Intelligence reports a build-up of Turkish reinforcements all along the line. They predict an attack any day so we have been ordered to be vigilant.
One fellow who didn’t obey the order is Major-General Bridges. He was careless and copped a bad one in the leg. He’s not expected to live.
I have regularly wished for peace these past few weeks and an end to the constant firing of rifles, machine-guns and artillery but now that my wish has come true, I am frightened. The Turkish guns have been silent for more than an hour. I should be able to relax but I cannot. I fear this is the calm before the storm. I am not the only one feeling uneasy. Everyone’s nerves are tingling and their tempers on edge. Fish and Needle, who are usually both quite casual about our circumstances, snapped at each other while we shared a cup of tea.
The news of Major-General Bridges’ death added to our high anxiety levels.
It is afternoon and very quiet but it is the quiet after the storm. The Turkish attack earlier this morning was worse than a storm: it was an avalanche of death. Turkish soldiers stormed out of their trenches at 3.30 am and flooded downhill in their thousands towards our trenches. Thank God for machine-guns and for the courage and steadfast character of my comrades. They stood their ground and fired until the barrels of their rifles were red hot.
It was a slaughter. We mowed them down wave after wave for hour after hour all along the front. No exaggeration: we must have fired a million rounds.
Every attack was heralded by shouts of ‘Allah’, every lull with the moans of their wounded. Our battalion had casualties too but I’ve heard they were light: about a dozen killed and two dozen wounded. The Turks lost thousands and thousands of men.
It is sunset and the eerie quiet of the guns continues: so do the cries of the wounded. The earth is carpeted with dead and dying Turks.
I have seen thousands of dead mice littering the ground after a plague and Father has spoken of thousands of dead rabbits around dried-up water holes when he was a boy, but what I am confronted with are human beings—and many of them are not dead. They soon will be if they do not get first aid. But how is that possible? Stretcher-bearers from either side would be shot if they rose from the trench.
‘We mowed them down like grass,’ Needle said without intending to gloat.
‘I’ve never had much success impressing the ladies when I try my luck shooting ducks at the Shoot-’em-Down gallery, but today even I couldn’t miss,’ Fish added.
‘They didn’t stand a chance,’ Robbo said with sadness. ‘One thing’s for sure, no commander from either army will ever again order a full-frontal assault against troops in trenches.’
We were issued with our first periscope a week or so ago. It proved so popular that men have been ordered to manufacture them around the clock. Another team is making bombs in jam tins. Dozens of those are distributed every day.
The periscope allows frontline observers to watch the enemy trenches in relative safety. I say ‘relative’ because Turkish snipers target the periscopes and observers risk broken glass fragments being embedded in their scalp—or worse, their face and eyes.
The day was hot and the pong of bloated bodies unbearable.
Late in the day someone shouted, ‘There’s something doing. Some Turk’s waving a flag.’
An officer ordered Cease Fire then raised a periscope to take a look. Every periscope in the trench was doing likewise, and no-one was talking. It was slightly disturbing.
‘He’s holding up a big white flag with a red crescent on it.’
I was dying to see for myself but dared not raise my head above the parapet, even though no-one was shooting.
‘Someone’s coming over the top.’
‘He’s unarmed. Hold your fire,’ the officer shouted.
‘He’s either a fool or a very brave man,’ Fish said as he handed the periscope to me.
I scanned the enemy trench line until I saw him. He was slowly moving towards us, flag held high, head bowed. He was no doubt scared stiff and rightly so. One of our lads could tumble him at any second.
I can’t describe the admiration I felt for him. He was humble but proud and so very brave. I know true bravery now for I have seen men perform the bravest of tasks. Many have been killed for their efforts: a few have been nominated for the highest honours.
This man will attract no medal but he was truly worthy of one. I watched mesmerised by his unhurried stride, fearing one of our lads would open fire on him. None did, thank God.
I heard a rush of footsteps behind me. The colonel arrived with an interpreter who called to the Turk in his language. He stopped. Our colonel rose from the trench to meet him: one of their officers did the same.
Machine-gun bullets raked the air above them. They ducked and made back to their lines but turned around when the burst of gunfire stopped. A small party from each side moved to the middle of No Man’s Land.
They held a discussion, aided by the interpreter. When talks ended, our men saluted, their men bowed, then both parties returned to their trenches. Soon after that the firing recommenced. Our enemies were our enemies again.
An unarmed Turkish staff officer visited our lines yesterday as a result of the parley on Saturday. Following further negotiations, a truce has just commenced. Soldiers from both sides are free to bury the bodies strewn across No Man’s Land. The smell from the dead is foul. It will be a relief to be free of it. Both sides are under strict orders not to fire.
We put down our rifles and climbed out of the trench. We carried the Turkish dead closer to their trenches and they did likewise with ours.
Even though we were engaged in the unpleasant task of moving hideously swollen bodies, the atmosphere was more pleasant than usual. We were free of the confines of our trenches and the terrible business of killing. A gentle rain and a slight breeze cooled us as we laboured. It felt good to be doing something humane for a change.
Our officers were happy for the truce to continue for some time because it gave them a chance to have a good look at the enemy trenches.
Before each burial we identified our comrade’s body and passed on the name and rank to the medical personnel. Chaplain Frank worked flat out saying the necessary words over each dead man.
Between burials men chatted briefly with the enemy. Language often failed us but by the use of signs, gestures and the exchange of souvenirs, we communicated and showed goodwill to one another.
The Turks had many more dead to bury than we did, but we allowed them a dignified amount of time to conduct their burials. The grief the Turkish soldiers displayed when they found a friend’s body was terrible to see. I realised as I witnessed their pain that they had human emotions like us.
‘They’re not just upset by the loss of their friend, they’re also worried about his soul,’ Robbo told us. ‘In the Muslim religion a dead man must be buried within 24 hours.’
When our job was done we returned to our trench and discussed our feelings, something which even a month ago we would never have done.
‘That was the worst job I’ve ever done,’ Needle told us, ‘and believe me I’ve done some shockers. I worked in an abattoir once but that was a walk in the park compared to moving those bodies. I know most of them were only Turks but…’
‘But you felt for them,’ Robbo added.
‘Yeah, I did, cobber. But it wasn’t hatred. That’s what the army’s told me to feel for eight months now and I have. Since we landed I’ve shot to kill and used the bayonet with savagery. But…’ Again he went quiet.
‘They’re just fellows like us, aren’t they,’ Fish added.
‘They’re just doing their job. I looked at some faces and thought I’d probably have a beer with them if I met them in a pub.’
‘They’re Muslim. They don’t drink alcohol,’ Robbo corrected him.
‘Well, you know what I mean,’ Fish concluded.
‘Do you know what one of them told me?’ Robbo asked.
‘I heard you yabbering away in their lingo. How’d you learn to speak Turk?’ Needle asked.
‘It was French, pigeon-French to be correct. He told me that many of their officers are German and the Turks hate them as much as we do.’
‘Then why are we fighting them?’
‘That’s the sad thing about war,’ Robbo replied. ‘Sometimes there seems no reason to fight but we follow orders. Anyway, he told me his countrymen are fierce fighters who are prepared to die to drive us from their country but the Germans doubted their bravery and ordered machine-guns trained on their backs as they attacked the other morning. They were dead men whether they went forward or back.’
‘Poor bastards,’ Needle said with great sympathy.
Weeks ago, Robbo told me war changes everyone. I know it’s changed me.
This evening, when we were relieved and sent behind the lines, I attended the funerals of some of our lads. It was a totally different experience from the funeral at sea. Then, peace reigned. Today, despite the solemnity of the occasion, Turkish bullets and shells continuously whistled and boomed overhead. Once or twice the burial party nearly needed a funeral of its own. Shells exploded close by showering us with dirt.
I attended the funerals partly out of respect for my dead comrades and partly out of my need to come to terms with my own actions.
I, like every Australian along the frontline yesterday, shot and killed or maimed dozens of Turks. I shot until the barrel of my gun was too hot to touch. I know it was a kill or be killed situation but, in hindsight, I take no pride in what I did and need to forgive myself.
I prayed for the dead men’s souls and for my own.
Dear Mother and Father,
It’s a month since we landed—it seems an eternity. War is not how l imagined it. It has a devastating effect on men. I don’t just mean the injuries and deaths but the inner pain it causes. I am hurting inside and I’m sure others are too.
