[5] All numerals relate to stories told herein, not to chapters in the
book.
"TRENCHING AT GALLIPOLI"--IN THE LAND OF THE TURKS
_Adventures of a Newfoundlander_
_Told by John Gallishaw, Member of the First Newfoundland Regiment_
This is the personal narrative of a loyal Newfoundlander soldiering
in the disastrous Dardanelles campaign. This is an adventurous
story stranger than fiction; as well as a reliable account by an
unusually keen participant of the gigantic failure at Gallipoli. Mr.
Gallishaw was a student at Harvard when the War began and he gives
an extraordinarily vivid impression of trench fighting and trench
living. He tells how seven weeks after the outbreak of the War, the
Newfoundlanders joined the flotilla containing the first contingent
of Canadians. He was on garrison duty for a time at Edinburgh
Castle in Scotland and then sent to Egypt. His book: "Trenching in
Gallipoli" is published by the _Century Company_, Copyright 1916,
with whose permission the following stories are taken.
[6] I--STORY OF A HARVARD STUDENT IN TURKEY
The afternoon sun poured down steadily on little groups of men
preparing dugouts for habitation (at Gallipoli). I had a good many
details to attend to before I could look about for a suitable place for
a dugout. Men had to be told off for different fatigues. Men for pick
and shovel work that night were placed in sections so that each group
would get as much sleep as possible. All the available dugouts had been
taken up by the first comers....
After much hunting, I found a likely looking place. It was about seven
feet square, and where I planned to put the head of my dugout a large
boulder squatted. It was so eminently suitable that I wondered that no
one else had preëmpted it. I took off my equipment, threw my coat on
the ground, and began digging. It was soft ground and gave easily.
A short distance away, I could see Art Pratt, digging. He was finding
it hard work to make any impression. He saw me, stopped to mop his
brow, and grinned cheerfully.
"You should take soft ground like this, Art," I yelled.
"I've gone so far now," said Art, "that it's too late to change," and
we resumed our work.
After a few more minutes' digging, my pick struck something that
felt like the root of a tree, but I knew there was no tree on that
God-forsaken spot large enough to send out big roots. I disentangled
the pick and dug a little more, only to find the same obstruction. I
took my small intrenching tool, scraped away the dirt I had dug, and
began cleaning away near the base of a big boulder. There were no roots
there, and gradually I worked away from it. I took my pick again, and
at the first blow it stuck. Without trying to disengage it I began
straining at it. In a few seconds it began to give, and I withdrew it.
Clinging to it was a part of a Turkish uniform, from which dangled and
rattled the dried-up bones of a skeleton. Nauseated, I hurriedly filled
in the place, and threw myself on the ground, physically sick. While
I was lying there one of our men came along, searching for a place to
bestow himself. He gazed inquiringly at the ground I had just filled in.
"Is there anybody here?" he asked me, indicating the place with a
pick-ax.
"Yes," I said, with feeling, "there is."
"It looks to me," he said, "as if some one began digging and then found
a better place. If he don't come back soon I'll take it."
For about fifteen minutes he stood there, and I lay regarding him
silently. At last he spoke again.
"I think I'll go ahead," he said. "Possession is nine points of the
law, and the fellow hasn't been here to claim it."
"I wouldn't if I were you," I said. "That fellow's been there a hell of
a long while."
I left him there digging, and crawled away to a safe distance. In a few
minutes he passed me.
"Why didn't you tell me?" he demanded, reproachfully.
"Because half of the company saw me digging there and didn't tell me,"
I said.
I was prospecting around for another place when Art Pratt hailed me.
"Why don't you come with me," he said, "instead of digging another
place?"
I went to where he was and looked at the dugout. It wasn't very wide,
and I said so. Together we began widening and deepening the dugout,
until it was big enough for the two of us. It was grueling work, but
by supper time it was done. The night before, a fatigue party had gone
down to the beach and hauled up a big field kitchen. Our cooks had made
some tea, and we had been issued some loaves of bread. Art unrolled a
large piece of cloth with all the pomp and ceremony of a man unveiling
a monument. He did it slowly and carefully. There was a glitter in his
eyes that one associates with an artist exhibiting his masterpiece. He
gave a triumphant switch to the last fold and held toward me a large
piece of fresh juicy steak.
"Beefsteak!" I gasped. "Sacred beefsteak! Where did you get it?"
Art leaned toward me mysteriously. "Officers' mess," he whispered.
"I've got salt and pepper," I said, "but how are you going to cook it?"
"I don't know," said Art, "but I'm going up to the field kitchen;
there's some condensed milk that I may be able to get hold of to spread
on our bread."