SITTING TIGHT
_May 16._—Went on sapping, this time at "Pope's Hill." Had a man
killed here in rather curious way. He was in the act of throwing out a
shovelful of dirt when a bullet struck the blade of the shovel as it
appeared for an instant above the parapet, came right down the handle,
and knocked the poor chap's brains over his tunic. Rough luck! Came
off work at noon. Quiet evening; some artillery and machine-gun fire.
Another of our officers killed by a sniper to-day. A smart sort he was,
too, and popular with all in the corps. Rum and tobacco issued—always
an event. But why do they give us "medium strength" when nine out of
ten of our chaps have been used to hard tack? This soft stuff only
burns our tongues and makes us say our prayers backwards. Got to bed
early and was lulled to sleep by the music of bursting bombs and heavy
rifle fire in the neighbourhood of "Quinn's" and "Courtney's." Our camp
is at the foot of the cliff to the left of "Dead Man's Ridge," only
thirty yards behind the firing line; all day and night we hear the song
of bullets and the scream of shells passing overhead. I expect we'll
miss them when we retire into private life again—if any of us are left
to do the retiring stunt. One of our cooks shot dead while bending over
his pots. Oh, it's a sweet spot, is Anzac!
Weather growing much warmer. Seems to agree with the flies. Wonder what
part in the scheme of Nature flies play?
_May 17._—Very heavy rifle and machine-gun fire in early part of
night, followed by bombs galore. It seems that a company of Australian
infantry stormed an enemy trench, but had to retire from it later
on with considerable loss. Queer that such small bodies should be
sent to attack a strong position. Did a five-hour spell of sapping at
"Pope's." Snipers active, but were well protected, suffering no loss.
Fairly quiet day. Some artillery fire. One of our naval guns got on to
the enemy's trenches and blew them about in fine style with lyddite.
Rumoured that Italy has come in on Allies' side. Also that Bulgaria has
taken off the gloves, but on which side no one seems to know. My own
opinion is that she'll side with Germany, simply because she _seems_
so friendly towards the Allies. I wouldn't trust one of those Balkan
Staters farther than I could see him. Rumania will probably join the
Allies—when it suits her. As for Greece, from what I saw of the Greeks
in Lemnos and elsewhere, I reckon she doesn't count in the deal. Her
men were born with deflated rubber tyres instead of backbones. Rumours
fill the air. Stuck up the Q.M.S. for a shirt. He has promised to do
his best. Hope I'll get one, as at present I don't possess such an
article, and in this weather a knitted woollen cardigan impregnated
with sweat and powdered clay isn't the most comfortable garment to wear
next one's skin. Ordered to go on again on the old four-hour shifts
at "Pope's," bossing up infantry at trench-digging. Would rather do a
bigger spell right off the reel, as we get more sleep.
_May 18._—Enemy throwing 10´´ or 12´´ shells (howitzers) right into
the "Gully" among the thickly clustered dug-outs. The explosions are
fine to watch (so long as your own home doesn't suffer), dirt, stones,
etc. being hurled 200 yards around. I don't think they killed very
many, but the Light Horse chaps are fair mad at the way their camp has
been knocked about. One fellow whose dug-out had utterly vanished, its
place being now occupied by a crater like a young volcano, wanted to
know what the Government was thinking about.
Navy officers inspected our lines yesterday. Heard that they weren't
much impressed with the work of our field batteries. This morning
the troops were withdrawn from some of our trenches and the warships
bombarded the Turks just in advance of our firing line, blowing
trenches, sandbags, etc. up in fine style. The enemy kept pretty
quiet afterwards; expect they were cleaning up things. Heard that the
naval chaps are mounting 4·7´´ and 6´´ guns here; also that the Royal
Artillery have arrived with two 12´´ howitzers. They are badly needed,
as we don't seem able to silence the Turkish big guns.
Easy day on the whole. Still waiting for my shirt. Rumoured that the
enemy has been strongly reinforced, and may try a big assault at any
time. Also, that 20,000 well-armed Armenians have risen against the
Turks. Also, that Italy has certainly joined in—not confirmed. Also,
that Greece wants certain "guarantees" before coming in with the
Allies. Turkish losses since war started reported as 60 per cent.
