From Flanders we will turn to Gallipoli. A man had just been shot in
the first line trench at Anzac by a sniper. Private Roy Scotton, the
5th Field Ambulance, A.I.F., had been hurried along with a stretcher to
bear him away for burial.
"Who is it?" asked one of the bearers as they picked up the soldier.
The sergeant of the section, his head bent to avoid hostile bullets,
came hastening along the trench.
"Who's down this time?" he asked in turn. But there came no response
from the bystanders. Some busied themselves with the breeches of their
rifles; some, who had commenced a smoke, put aside their tobacco. The
dead soldier's face had been covered with a blanket.
"Who is it?" asked the sergeant once more, sick with apprehension. He
was a brave man, a man inured to campaigning of all kinds, cunning in
battle against the Turk, crafty in his fight against Nature in the
Australian bush, wily in his dealings with political antagonists at
his home in New South Wales. For this was "Paddy" Larkin, a popular
Australian M.P. Pulling aside the blanket covering the dead man's face,
he gave a cry of horror. It was his own brother!
He bowed his head reverently for a moment over the cold, set features;
then, snatching a rifle and bayonet from the man nearest him, he
scrambled quickly across the trench. Before any man present suspected
his intention, "Paddy" Larkin was leaping towards the enemy to avenge
his brother's death. A storm of bullets opened on him. They lashed the
sand around him: they tore into his clothes, into his body. Still he
went on. Over the wire entanglements, over the parapet he leapt, his
bayonet thrusting savagely at the Turks. Very short and fierce was the
fight, but "Paddy" Larkin died happy. His brother's death was avenged.