Transcriber's Note: Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.
ON THE ANZAC TRAIL
SOLDIERS' TALES OF THE
GREAT WAR
Each volume cr. 8vo, cloth,
3_s._ 6_d._ net.
I. WITH MY REGIMENT. By
"PLATOON COMMANDER"
II. DIXMUDE. The Epic of the French
Marines. Oct.-Nov. 1914. By CHARLES
LE GOFFIC. _Illustrated_
III. IN THE FIELD (1914-15). The Impressions
of an Officer of Light Cavalry.
IV. UNCENSORED LETTERS FROM
THE DARDANELLES. Notes of a
French Army Doctor. _Illustrated_
V. PRISONER OF WAR. By ANDRÉ WARNOD.
_Illustrated_
VI. "CONTEMPTIBLE." By "CASUALTY."
VII. ON THE ANZAC TRAIL. By "ANZAC."
LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN
21 Bedford Street, W.C.
ON THE ANZAC
TRAIL
BEING EXTRACTS FROM THE DIARY
OF A NEW ZEALAND SAPPER
BY
"ANZAC"
LONDON
WILLIAM HEINEMANN
_London: William Heinemann, 1916._
TO THE MEN
BY WAY OF ADVERTISEMENT
This is the story of the Anzacs. It is told by one of the New
Zealanders who was with them in Egypt, was present at the Landing, and
who did his little best to uphold the honour of Maoriland in the long
and grim Battle of the Trenches. It is the tale of a man in the ranks.
It is told without gloss or varnish. _And it is true._
_Komate! Komate!
Kaora! Kaora!
Komate! Komate!
Kaora! Kaora!_
Tene Te Tonga Te,
Pohuru Uru;
Nana È Tiki Mai,
Whaka Whiti Tera—
Hupani! Hupani! Hupani!
Kupani È Whiti Tera!
Which is also true.
CONTENTS
PAGE
JOINING UP 1
OFF 13
LIFE IN EGYPT 28
EAST AND WEST 48
DAY BY DAY 68
"THE BATTLE OF THE STREETS" 98
AT GRIPS 108
THREE WEEKS 143
SITTING TIGHT 174
THE ORDER OF THE PUSH 204
CHAPTER I
JOINING UP
When the Great War struck Europe I was living with my people in
Ireland. I had served in the South African campaign, so, of course, I
realised that it was up to me to roll up again and do my bit towards
keeping the old rag flying. It's a queer thing, but let a man once go
on the war-path and it's all the odds to a strap ring he's off again,
full cry, to the sound of the bugle. I reckon it's in the Britisher's
blood; he kind of imbibes it along with his mother's milk. When all's
said and done we are a fighting breed. A sporting crowd, too, and we
tackle war much as we would a game of football—or a big round-up in
the Never-Never.
When England took off the gloves to Germany I knew the Colonies
wouldn't hang back long. They breed men on the fringes of our Empire.
Hence I wasn't surprised when I saw a notice in the papers calling on
all New Zealanders, or men who had seen service with the Maorilanders
in South Africa, to roll up at the High Commissioner's office in
London, to be trained for service with the "Down Under" contingents.
Well, I had lived for years in New Zealand, and had fought Boers time
and again side by side with New Zealand troops, so I sent in my name
right away. In due course I received a polite letter of thanks, and
was told to turn up at the office on a certain date, to be examined
and attested. I did so, and in company with some two hundred other
Colonials was put through the eye-sight, hearing, and other tests, said
"ninety-nine" to the doctor's satisfaction, and was duly passed as fit
for service.