Hard to credit. More "Jack Johnsons" this afternoon. An enemy big
gun discovered to be using a tunnel; when about to fire she is run
out on rails, being run back into the tunnel the instant the shot is
discharged. One up for the Turks! They are as 'cute as a cageful of
monkeys.
_May 19._—Enemy attacked in force last night. The rifle and
machine-gun fire was something to write home about! The Turks came on
in their usual close formation, and were simply mown down. They just
melted away in places like a snowball in hell. Mostly they failed to
reach our trenches, being cut down and beaten back by the terrific
fire. In some cases, however, they did actually get into our front fire
trenches, but were immediately bayoneted to a man. In other places they
reached our parapets—only to be pulled by the legs _into_ the trench
by one man and bayoneted by another. It was a queer, mixed-up style of
fighting, that suited our Australasian troops right down to the ground.
The attack was repulsed all along the line, finally dying away at about
2 a.m. Two hours later they had another try to push us over the ridge,
advancing under cover of the heaviest artillery fire we have so far
experienced. Again they attacked our whole line, finally concentrating
on our right flank. At one point a New Zealand crowd left their
trenches and charged the advancing Turks with the bayonet. They drove
the enemy back in fine style, but suffered considerably themselves.
Otherwise, however, the attack was repulsed with heavy loss to the
enemy, our own casualties I hear being slight. I should think the Turks
must be getting fed up with these attempts to drive us into the sea.
Heavy firing going on at all points as I write—rifles, Maxims, and
artillery. The row is something awful! Enemy using shrapnel chiefly,
and sweeping the "Gully" right down to the beach. Heard that the "Jack
Johnsons" yesterday killed only about six men and wounded a few more.
It seems almost incredible considering the way they pumped them into
our camps. The soil here is mostly clayey and fairly free from rock,
and the big shells, like our own lyddite, simply blow a huge hole,
or crater, in the ground; and although the effect is rather fearsome
the damage, unless close in, doesn't amount to much. If they pitched
in rocky country I should say there would be a very different yarn to
spin. Heard that the _Lizzie_ pitched a big shell slap into the tunnel
in which a Turkish "Jack Johnson" was hiding and that she hasn't given
tongue since. Also that the enemy tapped one of our field telephone
wires _behind_ our lines, and gave the General Staff twenty-four hours
in which to clear us off the Peninsula, failing which he would blow us
into the sea with big guns. Got my shirt at last, and feel a new man.
If I could only raise a pair of trousers I'd be satisfied. I like
plenty of fresh air and ventilation—but not in my nether garments.
_Later._—A tremendous rifle and artillery fire took place this
evening, continuing for an hour or so. Accounted for by New Zealand
infantry attempting to capture some Turkish guns. They didn't go on
with the venture, however, as the guns were too well guarded. Rather
quiet evening afterwards. Been ordered to go on sapping at "Quinn's
Post" to-morrow at 7 a.m.
_Still Later._—Rather a funny thing happened to-night. We were ordered
to rig up portable entanglements in front of our fire trenches at
"Quinn's." Now as the enemy's trench and our own were separated by only
a few yards it meant a quick death (and a verdict of "suicide while
temporarily insane") to any one attempting to even mount the parapet,
much less starting in to a job of the kind out in the open. You should
have seen the chaps' faces (and heard their prayers) when the order
came along. Of course they all realised it was a mistake, the order
being cancelled later on. The entanglements were there, however, so our
officer thought it would be a bright idea to shove them out in front
by means of long spars. After a lot of trouble we managed this, and
they looked real good standing heads and tails along the front of our
trenches. But when the Turks threw out light grapnels attached to ropes
and dragged the things back to do duty for _them_, they didn't look
half so good. And the infantry laughed some. We went to bed.
