Over the sides of the boats dived and rolled those splendid
infantrymen, their bayonets already fixed. They knew what to do; no
need to give them orders. No time to form--no time to think. The cold
steel--nothing but the steel! Off fell their packs; down dropped their
bayonet points, and with a wild yell that rose even above the awful
battle roar that made day hideous they hurled themselves straight as
their rifles at the unseen enemy. In sixes and sevens, in tens and
twenties, in platoons, in half-companies--just as they tumbled out
of the boats--those great-hearted fellows dashed up the beach and
into that sickening inferno. They didn't fire a shot; they didn't
waste a single second. They just flung their heavy packs from their
shoulders, bent their heads to the storm, and with every inch of
pace at their command they charged the Turkish trenches, some fifty
yards distant. Charge! I never saw a charge like it. It was a wild,
breakneck rush, regardless of losses. Nothing short of killing every
man of that magnificent soldiery could have stopped their onslaught.
The machine-guns and rifles took their toll--but they utterly failed
to beat down that desperate assault delivered by those iron-nerved
men--those men who openly boasted that they feared "neither God, man,
nor devil." In a moment they were into the enemy's front line of
trench, machine-guns were captured, and the Turks got a taste of the
bayonet that will never be forgotten by those who escaped. And they
were few. Just a minute of hacking, slashing, and stabbing--one minute
of sickening yet exhilarating butchery in which no quarter was given;
when to _kill!_ and _kill!_ was joy unspeakable--and those long, lean,
brown-faced men with the square jaws and fierce eyes were up again,
their bayonets, smoking, and charging the second line of trenches with
the same dare-devil recklessness. What power on earth could stop such
men? Not the Turks, anyway. With imploring cries of "_Allah!--Allah!_"
they abandoned their trenches and scurried up through the scrub, the
panting Colonials straining every nerve to overtake them.
It is difficult to understand the Australasian character. He will joke
even in the midst of danger, nay, death. He is, as a rule, a "hard
doer;" and even his best friends must admit that he is often a hard,
and fairly original swearer. Nothing is safe from him when looking for
a butt; very little is sacred, I fear, and his humor takes a queer
bent sometimes: which accounted for the behavior of the landing force
on this occasion, dear reader--that and the desire to inflict all the
Arabic he knew (picked up in Egypt) on the fleeing Turk.
"_Imshi! Yalla!_" yelled the now laughing Colonials, as they followed
hard on the heels of the enemy.
"_Allah! Allah!_" continued the Turks, and they put on an extra spurt.
"_Allah_ be d----d! Clean 'em boots! Eggs is cook! Three for a l'arf!
_Imshi_, you all-fired illegitimates!"
Such, with the addition of ear-splitting coo-ees, wild bush oaths,
and a running fire of blasphemy and unearthly cat-calls were the
battle cries of the men from Down Under as they drove the enemy out
of his trenches and up the hill, through the scrub, over _dongas_
and gullies, right to the base of the sheer cliff itself, up which
finally, all mixed together and sliding, crawling, and clinging like
monkeys, scrambled pursuer and pursued in one loosely strung mob of
panting, war-drunken men. It was the personification of grandeur: it
was the apotheosis of the ludicrous. In a word it was the old reckless,
dare-devil spirit of their ancestors--the men who carved out the
British Empire--re-born in those virile youths and young men from that
bigger and fresher and brighter Britain overseas.
Meantime the guns of the fleet were pouring in a terrific fire, their
shells screaming overhead and bursting well beyond the ridge. It was
difficult at first to see what execution they were doing, and at this
stage of the fight I don't think many of the enemy were bagged. As our
chaps advanced farther inland the shells from the ships began to pitch
amongst them, so their elevation was raised and their fire concentrated
on the Turkish communications and on the dominating hills that lay on
our flanks. They also tried hard to locate and silence the enemy's big
guns, but they were so well concealed that it was almost impossible to
silence them.