But do not worry about me. I am in good spirits overall—and in good company. We cheer each other up despite our unpleasant circumstances.
Your son who is growing up the hard way, Victor
PS I will post this and another letter in the one envelope when mail is dispatched from the peninsula—which should be soon (hopefully).
I am saddened by two incidents affecting our Turkish opponents. The first I witnessed only this morning, the other I was told happened a day or two ago.
Every day since the truce an old Turkish fellow, a soldier of course, has come out of his trench unarmed to collect firewood. He’s so game that no-one bothers to pot him. We’re not going soft on the Turks but since the slaughter we have gained some respect for them.
Anyway, ‘Ernest’ as we call him, had the privilege of wandering around No Man’s Land unharmed. At least he did until this morning when we were reinforced with troops straight off the ship. One of them, keen to down his first Turk, potted Ernest before anyone could explain the special rules regarding the old man.
The other incident happened at the northern end of the Australian trench line. Some of our boys raided the Turkish trenches. They retreated with a prisoner when the counterattack became too hot. They were slowed, however, because they were assisting their wounded as well as guarding the prisoner.
Turkish soldiers got too close for comfort so they dived into a shell hole. While sheltered there, their Turkish prisoner suddenly started talking English. He said he was only part-Turk and had been forced into the army.
The situation became very dangerous when the Turks moved forward to surround them so the Australians decided to make a run for their trench line. Their prisoner volunteered to cover them—if they handed him a rifle. For whatever crazy reason, they trusted him.
‘Goodbye, old chap,’ they said as they prepared to run for their lives.
He apparently replied, ‘Smiling may you go, and smiling come again.’
They turned and ran and left him to shoot it out with his countrymen. He was quickly overrun. They hoped he was shot dead rather than taken prisoner. As a prisoner he’d have been punished severely and killed cruelly.
These two incidents, coming on top of the slaughter of 19 May, indicate how feelings between the two lines of soldiers are mellowing. We still kill one another daily but do so with less hatred in our heart.
Another indicator of a growing respect for the enemy can be heard in the way the lads refer to the Turks. Until this week they were simply Abdul but in recent days I’ve heard men refer to them as Jacko or Johnny (short for Johnny Turk). I’m not sure how those names originated.
My friends have even thrown cans of bully beef and biscuits over into the Turkish trenches in recent days.
‘Some of their fellows looked like they needed some decent tucker,’ Robbo said.
‘You can’t call those hard biscuits good tucker, mate. Those poor blighters will snap their teeth unless they soak them for a month of Sundays.’
‘If they’re smart they’ll use them as bullet-proof shields next time they attack,’ Robbo suggested and Needle roared with laughter.
The Turks responded by throwing back a tin of figs with a note attached. Needle picked it up, read it and said it was meant for him alone.
‘Why? What does it say?’ Fish asked.
‘Take with pleasure our heroic enemies. I’m the only hero amongst you lot so I’ll just stash this tin away for my private use,’ Needle said with a cheeky grin.
‘Like hell you will,’ said Fish taking the bait.
Needle laughed and handed the tin over to be shared.
The frontline has been very quiet since the slaughter. The Turks must be in shock. I don’t blame them. My friends and I were shocked by the amount of bloodshed even though we weren’t on the receiving end: we didn’t have to watch our friends needlessly mowed down.
As I sat here tonight watching the sun set over the ocean and gazing at the faint outline of peaceful Greek islands on the horizon, I realised I care less about the war and more for the people who suffer because of it. We soldiers are all victims of its brutality, whether we’re Aussie or Turk. We are more the same than we are different.
‘Robbo?’
‘Yes, mate.’
‘You said the Turks are Muslim.’
‘So, when they pray, who do they pray to?’
‘Allah.’
‘Who’s he?’
‘God, mate.’
‘Is he the same God as ours but with a different name?’
‘Very likely, Quickie, but you’d best ask one of them.’ He pointed at Jacko’s trenches then grinned. ‘But it might be safer to wait till this stoush is over before you do.’
We have been ordered to create a diversion tonight. Our commanders call it a ‘demonstration’.
‘What that means,’ Robbo said sarcastically, ‘is that we leap up out of our trenches, wave our bare bums at Jacko, then dive for cover when he gets over the shock and opens fire. And we hope like hell we aren’t killed.
‘Meanwhile, at the southern end of the peninsula, our British comrades attack their Turks without the possibility of our Turks running south to reinforce them.’
Our mates from the 15th Battalion are the first Australians to be relieved since the fighting began. They’ll be taken off the peninsula under cover of darkness and shipped to Lemnos for Leave.
Am I jealous? Hardly. Those lads have had it worse than us. The main position they hold is called Quinn’s Post. It’s well-known to be the most dangerous post on the line: it’s only a few yards wide. As well as living less than ten yards from the Turkish trenches and being wedged between steep gullies back and front, the boys from the 15th are under constant fire from higher ground.
‘They’re hanging on by the skin on their teeth,’ Needle acknowledged. ‘If you find it unpleasant here then transfer to the 15th and you’ll find yourself well and truly in hell.
‘They have regular bomb-throwing competitions with the Turks. One side throws a bomb with the fuse alight into the other’s trench. Someone there picks it up and throws it back and so on until someone’s hand or head gets blown off. And as if that’s not bad enough, last week Jacko tunnelled under their trench and blew it up killing several men.’
‘You wonder how men stay sane under such shocking living conditions,’ Robbo mused. ‘Maybe they don’t,’ he added sadly.
This morning the first combined religious service was held on the peninsula. Word was passed around the trenches yesterday to meet near the intersection of Pope and Monash gullies. I arrived early and joined a small party, including the Chaplains, in removing empty shell cases and bodies from the site. There are bodies everywhere. As quickly as they’re removed for burial in the cemeteries, more men are killed in the same spot or on the ridges above and their bodies slide down into the gullies.
The site chosen for the service was only 150 yards from the frontline. There were a couple of hundred men present and the service was short. The less time spent in a large group, the better. The men and Chaplains knew it was unsafe to congregate but most of us had never had a greater need to pray than now.
I gazed around the congregation. It was very different from the one I’d grown up amongst in Moonta. There were no women of course, and the men, instead of presenting themselves in their Sunday-best, were in rough battle dress, had grimy haggard faces (mostly unshaved) and blood-shot eyes.
I mentioned to Robbo that I’d never seen such an unkempt congregation.
‘The stress of war strips away the non-essentials, Quickie. Men become more honest and open. At moments of greatest stress we can read each other’s soul.’
‘Strewth!’ Needle replied. ‘I don’t want you blokes seeing what’s inside me. It’s bad enough having to expose my backside to you on the open latrine without getting even more personal.’
‘Talking of the latrine,’ Fish interrupted. ‘A sniper’s been targeting blokes as they go about their business, so take care.’
‘How much worse can this place get?’ Needle asked. ‘You risk being blown sky high every time you wash in the ocean and now you risk having your brains splattered while squatting over the long-drop.’
Dear Mother and Father,
Another short letter which I’ll post today with another two. I apologise for how crumpled and dirty they are—they’ve been folded in my pocket since I wrote them. Things are settling down here. A mail delivery system is finally set up and will operate as regularly as space on lighters and supply ships allows.
We go about our daily routines almost as if a war is not raging all around us. This morning we had our first joint religious service and sang our hearts out. I felt, and others obviously did too, the need to whole-heartedly express myself. With so much nasty business going on around us, any peaceful activity is to be treasured.
Your devoted son, Victor
PS Pardon my rudeness. I have not asked after your health and happiness nor that of Hans. Please write and tell me all is well. Good news is vital in this place at this time.
How much worse can conditions get? Well, despite their fear of the sniper, men gather in greater and greater numbers at the latrine. Why?
The summer heat plus countless dead bodies has resulted in millions of flies hatching out—and flies quickly spread disease. Diarrhoea is rampant and it’s rumoured that men have been evacuated with dysentery. As Needle said, ‘We’re more likely to die of fly-poisoning than lead-poisoning.’ The Big Brass are taking that threat very seriously and have ordered us to tighten up on hygiene. If dysentery becomes widespread our strength as a fighting force will be considerably weakened.
Nearly everyone has been wracked with severe stomach cramps in recent days. The pain forces sufferers to lie down and curl up in a ball. That’s not the ideal position to fend off a Turkish attack.