And now began a period of stress and strenuous life. Morning after
morning we repaired to Wandsworth Common, there to acquaint ourselves
with the intricacies of "Right turn," "Left turn," "Form fours," etc.,
under the tutelage of certain drill-sergeants of leathern lungs and
bibulous-looking noses. At noon we knocked off for an hour and a half,
repairing for refreshment to a house of entertainment which stood
fairly "adjacent" to our drill ground. Here we very soon found that our
instructors' looks did not belie them. However, we consoled ourselves
with the reflection that English beer was cheap as drinks went, and
that all things come to an end in this world. The afternoons were
repetitions of the mornings, with the added attraction of a largish
audience composed principally of nursemaids and infants in arms—and
prams. The audience enjoyed our efforts if we, the actors, didn't. It
was thirsty work.
During this period we lived in London, "finding" ourselves, but
receiving a slight increase of pay in lieu of quarters and rations.
It's a gay city is the Rio London. Our pockets suffered, hence most of
us, although we growled on principle (being Colonials), were secretly
relieved in mind when the order came to transfer to Salisbury Plain,
there to camp in tents until such time as huts should be prepared for
us.
I think we all enjoyed our stay on the "Plain"—a sad misnomer, by the
way, as I never ran across a hillier plain in my life. It was autumn in
England, and when we first arrived, except for cold nights the weather
was really good—for England! It soon broke, however, and we sampled
to the full the joys of sleeping on rain-soaked blankets and ploughing
our way through the sticky chalk soil that hereabouts is so strongly
in evidence. Hence we weren't sorry to transfer our swags to the more
kindly shelter of the huts. In fact, we took possession of them before
they were quite ready for occupancy, electing to complete the work
ourselves. Most of us were "bush carpenters," so the job was right into
our hands.
Our camp lay within two miles of Bulford village, a kind of Sleepy
Hollow inhabited by a bovine-looking breed, whose mouths seemed
intended for beer-drinking but not talking—which, in a way, was just
as well, for when they did make a remark it was all Greek to us. We
wakened the place up a bit, however, and the Canadians, who settled
down to the tune of over five thousand round about us, nobly seconded
our efforts, so I reckon the power of speech was restored to the
villagers—after we left! For all I know they may be talking yet. Come
to think it over in cold blood, they had cause to.
Those Kanucks were a hefty lot, and blessed with real top-knotch powers
of absorption. They were sports, too. We beat them at Rugby football,
but they took their change back at soccer. Honours were even, I think,
at drill, but they drank our canteen dry every night. You see, there
were five thousand of them and only a little over two hundred of us.
As they were inclined to talk a bit in their cups we were forced to
mount an armed guard in the canteen. The guard's principal duty was
to stop scrapping on the premises, and the first sign of "peeling"
operations being indulged in was the signal to round up the mob. Once
outside, however, they could do as they liked. And they generally did!
Discoloured optics and flattened nasal appendages soon ceased to be
objects of curiosity down our location. On the whole we got on well
with them, and we had many things in common. Poor fellows, they got
stuck into it cruelly in France, between German gas and overpowering
numbers, but they showed real grit right through—just as we who had
been camp-mates with them knew they would.
Barring the heavy frosts, the rain, and the foot-deep mud, things
weren't so bad in camp. The tucker was really good and there was
plenty of it; the huts were, on the whole, fairly dry, although a bit
draughty; and our kit was first-rate. We slept on the usual "donkey's
breakfast," of course, but it isn't the worst bed to sleep on, by a
long chalk. And it felt real good to me when the "Get-out-of-bed" bugle
went every morning before sun-up, and the Kanuck band made the camp
rounds to the tune of _John Peel_. How we cursed that band!
Our daily work began with the usual before-breakfast breather—a brisk
march over the hills, a spell of physical exercise, a pipe-opening
"double," and then a free-and-easy tramp back to camp, soap-and-water,
and breakfast. The feeds we used to take! I reckon the morning
programme alone in the Army would fetch a double "lunger" back from the
hearse door—if it didn't kill him outright. Dyspepsia disappeared from
our camp, while as for stomachs, we grew to forget that such things
formed part of our interior works—except when they reminded us in
unmistakable terms that "Nature abhorred a vacuum."