_May 20._—Quiet morning. No enemy artillery fire and only a little of
our own. Later some shelling by both sides. Worked at erecting overhead
cover on the support trenches at "Quinn's"—originally the fire
trenches, the outcome of the line of holes dug after the landing. Funny
kind of job: every time you showed a hand above the parapet the Turks
had a shot at it. From 6.30 till about 7.30 all firing ceased on both
sides. It was the first time we had experienced absolute quiet since
our arrival here, and the sensation was a strange one. It was still
stranger to hear the song of the lark; I reckon the birds sized it up
as the end of the Great War, for they seemed to all slip out of their
dug-outs at once. Heard it was a truce to allow the Turks to bring in
their wounded. When the firing began again it was something to listen
to! Big guns and little guns, they all seemed to be working overtime.
They kept it up most of the night, too.
_May 21._—On overhead cover same as yesterday. Fairly quiet all
round. More rumours! Another truce talked of. Heard that quite a lot
of prisoners surrendered to-day. Orders sent round that everything
possible was to be done to encourage enemy to desert. Which reminds
me——
A few nights ago three Turks were captured by a patrol and brought
into camp. They said in broken English that they'd been trying to
surrender. They were taken down to headquarters to be questioned, and
later on sent back to our camp, the O.C. receiving orders to feed them
up well, then give the beggars a chance to escape. The idea was that
they would return to their own lines, tell their chums of the fine time
they'd had in our camp, and thus cause a lot of deserting from the
enemy. Nothing of this was to be said to them, of course.
Well, we took our prisoners down to the cook's quarters and gave them
the time of their lives. They ate about a tin of jam each, ditto of
condensed milk, showed a marked appreciation for the army biscuits,
and (they couldn't have been true believers—or else they were just as
much in the dark as ourselves regarding the contents) tackled the bully
beef with gusto, finishing up with Woodbine cigarettes. They weren't
game to sample the rum, however, but it wasn't wasted. When they were
full up to the back teeth we asked them if they knew where there was
any firewood to be got, as most of the big stuff had been cut out of
the "Gully." Yes, they did know of some, but to get it they would have
to crawl up close to their own lines. Things couldn't be better, we
thought; they were told to clear out and get some. Away they went, up
a deep nullah that bisected our lines—and returned a couple of hours
later loaded up with brushwood like walking Christmas Trees! At their
own request we led them back to the cookhouse, saw them started on a
fresh supply of jam and condensed milk, and gave the thing up as a bad
job. Catch them letting their mates into the secret of all those good
things!
Indeed, most of our prisoners were only too pleased to remain with us
once we'd caught them. We set them to various jobs, and, to do them
justice, they worked away quite cheerfully, never, so far as I know,
attempting to escape from a place where they were so well fed and got
free smokes. The Australians installed one as camp barber, and the
blue-jackets from the fleet used to grin at the spectacle of a big
husky Turk going round his enemy's throat with a keen-edged razor.
About this time most of us had grown full beards. I don't know who
originated the style, but it got to be the fashion to trim our beards
to a point _à la_ His Majesty. Then our slouch hats underwent the
trimming process, the result being a far-fetched jockey's cap. Then
nearly every chap cut his slacks or breeches off well above the knee,
and a great many discarded puttees. Others shore their shirt-sleeves
off shoulder high. Still others went without their shirts altogether in
the daytime, going naked from the waist up. So you can guess what the
Anzac Army looked like! No wonder the Turks did a bolt when our ragtime
mob of toughs rushed them with the bayonet! They looked like a crowd of
sundowners who had struck an out-back trail and got badly bushed in a
dry season.
_May 22._—Went up to "Quinn's" at 7 a.m. to go on with sticking up
overhead cover. Rather rainy morning. Mud—and such mud!—everywhere.
Work of art climbing hill owing to feet caking inches deep with the
sticky clay soil. Just got started to work when taken off to make
loopholes in a new front fire trench—enemy's trench being only
about fifteen yards away. Trench badly exposed to cross-fire from
machine-guns well placed on rising ground. All around were splashes of
blood. Australian officer informed us that a number of his men had been
shot while lying at the _bottom_ of this trench. Did what we could, but
as fast as we stuck the sandbags up they were cut to pieces and blown
down by Maxim fire. Bombed out many times. Had many narrow shaves.