Lice are a continual problem. If we attack them regularly we can control their numbers but not eliminate them. My friends and I sit in a circle like a troop of monkeys then pick the nits and their eggs out of each other’s hair. Our hair is cut as short as possible to give the miserable so-and-so’s less area to breed.
Once heads are done we remove our shirts and shorts and squeeze the hems and joins between our fingernails. These thicker sections are where the lice congregate and lay their eggs. The final step, apart from washing the clothes which can happen only rarely because of water shortages, is to run a candle flame around the seams to fry the survivors.
Despite thorough purges, we cannot defeat the lice army.
Turkish spies were caught wearing the uniforms of dead Australians. One man’s final words before he was shot were, ‘Surrender, Australian. Do not die for your English masters. Surrender or the Turkish army will drive you into the sea and take no prisoners.’
Despite our brutal conditions, I am often struck by the beauty of the peninsula. This evening the sun was setting and the blue waters of the Aegean sparkled under the soft orange clouds. I dropped my guard and allowed my senses to soak up the peaceful moment.
A barrage of Turkish shells brought me back to reality with a bang. Shrapnel burst over the men bathing in the ocean. Some swam on unharmed but others dropped dead in the gentle waves or splashed around in great agony. Blood stained the blue waters red.
A treat was issued with the evening meal—bread. We hadn’t tasted bread since we landed six weeks ago. It helped to fill our bellies and reminded us of home. My mates and I shared a tin of jam to add to the moment. It’s amazing to think that such a simple meal can make men feel so good.
The shelling of ANZAC Cove has continued all week. The Turks are probably trying to destroy the new pier. Until now every man, food supply, piece of ammunition and building material has had to come ashore on a temporary pier. The shame of the increased shelling is that it makes even more dangerous the simple act of bathing and denies men one of the few pleasures available to them in this hellhole.
The concentrated shelling of the beach made it slightly safer to move around elsewhere. I visited the cemetery and paid my respects to our dead. I also spent time tidying up the graves, righting crosses that had been blown down and fixing rock borders around the plots of men from my battalion.
It’s hard enough digging trenches and dugouts but now there’s a push on all along the front to dig tunnels out under No Man’s Land. It’s not a job I want. Father once took me underground in Moonta. There the shafts are large and men can stand up: here they are shallow and narrow and men have to wriggle on their stomachs to get into a digging position. Safety precautions are minimal and there’s always the possibility that the percussion of an artillery shell overhead will send the roof crushing down, burying men alive. The men who volunteer to work underground on this peninsula are brave indeed.
Once each tunnel reaches the Turkish trenches, the tunnellers fill the end with explosives. When the time is right they’ll be detonated then the Turks entrenched above will be blown sky-high.
‘Seems like a lot of dangerous work to achieve what one well-placed naval shell could do,’ Needle commented.
‘Yes, but naval guns can’t get the correct trajectory to lob shells into a trench and do maximum damage,’ Robbo explained. ‘And besides, digging tunnels is better than sitting around doing nothing. We’ve got to do something different to get us out of this pickle. At the moment our situation is a hopeless stalemate.
‘It seems to me,’ he continued, ‘that if the Brass Hats had got their planning right earlier this year, they’d have known the Turks were well entrenched on this part of the peninsula. Knowing that, they could have landed us in some less fortified location and used our fighting grit where it had some chance of success.’
About 200 blokes attended this evening’s service and sang their hearts out despite Jacko’s attempts to silence us. Hymns are always sung with great volume and feeling here on the peninsula. Such raucous singing would raise the roof off the church back in Moonta and would no doubt be considered bad taste by the good church-goers.
Today was the best day since we bathed in the warm springs at Thermia two months ago: a store ship unloaded canteen supplies. Our battalion was resting behind the lines and able to get on the queue before the swarm arrived. My friends and I varied our purchases to ensure we bought something of everything: pickles, sauce, tinned fruit, biscuits, milk powder and chocolate. We feasted and laughed like we did in the old times back in Adelaide.
More joy was to come: a two months’ supply of mail was distributed. I pitied the lads in the frontline who didn’t have time to immediately read their pile. Some blokes received as many as six letters. I received a package and letter and then retreated to a shallow squat.
I sat alone, with my back pushed into a hollow in the hillside and my body facing the view. But it wasn’t the view I was interested in: it was the news from home. I read and re-read Mother’s letter.
Dear Victor,
We do hope you are safe. We have read such heroic and horrible reports about the Gallipoli landing and battles. When Father and I signed your enlistment form we had no idea what we were getting you into. We wish we had not signed it—but we did and now all we can do is pray for your survival and the success of the ANZAC campaign. Please write so we know you are alive and well.
On the surface, life goes on as usual here in Moonta, but underneath everything has changed. I fear for your life every moment of every day.
Please write and please tell us you are uninjured. One injured man in the family is one too many.
Your very worried Mother and Father
PS We find it hard to get information about Hans. I am frustrated and sad that two of the most important men in my life have been taken from me by this war.
Dear Mother and Father,
Good news—I am in one piece. And well. And in good company. I am amongst the ANZACS. Indeed, I am an ANZAC and proud to be so. You may have read the word in the paper. It stands for Australian and New Zealand Army Corps. That’s how the British High Command labelled us on the day of the landing—and it’s stuck. We’re stuck too. We’re dug-in and the Turks are dug-in and the result is a stalemate.
I have better news: supplies regularly arrive so we now have bread and a store to buy small luxury food items. And the Chaplains have been given permission to hold religious services every Sunday.
I will post this letter immediately but who knows when it will leave the peninsula. I wish that I could accompany it back to you.
Love to you both, your battle-hardened son,
Victor
Dig, dig, dig. All week we deepened trenches, enlarged dugouts and created extra terraces on the steep hills behind the lines to accommodate reinforcements. On top of those fatigues we were ordered to help build a section of an artillery road further down the valley.
We worked very hard under a scorching sun. The water shortage, coupled with the millions of annoying flies, added to our discomfort. When we saw a change blowing in over the ocean, we were delighted. What it brought, unfortunately, was a massive dust storm. We were hit by a sudden wind that picked up rubbish and newspapers and blew them across into the Turkish trenches. Sadly, some men lost precious letters that had not been stored safely.
The Turks became spooked by the storm, especially when lightning strikes and thunder added to the atmosphere. They probably feared we’d attack under cover of the dust so they opened fire with everything they had. Their shellfire added to a most unpleasant day.
They wasted their ammo. We’ve got nothing planned. Our inaction is a sore point. The men are frustrated by the lack of an offensive plan.
We’ve been relieved by the boys from the 9th Battalion. We’re in the reserve trench and this time next Thursday we’ll be on a ship bound for three days Leave on the isle of Imbros. We can see it silhouetted on the horizon each evening at sunset. It represents paradise on earth.
Now that we’re out of the firing line we can hear the boom of artillery to the south where the Tommies (British soldiers) are still trying to break the Turk’s stranglehold on Cape Helles. A handful of our lads died in the Monday demonstration trying to distract ‘our’ Turks from reinforcing their Turkish brothers against that main offensive. Why can’t we swap places with the Tommies and see some real fighting instead of playing cat and mouse here? If we’re going to die, at least let us die having a real go.
‘I’ve got itchy pants,’ Needle commented, ‘and it’s not just from the nits. I just want to keep out of harm’s way and board that ship tomorrow in one piece.’
‘Do you think there’ll be any women on Imbros?’ Fish asked.
‘If there are I’d keep my hands and eyes to myself,’ Robbo warned. ‘Greek fathers and brothers are notoriously protective of their womenfolk. If they come after you, you’ll wish you were back here playing with Jacko.’
We were roused, and happy to be so, at 3.30 am. We went down to the beach with great anticipation. We sang as they ferried us out to the waiting ship then cheered when the anchor was raised and we sailed west over the ocean blue.
Dear Mother and Father,
We are on Leave on a Greek island. Two and a half months ago we would have thought life here is normal but compared to how we live on Gallipoli, this is paradise. I cannot explain how happy I am to be free of the frontline. I wish we’d never met Johnny Turk.
I agree with Robbo that war changes everyone but I realise that the reverse is also true—peace changes everyone. After three days of uninterrupted sleep, good food, relaxing swims, warm baths, new clothes and a liberal amount of fresh water my battalion look like new men.
