SUMMER DRAGS ON
The Anzac troops were now entering on that long, wearisome summer wait,
without action, or even prospect of it, to relieve the monotony, until
such time as strong reinforcements would enable them to make a push for
the Narrows. The days grew hotter and the flies thicker, and disease
began to make itself felt to an undesirable extent. The same old
shelling and the same old rifle-fire went on week after week, varied
only by the constant flutterings at Quinn's, where sometimes Turk,
sometimes Anzac, got the better of the nightly bickerings. Rumours of
victories at Cape Helles came frequently, but confirmation seldom
followed. The fall of Achi Baba took place almost as often as the
assassination of Enver Pasha. And still the Turks remained unmoved on
the slopes of Sari Bair, and though the men of Anzac had the upper hand
in sniping and _moral_ there was not much prospect of getting the enemy
rooted out of those confoundedly fine trenches of his for some time to
come.
But these things did not greatly depress the fine fellows who clung so
tenaciously to that square mile of crags and cliffs. The great spirit
of cheery optimism, the light-hearted, careless good fellowship, and
the muscle and grit of the invaders looked lightly at all this.
Regiments might dwindle sadly from dysentery and shrapnel, the
water-supply might be short and brackish, the flies might be getting
more persistent; but reinforcements would come some day soon, the
British at Cape Helles would get Achi Baba, and soon all would be well.
And so, with hard work, dysentery and flies, shelling, sniping and
bombing, cheery philosophy, and castles in the air, sweat, heat and
dirt, the summer days passed slowly by.
After a fortnight's absence from the front line, officially termed
"resting," but which was spent, as has been described, in outpost
fighting, sapping, road-making and all manner of hard work, the
Regiment returned to Russell's Top. As his Squadron was relegated to a
very comfortable section of the line, where disquieting bombs, shells
and what-not, seldom disturbed him, and where, at times, one could
stretch at full length and sleep, Mac infinitely preferred these
conditions of life to those of the previous fortnight.
So two weeks here passed placidly enough. When he was in the front
line he smoked, read, wrote, and played cards, or, when particularly
bored, rose up with his rifle and potted at elusive periscopes,
swinging shovels, loop-holes or indiscreet Turks, of whom there were
very, very few, in the Turkish lines. As often as not his little game
would be cut short by the reply of one of their snipers.
Then the tangled mass of trench and ravine over which his position
looked, Quinn's, Courtenay's, Dead Man's Ridge, and so on, was always
an interesting study. They were for ever scrapping there, and at
nights never for a moment rested. This was the weakest point in the
Anzac lines, and both sides knew it; but lately persistent hard work,
many lives and a great deal of courage were giving the Anzac fellows
the upper hand. Beyond these trenches lay the wide valley bounded on
the farther side by the frowning escarpments of Kilid Bahr
Plateau--strongly entrenched heights which Mac rather hoped it would be
some other person's job to storm when the necessity arose. Across the
valley and up a steep zigzag path climbing the almost overhanging
farther side, he saw long trains of camels pass, and occasionally odd
horsemen. Sometimes machine-gun fire at extreme range disturbed their
placid way, but usually the gunners kept their ammunition for better
purposes.
Their fortnight expired, the Regiment, relieved by the Light Horse,
returned to its previous bivouacs in the hot and stuffy ravine, where,
in sections of four, they settled down to a domestic life, for the
comfort of which they brought into bearing all their ingenuity, the
possibilities of the Indians' larder and mule-feed, the lack of
alertness on the part of the policemen at the depot, and the usual
stock of knowledge acquired in the bush of how to look after oneself.
The bivouac of Mac's section consisted of a platform nearly seven feet
square cut out of a steep clay ridge. So a clay bank formed the back
wall, two clay walls reached about half-way to the awning on either
side, and the front was open, except in the afternoons when an
oil-sheet was hung there to keep out the fierce glare of the sun. The
clay cliff dropped precipitously in front, and facing them in the
opposite cliff were similar bivvies, with the inhabitants of whom Mac
and his cobbers were in the way of exchanging friendly conversation at
odd moments of the night or day.
Perched here on their ledge of clay, the four lived a supremely happy
life when at home. Each took his turn at the cooking, the
firewood-hunting, and the tidying-up. Each had his strong points, and
was permitted to develop them. Bill was hot stuff on curry _a la_
Anzac, whose foundation was the choicest bully, a little water, plenty
of Indian curry powder purchased from the Indians in consideration of
some mouldy Army cigarettes, and a little of everything else, from bran
to marmalade. He shone, too, with his Welsh rarebit and his biscuit
pudding, so that not even Smoky with his "Stew Supreme _a la_ Depôt"
could hope to look at him. Friday outran all others in his enthusiasm
for gathering firewood, a rare product of the land in those days, and
no one dared, nor felt inclined, to compete with him. Mac had no rival
when it came to frying, and the preparation of the sweets fell to him
on those few but glorious days when the section was issued with one
fig, two dates or half a dozen currants. The possibilities of the
larder were considerably spun out by barter with the Indians, who had
plenty and to spare of good food, by the use of one's wits and by
purchase at exorbitant prices of certain articles from sailors. Still,
despite this high living, the troops grew perceptibly thinner.