Forced to give it best and wait till dark, when we'll have another try.
All these dirty jobs seem to fall to the engineers. Rain cleared off
in afternoon. Mail came in to-day. Got four letters—very satisfactory.
"Jack Johnsons" at work again. Snipers also busy; bagged quite a lot
of our chaps to-day. _Our_ snipers are beginning to thin them down,
however. Our trench mortars emptied bombs finely into enemy's trenches
lately. Fairly quiet night, with rifle fire going off in bursts now and
then.
_May 23._—Went on at "Quinn's" again, loopholing and strengthening
fire trenches. Curious state of affairs here: _we_ sapped out towards
enemy's lines some time ago—and met the Turks doing the same towards
us. Result: _a communicating trench from our lines into his_, which
is guarded night and day at either end by each party respectively,
the intervening distance being about ten yards! Didn't dare to expose
ourselves, as sharp-shooters were sniping all the time from two sides,
a cross-fire at a range of about forty yards. Got back to camp and
found issue of rum awaiting me, also ration of _fresh_ beef. Cooked
it on a grill made of twisted fencing wire and had an A1 blow-out.
More letters to-day. Wonder what the navy is doing at the Dardanelles?
Rumours; the air is full of them. Here are three: (_a_) Turkey has
demanded either £40,000,000 or £50,000,000 from Germany, otherwise she
will join the Allies; (_b_) we are going to be relieved and sent home
to England on the 25th instant, to refit; (_c_) submarines are cruising
about quite close.
To-day the warships bombarded the enemy's trenches just in front of our
own, first giving us warning to keep our heads well down. Didn't need
the warning, as shells simply skimmed our parapets. One plumped _into_
a trench full of Australians. Didn't do much damage luckily, but upset
the harmony of a nice little card-party playing poker. Result: the loss
of some money and several tempers. Got a blanket served out to-day.
Could have done with it a long time ago. Still waiting for trousers;
the pair I own now on their last legs.
Talking of legs, I bumped into one to-day sticking out into one of our
support trenches. You had to duck to pass it. Seems that our chaps when
building the cover found a dead Turk badly in their way, and as they
would have had some difficulty in removing him they decided to build
him up _in_ the roof; his leg slipped through, however, so they just
let it hang. Quiet night; hardly any firing at any part of the line.
_May 24._—Just finishing breakfast when rain started. The worst of it
is that even a slight fall turns this country into a kind of clay bog,
owing to the top soil clogging on one's boots and then slipping over
the subsoil. It is like climbing a greased egg to scale the hills—and
our position here is on top of a high ridge running round a deep gully.
Coming down one generally does a joy slide on one's hindquarters. Have
been ordered to stand by, pending a rumoured armistice supposed to take
place at 7.30 a.m. Heard that Italy has come in on Allies' side: this
time it seems to be credited. Hope it is true.
_Later._—Armistice did take place, lasting till 4.30 p.m., for
the purpose of burying the dead—or "planting stiffs," to give the
occupation its local name. It was about time this was done. I never saw
so many bodies crowded into the same space before; there were literally
thousands of them. And the condition they were in! I dare not describe
the sights I saw. We scraped out shallow holes, edged the things
gingerly in and covered them up as quickly as possible. It paid to
smoke hard all the time. I picked up a German officer's sword (broken
off at the hilt), a Turkish ditto, and dozens of other war curios. I
noticed a magnificent diamond ring on a Turkish officer's finger, but
he was in such a state of putrefaction that I allowed him to retain
it. One cannot be too careful when working with decomposed bodies; if a
cut finger happens to get into contact with putrid human flesh you'll
know all about it. We mixed together, the enemy "undertakers" and our
own. Some of the Turkish officers handed us cigarettes and spoke in
fluent English. They were a fine, jolly-looking lot of fellows dressed
in swagger uniforms. The Germans, however, stood at a distance and
scowled. Our fellows returned their scowls with interest. They also
favoured them with a salute (understood of all men) in which the thumb
and fingers of one hand act in conjunction with the nose. The Huns
didn't seem to appreciate the honour. A quiet night followed.