On that bright note, I’ll say goodbye.
Your refreshed son, Victor
We’ve been back in the firing line for several days. It’s very quiet. It’s almost as if Jacko’s lot and our lot have come up with an arrangement: each side fires off just enough bullets and shells to keep our officers happy but not enough to do too much damage.
The big news today came from the New Zealand camp. They’ve sentenced a fellow named Dunn to death for sleeping at his post. Every Aussie I spoke to was very angry. They said commanders have no idea what the ordinary fighting man is going through.
‘I’d like to line up some of the Big Brass,’ Robbo commented angrily. ‘I bet half the blokes on the peninsula would volunteer to be in that firing squad.’
‘Bloody oath,’ Needle responded. ‘The poor sod was no doubt exhausted. But I blame his mates for letting an officer catch him out. What are mates for but to look after one another.’
I went to Chaplain Frank’s service. The singing was uplifting and energetic. Mind you, it had to be, to be heard over Turkish shells and the shouts of Maori fellows shifting iron water tanks on the slopes above. They seemed to have only one volume when they spoke—LOUD. They’re big, burly blokes so no-one dared ask them to be quiet. At one stage the Chaplain simply paused mid-sentence then continued when they quietened down. On another occasion he ducked as a shell exploded nearby. It’s a good thing he did because a hunk of shrapnel whizzed through the air at head height in his direction. He straightened up, looked to the heavens with a smile, then continued his sermon.
We ‘Stood to’ awaiting a Turkish attack yesterday but it didn’t eventuate. Many of my comrades, despite our recent Leave, are not in good shape. Dysentery is spreading rapidly. Sufferers lose precious fluids, and that, coupled with the intense heat, leaves them dehydrated. They collapse and have to be stretchered down to the beach, given fluids then shipped to Lemnos or Alexandria. We’ve heard both hospitals are filled to capacity, more with sick men than wounded.
Gallipoli is a particularly unhealthy place at the moment. Before we warring armies moved in, I imagine it was a very beautiful place to live. I hope the resident farmers and shepherds escaped with their lives. When and if they return, their farms and grazing lands will never again be the same.
Men’s physical health continues to deteriorate. Acute dysentery is the culprit. Two hundred and fifty men were evacuated yesterday alone. They reckon that brings the number of sufferers to 1,200. It’s a sad fact that a fellow’s far more likely to be brought down by disease rather than a bullet.
News has filtered through of yet another slaughter. I thought those days had passed. The New Zealanders, at the northern end of the line, were on the giving end of the bullets. They provoked Jacko by detonating explosives in saps (tunnels) under his trench.
The Turks must have reasoned that they’d sooner die fighting than have their legs blown off while sheltering in a trench. They rose like a swarm of angry bees and charged the New Zealanders’ trenches. The Kiwis cheered—then mowed them down in their hundreds.
I tidy up a few graves every time I pass to and from the beach but today I volunteered to be part of a cemetery fatigue. Chaplain Frank had collected bits of broken planks with which we constructed and repaired crosses.
We pulled weeds, tidied up the stone borders around graves and touched up faded names with a lick of paint. The borders remind me of Hans’ garden beds at home. The cemetery is large and growing daily. The number of inhabitants increased late in the day when a fresh batch of bodies arrived from the morgue.
We set to and dug a fresh batch of graves. The ground was rock-hard and the sun oppressive but we knew the importance of our job. By the time we’d finished digging and Chaplain Frank returned to say a few words over our comrades’ remains, we were filthy dirty, dripping with perspiration and shirtless.
To turn up to a funeral back in Australia dressed as we were, would provoke calls of ‘shame’ but here it is perfectly appropriate. Tears and perspiration ran down my cheeks as the Chaplain said a few final words.
‘They may not have been perfect but they made the supreme sacrifice. There will be many sad hearts back in Australia when news of the death of these brave men is made known to their families.’
I looked around at the names. Some I knew, some I did not. The saddest looking graves were those with crosses but no name, only the inscription Unknown Soldier. Some men are so badly injured by artillery shells that their bodies cannot be identified.
‘Johnny Turk’s about to cop a hiding,’ Needle told us confidently.
‘What do you know that we don’t?’ Robbo asked.
‘I spoke to a Tommy down on the beach,’ Needle replied, ‘and he said fresh troops are about to land north of here at Suvla Bay. There’ll be 20,000 Aussies, New Zealanders, Indians and Tommies. The Big Brass have planned the biggest offensive of the campaign.
‘All we’ve got to do is keep the Turks in front of us busy so they don’t rush north to oppose the landing then, when the Suvla lads have taken the high ground (he pointed to the big hills less than a mile to the north), we stroll across and claim Jacko’s trenches.’
‘What will Jacko do while we’re strolling?’ Robbo asked.
‘He’ll run as soon as our boys are up there (he pointed again) and can fire on him from the high ground. We all know Jacko’s heart’s not in this stoush, so as soon as we get the upper-hand, he’ll be out of here in a flash.’
‘Our heart’s not in this two-pot campaign either,’ Robbo commented, ‘but we haven’t run just because Jacko has the high ground. What makes you think he’s going to act less courageously than us? So far he’s given every indication that he’s every bit as stubborn and prepared to die as we are, maybe even more so. This is his patch of dirt remember. I know I’d fight to my last drop of blood if I was fighting invaders of my country.’
‘Too right,’ Fish said in support. ‘I’d die to protect Australia,’ then added with a smile, ‘mainly because I don’t want to share our good-looking Aussie women with anyone, especially foreigners.’
Needle had some other news too. Barrels of wine, believed to be from the Triumph, washed ashore yesterday.
‘You lads will be pleased to know I’m not just a pretty face. I managed to fill a water container before an officer came along and put the kibosh on us.’
‘You little champion,’ Fish cried excitedly.
‘What vintage is it?’
Needle was about to give a terse reply when he saw the grin on Robbo’s face.
‘It’s a 1915 Jacko Estate Claret, old chap.’
‘Not a good year, nor a very reputable winery,’ Robbo said in a fake British officer’s accent.
‘Well it’s all we’ve got in stock, sir,’ Needle replied. ‘Your companions and I would be delighted if we did not have to share it with you.’
‘Count me in, cobber,’ Robbo quickly replied.
Needle poured everyone a share.
‘To our health,’ he said raising his mug. ‘Long may we live.’
I participated in the toast most heartily but took only the tiniest sip.
Needle’s rumour was on the money. A big push is just a day or two away. It’s make or break time. If the new forces at Suvla can push Jacko off the high ground, the last 102 days (that’s how long we’ve been here), will have been worthwhile.
We’ve been issued a fresh supply of jam-tin bombs plus respirators in case of a gas attack. That’s a horrible possibility. I hope our Intelligence boys don’t know something that we don’t. Of all the horrid ways to die, suffocating because of a lung full of burning gas would have to be the worst.
Reinforcements arrived late today. I feel sorry for them. Their first day or two in the frontline will be a baptism of fire. They look so young and unworried. They’re nervous, of course, but their faces aren’t lined with fatigue and stress lines like we ‘old-hands’.
I wonder what I look like. I haven’t seen my face properly for weeks. The only mirror available is small, cracked, chipped and dirty. It’s almost impossible to wash and shave properly with our paltry issue of water.
We go over the top tomorrow. If Needle’s right and everything goes to plan, the Suvla offensive will grab the initiative and the high ground to the north and the Turks opposite us will be caught between their flanking fire and our frontal attack.
If all goes to plan. So far not much has from the moment we landed.
If all goes to plan we’ll have captured Lone Pine by this time tomorrow.
Just in case things don’t go to plan I intend to get my affairs in order tonight and write a letter home. Needle, Robbo and Fish are doing the same. None of us feel much like sleeping.
Dear Mother and Father,
Tomorrow we go over the top and attack the enemy in a full frontal attack—something we have not done since the day we landed. The Turks attempted a similar attack a couple of months ago with devastating results. I hope we are more successful.
I left home a boy but after what I’ve been through here, I have grown rapidly into adulthood. We live and die and conduct relationships here, man to man. There is no other way to survive.
I am determined to return but if I do not, rest assured I died gamely believing that you could not have been more loving or better parents. I hope I do survive so that I can return and tell you this face to face.