The forenoon was generally spent on the parade ground, carrying out
platoon and company drill. To give the reader an idea of the size of
our fellows it is only necessary to state that in my platoon (No. 4)
there were six men on my right—and I stand over six feet in height. I
believe there was only one man in the platoon under five feet ten. They
were not "cornstalks" either; they carried weight on top of their legs.
After lunch we usually went for a route-march, a form of training which
was highly popular with all. On most days we did about ten miles, but
twice a week or so we put in a fifteen to twenty mile stunt, cutting
out the pace at a good round bat. Considering the state of the going
(in many places the roads were simply muddy swamps) and the hilly
nature of the country, I reckon we'd have given points to most fellows
when it came to hitting the wallaby. Once I remember taking part in a
platoon marching competition. My platoon won it by a short neck, but we
were all out. The distance was just over eleven miles of as tough and
dirty going as they make, and when it is borne in mind that we cut it
out at an average pace of four-and-a-half miles an hour the reader will
guess that we didn't sprout much moss on the trail. We lost a goodish
deal of sweat that trip, but the messing contractor didn't look like
saying grace over our dinner that night. (By the wish of the men the
evening meal was made the principal one; it was always a solid, hot
tuck-in, and the best preparation for a cold wintry night that I know
of.)
For recreation we had football on Saturdays and—don't look shocked,
dear reader!—Sundays; concerts and "smokers" on week-nights, etc. We
rigged a spare hut up as a theatre and concert-hall, and it looked
real good when completed. The stage was elevated, and fitted with
kerosene lamps as foot and head lights; a nifty curtain, and the
latest thing in brown-paper pillars painted like the front of a Maori
_pataka_, with little Maori gods sitting on their heels, tongues
sticking out sideways, and hands clasped on distended abdomens. The
centre-piece was the gem of the show, however; it represented the War
God, Tiki, chewing up the German Eagle between teeth like the tusks
of an old bush wild pig. Altogether the whole outfit had a decidedly
homelike air about it—although it didn't seem to strike our English
visitors in that light. But, then, neither did our war-cry, even when
it was chanted in their honour by two hundred healthy-lunged New
Zealanders. They did seem to appreciate the concerts we gave, however,
and, bragging apart, we had talent enough in the mob to make a show
most anywhere. We even ran to a trick contortionist and dancer, whose
favourite mode of progression towards his nightly couch was on his
hands with his feet tucked away behind his ears. Taking it all in all,
we were a very happy little colony, and despite the mud, frost and
snow, I fancy those of us who may escape the Long Trail will reserve
a kindly spot in their hearts for the old camp down Bulford way. But,
alas! our ranks are already sadly thinned.
As time went on our little force became reinforced by men joining up
who had come long distances to do their bit for King and Country.
We were a peculiarly heterogeneous crowd. There were men from South
Africa, from the Argentine, from Canada, the United States, and even
from Central America. One at least had fought in the Spanish-American
War, and owned to being a naturalised Uncle Sam citizen. There were
quite a few who had seen service in the late Boer War, some who had
been members of the New Zealand contingents, others having gone
through the campaign in one or other of the South African irregular
corps. About 65 per cent. were born Maorilanders, the remainder
being mostly "Colonials" of many years' standing. I should think we
had representatives from every corner in New Zealand—and all _men_
in every sense of the word. Men of whom Adam Lindsay Gordon, the
Australian stockman poet, might have been thinking when in his "Sick
Stockrider" he penned the following lines—
"I've had my share of pastime and I've done my share of toil:
Life is short—the longest life a span;
I care not now to tarry for the corn and for the oil,
And the wine that maketh glad the heart of man.
For good undone and gifts misspent and resolutions vain
'twere somewhat late to trouble—
This I know, I'd live the same life over if I had to live
again,
And the chances are I go where most men go."
And this _I_ know: a finer lot of fellows to be with, either in
light-hearted frolic or the grim struggle in which they were destined
to take part, I never ran across in my natural.