_May 25._—Working at same job as before—loopholing trenches and
generally strengthening position at "Quinn's Post." It wouldn't
be difficult to get laid out at this game, for there is an almost
continuous cross-fire playing a few inches above your head, and as fast
as you stick up sandbags the machine-guns cut them into shreds.
Saw the _Triumph_ torpedoed. She had been acting the part of dry nurse
to our crowd off Anzac Cove, and it was like a death in the family
when she went to the bottom. I was sitting in my dug-out at the time
it happened, eating the mid-day meal, and had a first-class view of
the whole thing at a distance of about two and a half miles. From the
height of our camp above sea-level we could even see the submarine,
like a shadowy fish, below the water. She was reported to have been
struck by two torpedoes; I saw only one, however—or its wake, rather.
The projectile seemed to hit the warship right amidships, going through
her nets as if they were made of paper. A tremendous cloud of dense
brown smoke mixed with steam sprang aloft like a geyser, and the big
ship listed over at once in the direction from which the torpedo had
come. At the same time she seemed to settle down in the water with a
jump. The submarine couldn't have been more than 200 yards away when
she launched the torpedo, which appeared to cut the water at a great
bat. A destroyer was cruising about close handy, and she at once backed
in against the battleship, the crew jumping and tumbling on board
like rats. Meantime she (the destroyer) opened fire every time the
submarine shoved her periscope above the surface. One shot was fired at
a distance of only about fifty yards. The sea was soon alive with all
kinds of small craft hastening to the work of rescue. In ten minutes
the _Triumph_ turned completely over, showing her bottom for all the
world like a big whale, finally disappearing in about twenty minutes
from the time of the explosion. She didn't dive—just slowly subsided.
Many of the crew jumped overboard; through glasses we could see them
struggling in the water. Almost immediately a whole flotilla of torpedo
boats and destroyers seemed to spring from nowhere, and started to
hunt down the submarine. As I write they are steaming round and round
in a big circle, an aeroplane hovering overhead and evidently directing
operations; at the same time the enemy is pumping shrapnel into the bay
from long range for all he is worth, evidently in the hope of bagging
those engaged in the work of rescue. I have since seen it stated in the
papers that the enemy's artillery was directed against the destroyers,
and that the drowning men and those assisting them had to take their
chance. Then why in the name of common sense did he use shrapnel? The
contention is absurd. The Turks on the whole were clean fighters, but
when the poor old _Triumph_ went down they put a dirty blot on their
record. I hope never to see another ship torpedoed; it was one of the
saddest sights I ever witnessed.
_Later._—Reported that the submarine was bagged after a long chase.
Heavy rain this afternoon, and the whole place a bog. Hot sun
afterwards which turned the bog into a glue deposit. Things fairly
quiet, as they have been for the last two or three days. Enemy doesn't
seem to like our bombs thrown from trench mortars. They are a Japanese
invention, and when they pitch into the Turkish trenches they fairly
raise hell—and human remains! Heard that over 400 were lost in the
_Triumph_: hope it isn't true. Finding enemy was mining towards our
trenches we put in a counter mine. Enemy exploded his—and ours at the
same time. _W-o-o-o-o-uf!_ she went. So did the writer—bringing up
waist deep in a heap of soft sticky clay, hard jam tins, and discarded
accoutrements at the foot of the ridge. Felt a bit "rocky" after being
dug out. Left ear gone. Head queer. Hope it will come all right again.
Had another issue of fresh beef this evening, the second, I fancy,
since we landed. Cooked it on my own home-made grill and found it
_kapai_. More rain.
_Still Later._—Heard that losses on _Triumph_ were very slight:
about twenty or thirty. Rain cleared off and ground now drying fast.
Fairly quiet night, except for some bombing. You get queer things in
bombs sometimes, especially Turkish bombs. For instance: I was working
in one of the advanced saps. There was a good deal of bombing going
on a bit to my right. In the traverse next to where I was sapping
a captured Turkish gramophone was being made to work overtime in
_The Turkish Patrol_, for the edification of an Australian audience.