Your son, Victor
The order’s come through. The first wave hops the bags at 4.30 pm. My lot are in reserve but everyone feels the tension. The day has dragged. I’ve sharpened my bayonet and dismantled and cleaned my rifle several times. I’m more nervous than I was on 25 April. I guess that’s because I’ve now seen what guns can do to a fellow.
To the south, the Cape Helles lads are into the Turks already. There’s been heavy rifle and artillery fire for two hours. This waiting, after three months of inactivity, is gut-wrenching. Or maybe that’s the diarrhoea. My innards haven’t been right for weeks. These nervous hours of waiting aren’t helping them to settle.
Our machine-gun section will be into the action from the start. Their job is to protect the northern flank as our infantry move forward. If Turkish machine-gunners are allowed free range they’ll make mincemeat of our boys.
The tunnellers will do their bit too. The noise, dust, craters and confusion they’ll cause when they blow their explosives, should give our lads some cover during their frontal assault. In the minute or so it takes the dust to settle our boys will hopefully have dashed across No Man’s land and be into the Turks with cold steel.
BANG BANG BANG.
A series of explosives shook the Turkish trenches and immediately our lads went over the top.
I was able to follow events through a periscope. A large number of our brave lads made it across the open ground, up onto the Turkish parapets then down into the trenches. Their intrusion prevented the Turks from firing as heavily at our second wave and within an hour a gold signal flag indicated we’d won the first trench.
Holding it is likely to prove a very bloody business.
Reports coming back tell of savage hand-to-hand combat, cold steel and no quarter given. The Turks held their ground and fought for every inch of every trench but gradually they were pushed back. Barriers were quickly thrown up to prevent counterattacks. The barriers, however, did not stop a barrage of bombs being thrown over the top. Men positioned themselves on both sides of the barrier to catch the bombs and throw them back. I desperately hope that phase of the stoush is over by the time my lot are called to action. My nerves couldn’t handle that.
Not that any man is ordered to perform such a dangerous task: they volunteer. The pluck of the average Australian fighter is unbelievable. The ‘good’ people at home will never believe how nobly behaved are lads who they would see as larrikins and no-hopers. I am honoured to serve with such men.
My mates openly weep when they see wounded comrades carried back through the trenches. Even the wounded are unbelievably brave. One man had shocking facial injuries but was singing as the stretcher-bearers carried him past. Another, whose legs were riddled with bullets, joked that, ‘It’s raining death over there boys so take an umbrella.’
After hearing such optimism in spite of terrible pain, I am ashamed of my whinges about minor discomforts. I am resolved to stick this game out and show the same pluck that my comrades display.
What a bloody mess! By that I mean this trench and the great Suvla offensive. I am tired of things military. Surely the God of War has had his fill of the slaughter by now.
I’m in Jacko’s trenches and he’s not happy. His big guns are shelling us mercilessly. When their heavy BOOM BOOM BOOM stops, we immediately hear cries of ‘ALLAH’ as Turkish infantry charge our position.
It’s bedlam. We don’t know what’s happening on either side of our line. The signallers regularly run lines of communication back to our trenches but Turkish shells quickly blast them (and often the poor signallers) to pieces.
I don’t know how the demonstration at Cape Helles is going but if it’s as savage as this, the Tommies will be at their wits’ end.
I’m hoping the big Suvla offensive to the north is successful but as yet there’s no sign of our lads occupying the high ground. If they were in position the Turks would have let up on us by now. But they haven’t, so Suvla must still be in the balance.
Thank goodness I have mates whose bravery is matched by their initiative. In the confines of the trenches individual soldiers do whatever has to be done to secure our position. They don’t wait for an officer to give an order, they act on instinct.
If enough officers survive to write reports, I’m sure many men from the battalion will be recognised for their bravery and selfless actions. If they don’t survive, we, their mates, know of their heroic deeds and that’s all that really matters.
Shells continue to rain on us but the Turkish counterattacks have subsided. It is nearly impossible to bring food supplies up to us or to carry our wounded back for treatment. As a result we take food rations from dead chums and Turks and can do little to comfort our dying mates. Those who have been killed outright are better off.
This is war at its most primitive.
I feel like a wild beast.
We do not hesitate to drag dead Turks along our section of the trench and throw them on top of the barricades and parapet. I was appalled when Jacko did that to our dead and now I am doing exactly the same thing.
Despite our beastly actions I am entrenched with some of the best men I’ve ever known. Men who do not know me would lie down their lives to save mine and they would expect me to do the same. We live and die as one. They face death with a smile and whinge about nothing.
I surprised myself last night. I acted more bravely than I imagined possible.
The Turks know their old trenches backwards and used that knowledge to their advantage. They pinned us down with deadly sniper fire then sent a patrol into a barricaded communication trench. I was dozing in a dugout nearby and didn’t hear two men climb the barricade or bayonet our guards. Maybe they’d nodded off: we are all exhausted. Whatever the reason, their lapse proved fatal.
Some instinct woke me and possibly saved my life. I grabbed my rifle and bayonet and stepped out into the trench where I tripped over the dead guards. I looked left and saw two intruders moving stealthily along our trench. Before I could fire upon them I heard a noise to my right: two more Turks were climbing over the barricade. I had to act quickly.
I yelled a warning then fired at the fellows on the barricade. Both screamed and fell, one fatally. The other staggered on toward me with bayonet in hand so I fired again. He fell facedown with a thud. Before I could catch my breath, one of the two intruders rushed at me from behind. We engaged in hand-to-hand combat. In the narrow trench we crashed into walls and tripped over corpses. We were soon covered in blood, our own and that of the dead. Luckily I gained the upper hand and finished him off with my bayonet.
Two more Turks were coming over the barricade so I picked up my rifle and fired until I saw no more heads or hands trying to climb over. I relaxed slightly and as I did so a rifle fired behind me and a body crashed into me at high speed, knocking me to the ground and falling on top of me.
‘You all right, Quickie?’ Robbo asked.
He lifted the dead Turk off me and I climbed gingerly to my feet.
‘I don’t know,’ I replied. ‘I think so.’
He looked along the trench to the foot of the broken barricade. ‘You got five of them, mate. Not a bad effort for a bloke who was asleep. Think how many you could have potted if you’d been wide awake.’
I staggered slightly as I moved towards him. He grabbed my arm in support.
‘I’m all right,’ I told him. ‘I tripped.’
He looked at my bruised and swollen face then said, ‘Come on, cobber. I’ll fix you a hot drink.’
By then other men from my battalion had pushed past to block and guard the barricade.
‘I didn’t give myself much chance of surviving,’ I told him nervously. ‘Thank goodness you turned up when you did.’
‘Don’t thank me, mate. It’s we who should thank you.’
‘Too right,’ one or others chorused. ‘Who knows how many of our lads would be dead if you hadn’t put your life on the line.’
‘God bless you, cobber,’ another added.
They slapped me on the back and moved forward with bayonets ready for action.
Robbo laughed. ‘You’ve made quite a reputation for yourself, Quickie. I knew you had it in you.’
Counterattacks on Lone Pine have ceased. The Turks have fallen back to lick their wounds, as we desperately need to do too.
It is nerve-wracking being in unfamiliar trenches. In our trenches we know only too well where the danger points are but here we feel vulnerable. We’re obviously well protected from our old trenches but that’s not where the snipers lie in wait. We are frantically throwing up a parapet along what was the rear of the Turkish trench and is now the front of the Australian trench.
Sadly, we have buried many bodies in the parapet to rid the trench of their stench. None of us have shaved, showered or changed clothes or socks for four days. Needle commented that we stink like fly-blown sheep.
Our pain has had some gain. Lone Pine is now firmly in Australian hands. I would not call it a victory but those in command may wish to describe it that way. Taking these trenches has come at a great cost. Casualties have been posted and across the three battalions in our brigade (3,000 men), there are 2,000 casualties including 800 dead. By the looks of many of the casualties, some won’t live long enough to get to the hospital on Lemnos, and many of those who do will be crippled or maimed for life.
Despite our losses, spirits are reasonably high in this section of the line because of our small gain in territory. Men’s spirits elsewhere on the peninsula must be at an all-time low. The Cape Helles demonstration failed to establish any worthwhile gains and the major offensive at Suvla Bay cost thousands of lives and gained nothing. Suvla was our last great hope of breaking the stalemate and overpowering the Turkish army. What now?