All offensive on Gallipoli was at this time confined to the Cape Helles
front, where the capture of Achi Baba was their immediate object. The
rôle of the Anzac troops was merely to keep the enemy always on the
alert and in fear of an offensive movement from Anzac, and to make
small demonstrations during heavy attacks on the big hill of Achi Baba.
On these occasions Mac would watch eagerly through his glasses the
bursting shells along its crests, and would seek indications of a
British advance, but always in vain.
Much as the Anzac troops yearned for some activity to break the
monotony, there was little prospect of success of any present push from
there. The regiments were thin; the Turks held strong superior
positions, and possessed more machine-guns than were to Mac's liking.
The enemy made several night attacks, which brought nothing but
casualties and regrets to the attackers. On one of these occasions
Mac's squadron was in reserve to the Light Horse on Russell's Top, and
were doing their best to sleep on the narrow clay terraces perched
along the cliffs behind it.
About nine o'clock, heavy, ominous thunder-clouds came rolling silently
in from the west. Lightning played in fitful dashes. Then followed
swirling wind gusts, which stirred up fantastic columns of whirling
dust, roared down the ravines, and raised a surf which grated furiously
on the shingle below. Thunder crashed and bellowed, and the whole
weird fantasy of crag, cliff and cyclonic dust columns was terribly and
wonderfully lit by the vivid and almost continual flashing of the
lightning.
Not content with the inferno of nature, the enemy chose this mad moment
to add his artillery to the cataclysm, and turned a merry whizz-bang
battery on to the Top. For an hour the racket lasted, and then fell in
gradual diminuendo; and Mac thought of sleep notwithstanding vermin,
dust and shrapnel. It was not to be. A fatigue party was wanted
immediately. A number were told off. Warmly and extensively
apostrophizing the originators of this nocturnal expedition, they
gathered up their rifles, bandoliers and water-bottles and wandered
protestingly off uphill.
Arrived in the front fire-trench, they were directed to set about
roofing bomb-proof dug-outs, in place of another party which was too
tired to continue. The new arrivals, who had been working hard for
three nights in succession, were righteously indignant, and also
considered themselves too tired to carry on. Only two or three
enthusiasts showed any inclination to work, and these were speedily
discouraged by a further increase of activity on the part of the enemy
artillery. Seventy-five m.m. whizz-bangs shrieked low over the
surface, or burst with shattering crashes which shook down avalanches
of earth on the heads of the troopers as they sat, half-asleep, against
the dug-out walls. Then the machine-guns joined in the din, and
rattled and roared in spiteful bursts, now rising into a furious storm,
now lulling slightly. The bullets whipped and whizzed past, or plopped
into the heaps of debris above. Now that there was sufficient military
reason for laziness on his part, Mac, recognizing, of course, that he
would have worked had it been at all possible, sank with an easy
conscience into somnolence.
When he awoke it was broad daylight, and the tornado of his last sleepy
moments of consciousness had diminished to the usual spasmodic rifle
reports. He stood up, ruefully rubbed the spots where ammunition
pouches had made dents in his person, stepped over his still sleeping
cobbers and crawled through the rabbit-hole entrance into the
fire-trench. There he blinked like a sleepy owl, more with surprise
than anything else. There were dead Turks all over the show, and in a
sap opposite were dozens of them. This was a sap which had kept Mac
occupied for many nights recently. It was a secret sap, or supposed to
be so as far as the enemy was concerned; and had been constructed with
every care and precaution to that end. Running parallel with the
Turkish front firing-line, thirty yards away, it connected a corner of
the Anzac firing-line with the edge of a cliff a couple of chains to
the left, and thus cut off a big bend in its front line.
With much satisfaction a Light Horseman gave Mac particulars of the
occurrence:
"My bloomin' oath, we got 'em fine. We sorter guessed from the blanky
rough-house they were making they was up ter something and got ready to
make 'em welcome. Then with a lot of their blooming Allahin' and
raising a hell of a howl generally, they come over like a blooming mob
of sheep. A big bunch got into that secret sap there. Then we landed
'em a dirty one, and bombed their blanky souls to hell. They didn't
half squeal. Not content with one dose, the silly blanks came on
again, and we had a bloomin' encore. Well, old man, I suppose the poor
devils 'll have sorrowing harems. 'Spose my poor old mater'd drop on
me if she knew I was rejoicin' over the fallen. Anyhow it's what we're
here for, and they oughter keep out of our way if they don't want to
get dinged, eh, cobber?"
"Anyhow, good luck to the blighters when they reach their bloomin'
heaven," answered Mac. "It's about kai-time. I'm off for some
brekker. Kia Ora, old man."
And, so saying, he awakened his sleeping cobbers, left them admiring
the night's catch, and trundled off homewards. Passing down the track
he stopped for a moment by a ledge, and gazed with respect and sadness
at half a dozen fine stalwart forms of Light Horsemen, wrapped each in
his grey blanket, who had taken the long trail in the night's encounter.
The Regiment was getting tired of continually sapping without any
excitement to break the monotony, other than the more or less frequent
arrival of shells in their vicinity, and the attentions of snipers on
the beach. Moreover, the flies increased in their countless millions,
the ground was getting very dirty, the stench in parts was almost
unendurable, and practically every one was more or less affected by
stomach trouble. The troops grew daily thinner, until, had he not
followed their increasing slimness, Mac could hardly have recognized
some of his old friends. With dark olive skins, cadaverous faces and
often a good growth of beard, they were a hard-looking lot.