Presently—_Bang!_ It was a bomb, thrown slap into the concert
party. The music ceased. Followed the customary volley of blasphemy
in back-blocks Australian. Then, to my surprise, a roar of laughter
echoed round the traverse. Naturally I waltzed along to see what had
happened—and found a very profane Australian seated in the bottom of
the trench nursing his wounds. He looked for all the world as if he
had been scrapping with a whole colony of porcupines, and was bleeding
from a score or two of wounds.
"It's needles from the bomb," laughed one of his mates, in answer to my
astonished look. "The poor devil's that full up of gramophone needles,
if we only had a _something_ record we could play a _something_ tune on
him!"
But we weren't a bit slow at faking up bombs ourselves. I have known
rusty nails, bits of shells, flints, cartridge cases, fragments of
broken periscopes—anything, in fact, that came along shoved into a
home-made jam-tin bomb. Once some of the chaps heaved over a 7-lb.
jam-can filled with ham and bacon bones. You ought to have heard the
jamboree in the Turkish trench when the unclean animal's mortal remains
blew round their ears! They didn't half like being shot by pig. On
another occasion some Australians informed me that they wanted "a
hell of a knock-out bomb," as they had located a Turkish listening
post close up to our front line trenches. I manufactured one of the
"hair-brush" variety, using _two 15-oz. slabs of guncotton_, and
packing round the explosive about three pounds of assorted projectiles;
the whole thing I wrapped up in a whole sandbag and wound it round and
round with barbed wire. When completed it looked a pretty little toy
about the size of a respectable ham. I own I had some misgivings about
being able to throw it the required length. However, the distance was
only a matter of a few yards, and I got it fair into the desired spot.
When she went off bang there wasn't much of that listening post left,
while as for the Turks who manned it—well, I guess they're going still!
"Quinn's Post" was always a rotten shop for bombs. At first the Turks
had things pretty much their own way in that line. Time after time
they cleared our front trenches by bomb-throwing, and then rushed the
position; and I can tell you it called for some hard hand-to-hand
fighting on our part to get them out again. But we always did it; good
soldiers as they are they couldn't live in the same township with our
chaps when cold steel was the order of the day. There isn't much fun
left in life once you've had eighteen inches of rusty bayonet shoved
through your gizzard. The Turks don't fear death; if killed in action
they believe they go straight to Paradise and have a high old time with
the girls. But you can't blame a man if he wished to have a little more
practice on earth—nor for being a bit particular about the manner in
which he started on the long trail. I reckon that's how it was with
them. I don't blame them, either; it's a sloppy kind of death, the
bayonet one.
After a time we got top-dog in the bombing line. Our system was a
simple one: for every bomb the enemy threw into us we gave him at least
_two_ in return. He didn't like it a little bit. At first we used to
throw the bombs back again as fast as they came in, the fuses being
timed a bit too long; afterwards, however, that game didn't pay, quite
a lot of poor chaps getting laid out through the things exploding in
their hands. Dropping a sandbag or an overcoat on them took most of the
sting out of the beggars, and it wasn't long till every third man's
greatcoat looked as if it had been in a railway accident—or a cyclone.
One night I shan't forget in a hurry. It simply rained bombs. Man after
man went down. The trench was a shambles. On came the Turks, carrying
our fire trench with ease; there was really nothing to stop them.
They got right into our support trench. Then our chaps got to work.
We bombed them back. They came again. Again we cleared them out. The
position was carried and re-carried four separate times, eventually
remaining in our hands. Reader, I wish you had seen those trenches
when the picnic was finished. It took us a long time cleaning them up.
There were all kinds of queer things sticking to the sides and to the
overhead cover. One of our chaps put the thing in a nutshell. "I don't
give a _something_ what the padre says," he observed, "there'll be an
all-fired mix-up when they go aloft!"
"Quinn's" was in truth the limit. I reckon you could get killed there
a dashed sight easier than anywhere in the whole line. It was just
fair hell with all the doors open. It was the place where V.C.'s were
earned—but not given! Come to think of it, it would have taken a
sackful to go round. Yes, that must have been the reason.