Our commanders may still believe we are superior fighters to our Turkish adversaries and think we can fight our way free of this stalemate but those of us in the trenches know differently. The Turks are magnificent fighters and very brave men. We respect Jacko as our equal.
A matter which is so horrific that I can hardly bare to write about it concerns our comrades one mile from here on the northern end of the line: the men of the Australian Light Horse.
On Saturday, one day after my lot were ordered over the top to take Lone Pine, the Light Horse at Quinn’s were ordered to charge across a narrow strip of land known as The Nek to capture the Turkish trenches.
I’m not sure exactly what went wrong but it’s rumoured the artillery barrage designed to keep Jacko’s head down, let up too soon. This gave the Turks time to get back into their trenches and prime their weapons.
When the first wave of the Light Horse climbed aloft to charge, they were mown down within a couple of paces.
The second wave rose and were slaughtered on top of their mates. Turkish machine-gunners knocked them over like skittles.
The roar of machine-guns was apparently deafening but somehow the third wave heard the order to ‘Go’ and go they did—to certain death.
A fourth wave was partially halted so there were less fatalities.
The Light Horse copped more than 350 casualties including 234 deaths. The death rate was so high because the Turks shot them at very close range.
My friends and I were on the beach when we heard the news.
‘It was a piece of madness to keep ordering men over the top in such a situation,’ Needle said angrily. ‘What officer thought so little of his men that he sent wave after wave to such certain slaughter? He ought to be shot.’
Fish told him to keep his voice down. We weren’t far from headquarters and if someone in authority heard his rebellious remarks, he’d be placed on a charge.
‘I don’t care what they do to me,’ he bellowed.
‘But we do,’ Robbo said assertively. ‘We need you alongside us when we move back into the frontline.’
‘Whoever gave the order was a murderer,’ Needle snapped then dropped to his knees. ‘The Light Horse lads must have known they were dead men as soon as they stepped up.’ He broke into deep sobs.
Robbo let him settle then said, ‘But they went over the top. And you know why, cobber. They didn’t do it because some officer ordered them: they did it because they knew their mates were going.
‘Without our mates none of us could withstand this senseless slaughter and squalor,’ he added almost to himself.
No-one spoke for some time. We each squatted beside Needle and gazed out to sea where the late afternoon sun’s rays silhouetted the naval vessels patrolling the coastline. If we weren’t at war, the scene would have been idyllic.
Each of us empathised with Needle’s grief. Each of us knew we should cry every day to relieve the pain we felt at the loss of comrades, even those we’d never met.
Gradually Needle’s sobs subsided. He raised his head and stared out to sea.
‘We’re wonderfully lucky to be alive,’ he said with a sniff then wiped his eyes and nose with the back of his hand. Dirt streaked across his weary face.
A second later a Turkish shell exploded, Needle was dead and we were catapulted across the pebbles.
Fish was wounded in the blast that killed Needle and has been shipped off to the hospital on Lemnos. Robbo and I only have minor wounds.
‘No wound is minor here, laddie,’ the doctor told me as he patched me up. ‘Even the simplest of scratches can get infected and before you know it your arm or leg has turned septic and swollen up like a football. In the worst cases, we have to amputate.’
‘I’ll be right, Doc,’ I replied. ‘I’m tough.’
‘You’re not,’ he corrected. ‘Nearly half the lads from your battalion have been evacuated in recent weeks with dysentery and septic wounds. You were fit and healthy before you landed here but the campaign’s taken its toll on you.’ He stood back and looked me up and down. ‘You’re sick and you’re run down, laddie. It’s only your stubborn loyalty to your chums that keeps you going day in, day out.’
He gave me medication to apply to my scratches.
‘You’re a good lad. Look after yourself.’
I thanked him and left the Red Cross station.
Robbo and I and some mates buried Needle today. The battalion buries someone every day but we’re not able to attend most funerals. Today’s was well attended because our lot was not in the frontline and could be spared from fatigues.
I’d have risked a charge of AWOL (Absent Without Leave) to be there. I owed Needle’s mother a massive apology. I promised her I’d look after her son but I’d failed her badly. The least I could do was be part of his burial party and tend his grave thereafter.
The ceremony was short. Chaplain Frank had many other lads to bury. The bodies are being stretchered back from Lone Pine at a shocking rate, and besides, the Turkish artillery sent shrapnel shells over every few minutes specifically targeting the cemetery. They are determined to drive us from their land. Who knows what will happen to the graves of our brave lads when this campaign is over.
I’m on Lemnos recuperating. Why? A combination of factors: mild dysentery, a septic infection, diarrhoea, you can throw in fatigue too—mental and physical. Five days ago I awoke with no energy and dizziness. As I crawled out of my dugout my strength left me and I keeled over so they stretchered me to the beach then shipped me here.
I felt pretty crook for the first two days but with some hearty meals and uninterrupted sleep, I’ve recovered quickly and am returning to the peninsula tomorrow.
While here I’ve caught up with Fish. He’s not too good. His original wound was nothing major but he lay unattended in No Man’s Land for 24 hours before stretcher-bearers got to him. It was scorching hot by day and freezing cold by night. Luckily he fell with his water bottle at hand or he probably would have died of thirst.
Infection had set in before he got here and doctors are battling to save his leg. Worse than that, his morale is very low. He’s lost his will to live.
‘What’s the point, Quickie? My life’s shot. I had dreams but they’ve turned into a nightmare. I wanted to marry and have kids, and I wanted to prove to my parents I could travel and make something of myself instead of which I’ll go home less of a man than when I went away.’
‘There’s no guarantee they’ll remove your leg. Stay positive,’ I told him but could see that his eyes were filled with despair.
I visited him again this morning and he looks ghastly. The doctor said they’ll operate to remove his leg tomorrow. I’ll be on the ship by then. I hope all goes well.
Until recently, I would have prayed for his recovery but during my convalescence I’ve been rethinking my beliefs. I have doubts. My life these past four months has been shaken up. I have lost faith in our commanders and all those in authority above them including King and Country, even God. I have gained faith in my mates. Mateship is all I have. It’s what keeps me alive.
I’m beginning to sound as pessimistic as Fish so I should stop. I’ll go for a walk. Fresh air and sea views have always revitalised me. Moonta has a beautiful, white sand beach which stretches for miles. When I return home, which I am determined to do, I have promised myself that I will love my family and my little mining community more than I ever did before this monstrous war intruded.
It’s hard to believe that it’s now one year since I enlisted with such naïve enthusiasm.
Dear Mother and Father,
We captured a series of trenches called Lone Pine, as I’m sure you’ve read in the paper. We paid a big price for this small gain. I was not wounded but suffered fatigue and had to be evacuated to a nearby Greek island. I have recovered quickly and go back to the peninsula tomorrow. Do not worry about me. When I am there I am where I want to be—with my battalion.
I have very sad news: Needle was killed. Fish was wounded in the same explosion and is likely to lose a leg.
I cannot write more, it is too hurtful.
Your son, Victor
PS Please let Hans be healthy.
As I waited to board the ship this evening, I received the horrendous news that Fish died this afternoon. I am upset that I cannot be here for his funeral but I have to persevere, and survive, and go on without him, and for him.
I am back with the battalion and feel very much at home in their company. We go back to Lone Pine tomorrow. We are rotated 48 hours in the frontline then 48 hours in reserve.
When we had a moment’s privacy I told Robbo of Fish’s death. It came as a shock. He hadn’t been expecting it.
‘His wounds weren’t that serious.’
‘They turned septic.’
‘This whole campaign’s septic,’ he replied. ‘This peninsula’s a very unhealthy place to live and who knows how much longer we’ll be stuck here. This stalemate could go on for years. Our chances of getting off alive are pretty slim, Quickie. If we could walk on water we could withdraw overnight.’ He gazed over the ocean.
His mood was shattered by Turkish shells exploding just beyond our trench. Dirt and rocks rained down on us. ‘And I don’t fancy surrendering to Johnny Turk. He’s not too keen on us since we arrived uninvited.’
I asked the lads if any of them could give me paper and a pencil. They suggested I visit the YMCA tent.
‘Their representative arrived during your absence. He’ll give you stationery and even a table of sorts to sit and write at.’
‘Jessop’s his name.’
‘Is he a good bloke?’ I asked.
