * *
The bivouac on the steep slope north of Anzac Cove was hardly the
safest, and domestic life there was not the most unruffled. Just when
five more seconds would have seen the bacon done to a T, the whistle of
the look-out up above would go. That meant that the Turkish battery on
the W Hills had delivered itself of a missile, which might, or might
not, be directed at this bivouac. Then Mac would find himself in a
dilemma. Would he trust to luck that the shell was not for him, and
save the bacon, or would he crouch for safety under the protection
wall? More often the bacon had the benefit of the decision for
meal-time was Abdul's favourite hour for action, and, if Mac took heed
of every warning, the section would never get through its meals. He
knew that the warning whistle gave him seventeen seconds before the
arrival of the shell, and, if he waited for the sound of the discharge,
he had about four seconds left. Still they didn't worry much until,
after a few opening rounds, Abdul's practice got too good and there was
no mistaking his malevolent attentions. Mac, if he were not near his
own bivouac, would dive into the nearest one, irrespective of owner,
and seek its leeward corners. A few seconds of quiet waiting while he
exchanged the time of day with his host; then the burst, the singing
whistle of the fragments, the whirr of the nose-cap, and the
fut--fut--fut as the pieces came to earth. Then, if another whistle
had not sounded, he would thank his host and proceed on his way.
Often would come the cry of "Stretcher-bearer," and the M.O. would
hurry up the steep slope to some one who had been hit.
Mac lost his sergeant, a real fine fellow, one morning, while he was
serving out rations. The whole regiment was grieved. For the rest of
the day his body, shrouded in his grey blanket, lay on a stretcher in
his bivouac with as much calm and holy dignity as any royal monarch
lying in state.
Soon after dusk, for the little cemetery was under direct machine-gun
fire during the day, the regiment gathered, bareheaded and silent, to
bury its comrade. Six of the dead soldier's friends lifted the bier,
and bore it tenderly down the steep slope and over the bridge across
the sap. The regiment followed and gathered round the open grave.
It was given to few on the Peninsula to be buried thus. Many still lie
where they fell on those Gallipoli hills; some are graced with shallow
graves, scratched hastily under fire, among the torn and tattered
scrub, while others, with fire-bars and blanket and with a few parting
words, have been plunged into the blue AEgean.
On the little sandy point on the north of Anzac Cove is one small
graveyard, where, when Mac knew it, were fifty or sixty graves. In the
daytime it was shell swept and subject to direct rifle fire, but at
night came shadowy figures which passed to and fro from the beach
bringing neat stones and round boulders for picturesque and permanent
adornment of a cobber's grave. Or maybe there would be some diggers at
work, or a burying-party.
To-night, in the peaceful calm of that summer evening, when not a
ripple lapped on the stony beach, when the only indication of war was
the music of the firing high above and the occasional whistle of a
spent bullet overhead, the good old padre, in clear, low tones, went
through the sergeant's burial service. The rites were finished, and
the silent troopers moved away into the darkness as quietly as they had
come, while the padre started the service anew among another group of
silent, waiting figures. And so the summer passed over that little
burial-ground. In the daytime, the scorching sun blazed over the crude
crosses and whitened stones, and the shells shrieked by, while in the
dark coolness of the night shadowy figures brought the day's toll
silently and reverently to its resting place.