‘Must be. He’s had no shortage of volunteers to help him build bench seats. And he’s got the Big Brass on-side—they’ve allowed him to scrounge timber, tools and even a marquee.’
I introduced myself to Mr Jessop. He was such a positive person that I too immediately offered to help him. We shook hands and as we did so a mighty explosion sent rocks and soil thudding into the canvas wall and bouncing along the roof. We laughed.
‘Welcome to Gallipoli,’ I said. ‘You’ve probably learned already that nowhere’s safe from shellfire or snipers, so watch where you go.’
‘I’m prepared to go wherever you men go and run the risks you run in your daily lives,’ he replied.
I admired his spirit and knew he’d fit in.
At sunset Robbo and I walked to the cemetery and paid our respects to Needle. Robbo had maintained the grave in my absence.
At an appropriate moment we moved our attention from Needle to Fish. We turned and faced the sun setting over the ocean. The Greek islands were faintly silhouetted: the sun set directly behind them.
Robbo and I put arms around each other’s shoulders and remained silent until I said, ‘May you both rest in peace. You were the best of mates, and the best of men.’
‘You gave it your best shot, cobbers,’ Robbo added. ‘We’ll never forget that.’
The sad news keeps coming, relentlessly. Chaplain Frank was shot and killed this morning. A sniper put a bullet clean through him. There is no leniency granted by the Turks even to men of God. Where was the Chaplain’s ‘Cobber on High’ when he needed him? You can’t survive here without a cobber’s care.
I don’t mean to sound cynical but this place saps all the hope out of you. Frank was a good man, probably one of the best on the peninsula and yet he’s dead and others, less compassionate, are alive and killing.
We’re back in the line. Snipers are rife. We must do something to silence them. The New Zealanders have apparently cleared them out quite effectively by patiently out-snipering them. That’s what we need to do. Give them some of their own medicine. It’s kill or be killed. Men often say, ‘If a bullet’s got your name on it, there’s no avoiding it.’ I believe that now.
We have been supplied with a number of periscopes and Robbo and I have commandeered one for ourselves.
‘When we get some fatigue-free time, Quickie, I think you and I might settle down and shoot some wild turkey.’ He chuckled at his own joke.
‘We need to do something to make this place safer,’ I replied. ‘Look at some of these new lads. They’ll be sitting ducks for Jacko unless they learn not to bob their heads up.’
‘Yes, grandfather.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You sound like my grandfather, Quickie. Do you realise you’re probably younger than those lads you want to protect.’
‘I’m a lot more experienced in trench warfare than they are,’ I replied.
Age doesn’t matter one bit on the peninsula. The ability to survive is all that counts. We ‘old-hands’ can do little more than hang on till the Big Brass decide our fate and in the meanwhile pass on some survival tips to the ‘new-hands’.
This afternoon Robbo came back with a periscope rifle. The men are manufacturing them in a workshop near the beach. These modified rifles allow a man to stand in a trench and take aim then pull the trigger with a length of string.
‘The lads at Quinn’s have been using them for a couple of months,’ he told me. ‘They warned me they’re not as accurate as the unmodified Lee-Enfield but they do the job once you get used to them. Accuracy’s improved if you have a spotter who points out the target. That’s you, Quickie.’
We trialled the two-person system late this afternoon but despite my best directions, we failed to pot a Turk. Our bullets were not totally wasted. I watched where each bullet lodged so Robbo could work out whether the rifle consistently aimed high, low, left or right.
Late afternoon is the best time to snipe from our trench because we have the glare of the setting sun behind us. The Turks can’t see us without squinting but the low rays spotlight their trenches very clearly. The reverse applies in the mornings.
Robbo and I regularly remind the ‘new-hands’ of this fact but also spell it out that no time is ever perfectly safe.
Bad news (is there ever any good news?) The ship carrying reinforcements to the peninsula was torpedoed this morning. War is cruel. The lads on board have not even fired a shot and no doubt some of them have been killed. We desperately need reinforcements. So many good lads have been sent off-shore because of ill-health and those of us who are here are far from fighting it. But we go on fighting.
Reinforcements arrived today. We were worried a week ago that as many as 1,400 men might have been lost on the Southland, the ship that was torpedoed. Fortunately for us, but not for those who lost their lives, only forty men died in the attack.
The first flocks of migratory birds arrived today too. They flew overhead heading south for the winter. The flocks of wild geese are particularly noisy: their honks and cries can be heard above the guns.
The birds are seeking warmer climates. We wish we could fly with them. After months of complaining about the heat, we’re now getting a taste of cold weather. I fear the cold will affect us more than the heat. Being Australians, most of us cope quite well with hot weather, but freezing cold’s a different story. I hope the Big Brass soon provide us with our winter woollies and some extra blankets.
Mail arrived with the reinforcements. Some of it went down with the ship, but my letter, fortunately, was saved.
Dear Victor,
It is a glorious day here—a sunny 70 degrees. The winter bulbs are out and the garden looks marvellous. Father and I visited Hans last weekend. He looks physically better than he did at Christmas time. His friends look after him and make sure he gets his fair share of food and comforts—which are not many.
Sadly, his mind is starting to wander—he knew who we were when he first saw us but he soon became confused. Several times he called Father, ‘Victor’—and even more sadly, he sometimes called me ‘Mamma’.
The war, as one of your letters mentioned, changes people—even as far away as this from the killing.
I am determined not to let Hans’ condition get me down. I came home and got stuck into his ‘little farm’. Father supported me in pulling weeds, tidying up the garden beds and pathways and planting spring flowers. Now, every time I look at the garden, I see Hans as I want to remember him—a beautiful old man.
I look forward to seeing you, when you return, as a beautiful young man.
Father sends his love. I send love from Hans as well as from me, Mother
So many men are ill: our battalion’s down to half-strength. Even Lieutenant-Colonel Weir, who’s been with us from the start, was evacuated today.
The frontline is relatively quiet. Men die and are maimed every day but neither side is interested in frontal attacks, at least the men in the trenches are not. Who knows what the Big Brass are planning.
Robbo and I still aren’t having much luck sniping but judging by the dust that flies, I can see we’re getting closer to the mark. At the very least our pot-shots force Turkish snipers to pull their heads in which saves the lives of some of our lads.
Our routine has become predictable. Two days in the frontline, two days in reserve. While on reserve we spend a huge amount of time carrying supplies up from the beach. Today’s torrential rain made the job very difficult. Trenches turned to creeks and steps into waterfalls. What on earth will this place be like by mid-winter? We’ve been told snow covers the peninsula for up to two months in January and February. The sickness toll rises every day and we’re only in early autumn.
Dear Mother and Father,
I’m a Lance-Corporal. I was given the promotion, not through merit, but because I’m still standing, I’m one of the few lads left from our original battalion, As such I know the ropes and can advise the ‘new-hands’ in the best ways not to get shot while still doing their job.
I’ll have to work closely with my platoon in upcoming days because we have a few minor stunts scheduled. l can’t be more specific than that or the censor will blank me. The Big Brass call our stunts ‘demonstrations.’ They’re mainly bluff to keep the Turks on their toes. I’ve already warned the lads not to get themselves shot unnecessarily, ‘Show your bayonets and the occasional hat but don’t have your head in it. Jacko’s snipers don’t miss.’
Sadly, as Needle found out, if you’re in the wrong spot at the wrong time, you can be potted. Death is all around us.
But enough gloom and doom from me. How are things in Moonta? It’s spring there so l suppose Mother’s single-handedly trying to get the garden under control without the help of Hans. Please say ‘hello’ from me if you see him. Write and tell me how his health is going. Hello to you too, Father.
Your tired-of-the-trenches son, Victor
PS Chaplain Frank was killed a month ago. I apologise for not informing you earlier. He was such a wonderful support and l miss him as much as Needle and Fish. War hands out no special treatment.
Last night’s demonstration was more like a fireworks display than a battle.
Late in the afternoon our men moved up and down the trenches and raised their bayonets occasionally so Jacko would be on his guard.
At sunset Robbo and I and other sniping teams started shooting at any sign of a Turk trying to get a better look at our goings-on. We scored several direct hits. In fact, since our section commenced regular sniping, we’ve noticed a drop-off in the number of Turkish snipers. We’ve either potted a few or put the wind up the others.
‘Maybe sniping’s not as much fun for Jacko as it was previously,’ Robbo said with a grin.
At 8 pm we huddled in our dugouts while our artillery pummelled the Turkish trenches. Theirs retaliated, of course. The shelling went on for two hours and I could see some of the ‘new-hands’ were badly stressed by the noise and the shaking of the earth caused by the artillery shells exploding. It’s not much fun sheltering in a dugout knowing you could be buried alive at any moment.
At 10 pm the bombardment ceased. We filed back into the trenches and opened fire with rifles and machine-guns. We kept our heads well below the trench line. Our job was to let Jacko opposite us know that we hadn’t forgotten him. I’m sure there was a wider purpose to our display but on this occasion we didn’t know what or where or why. I’ve learned that on the peninsula there are advantages to maintaining a low profile and keeping your head down.
It’s damn cold here and rain storms have become more frequent. We’ve got limited woollen clothes and a few balaclavas but we need more of everything. Piles of socks would be gratefully received too. Back in Moonta it’s spring and warm and everyone’s spirits are on the rise with the lengthening of the days. Here, the weather is dismal and everyone’s spirits are low and sliding lower.
My volunteer work in the YMCA tent distributing pencils and paper and doing other odd jobs, helps to keep me sane.
I’m in hospital on Lemnos. I won’t be here long. The doctors had to remove glass fragments from my face and prevent the wounds from becoming septic.
I’d warned the ‘new-hands’ to crouch when they walk along the trench and stated in my diary only a few days ago that it’s best to keep a low profile and your head down—and then I copped this. That will teach me to be a know-all.
Robbo and I were sniping. I was spotting as usual but on this occasion Jacko got the last laugh. One of his snipers hit my periscope head-on. It flew out of my hands but glass from the shattered mirror ricocheted into my face. Luckily, the shards missed my eyes. The doctor says I may suffer some permanent scarring. He’ll know more after the swelling goes down.
What a treat! I attended a concert in the YMCA tent and heard men laughing aloud. That’s something you don’t hear on the peninsula. There’s lots of dry humour in the frontlines because of our grim situation but certainly no belly-laughs. It pained me to laugh because of my swollen face but laugh I did. And sing-a-long. And look at the nurses. Thank goodness my eyes were spared from injury.
The nurses are so beautiful. They were dressed in their uniforms but they’d spruced themselves up for the concert. When a group of them sang for us, it was like hearing angels sing. The smile on men’s faces was a joy to behold. Oh how I miss the simple things in life.
Dear Mother and Father,
I’m on the Greek islands again after a misadventure but there’s nothing to worry about. I copped some abrasions to my face which have spoiled my beautiful looks! But do not fear, Mother, the doctor assures me I’ll soon be back looking like your handsome son of old.
The men in the beds in my ward are only lightly wounded or mildly ill. They smile despite their injuries and ailments. They have a nickname for every health condition. Those with diarrhoea call it the Gallipoli Gallops or the Turkey Trots and those with a form of scurvy caused by our poor diet, refer to it as the Barcoo Rot. I hope you are not offended by what I have written, Mother—I have been in the company of men too long. Their coarse expressions reflect the harsh conditions under which we live. I’m sure Father will smile at their sense of humour.
The most wonderful thing about being in hospital is that we can temporarily rid ourselves of lice. The lads have names for those little devils too: greybacks and nits are two I can repeat in mixed company.
We have been allocated clean, new uniforms. Our old clothes will be boiled and disinfected to try to rid them of the lice infestations. I don’t like the laundrymen’s chances of winning that battle.
I have not received a letter from you in such a long time—sometimes ships carrying mail are sunk, sometimes essential supplies are loaded onto transport ships ahead of mail. Hopefully my letters get through to you.
Love to you, Mother. Love to you, Father. Love to Hans.
I am forever your ‘old-hand’, Victor
I’ve been given the All Clear to return to the battalion. The swelling in my face has gone down and the cuts are healing nicely. As well as the cuts I have two black eyes from where the periscope kicked back into my face, and gravel rash caused by falling sideways and smacking my head into the trench wall. I’ve seen my reflection in a mirror and I’m not a pretty sight and yet the nurse always asks how her ‘handsome young soldier is feeling today’. I know she’s not speaking the truth but her harmless lie lifts my spirits.
Late this afternoon I visited Fish’s grave. I stood before his little cross. It’s a cross in a long line of many crosses. Too many young men have died: for what?
I raised my eyes and gazed around. I could have been at my little home town in South Australia. The horizon was mostly flat: small hills broke the monotony of the windswept plain. Pine trees grew in place of gums and mallee trees but the familiar smell of saltwater drifted on the sea breeze.
When I go home and get a whiff of the sea, I will remember Fish.
I’m pleased to be back with the battalion but I’m also very miserable. We’re having our first taste of winter. Our trench was a river yesterday and today it’s a clay quagmire. And to make our living conditions even worse, we had two inches of water flood into our dugout.
We worked on supply fatigue all day. We slipped and slided and cursed all the way up from the beach because several of the steps had washed out. The ceaseless tramping of our boots cut up the steep track even more.
Despite these appalling conditions I am glad to be back with Robbo. Initially, he was the third favourite friend in my little group. I felt intimidated talking to him because he is more educated. But circumstances on Gallipoli force everyone to be equals.
Harry and Clem, our ‘new-hand’ friends are proving good lads too. They accept our advice. Why wouldn’t they? Listening to us is their best chance of surviving.
I was shocked to see the damage done to the cemetery by the storm. The high tide and howling wind forced waves well up the beach. I spent an hour there late in the day setting the handmade crosses upright and rebuilding the little stone boundaries around the damaged graves.
I helped out in the YMCA tent this morning. Some men are not very literate so I write while they dictate their thoughts. I feel privileged that they trust me to pass on their intimate messages to wives and sweethearts.
There was a ray of sunshine today when Comfort packages were distributed. It’s such a luxury to taste jam tarts, mince pies and pieces of chocolate. It’s even nicer to share such delicacies with mates and reminisce of home. Most of the parcels also included hand-knitted socks and scarves. Some lucky lads received balaclavas.
During my convalescence on Lemnos, Harry teamed with Robbo on sniping duties. They report a definite drop off in Turkish snipers since we started our eradication campaign. The inclement weather has probably contributed to their scarcity.
I’ve seen several Turkish prisoners and they look in worse shape than us. Their uniforms are worn thin and their boots hang on by a thread. They tell our boys they’re fed very little. I wouldn’t want to lie out in the open sniping if I was as flimsily dressed as they are.
They report they’re better fed as Australian prisoners than as fighting men in the Turkish army.
Even though sniping has decreased, Turkish artillery bombardments have increased. They seemed to have developed a renewed hatred of us ever since we seized the Lone Pine trenches from them.
Clem and I had a lucky escape today. A shell exploded on the trench near our dugout and the entrance caved in.
One minute we were quietly talking then BANG. The percussion wave sent us both crashing into the back wall, earth buried our legs and pitch blackness descended. That may be because I was momentarily knocked unconscious. Clem was certainly out to it. I got no response when I spoke to him and wasn’t sure if he was dead or alive. I couldn’t afford to check him out for too long or we’d both be dead. We were trapped in a small pocket of air which wasn’t too fresh. The smell of cordite was overpowering.
I freed my legs and dug like crazy. I had no idea how much soil lay in front of me but I did know my comrades would be digging from the other side. Cave-ins and blow-ins are a daily feature of the frontline at Lone Pine.
My fingertips were soon raw and bleeding from the digging and I quickly realised I had little room to store the dirt I’d excavated. As rapidly as I dug us out, I was filling us in. Even though it was cold outside, our ‘cave’ was stifling hot and my breathing became laboured. Sweat caused by exhaustion, heat and fear dripped from my face onto my forearms.
I thought I was going to die. My heart raced and I was forced to stop digging. In the silence I heard a faint voice.
‘Cooee, cobber, can you hear us? We’re almost through to you. Just hang on.’
Fresh air suddenly cooled my face and blinding light forced me to shut my eyes.
I gasped, ‘Clem’s back there.’
‘Save your breath, matey.’
Hands reached in and roughly dragged me out through the small opening. I shielded my eyes against the bright sunlight.
‘Thought I’d lost you, cobber,’ Robbo said with a laugh. ‘You’re nothing but trouble, Quickie. You came to grief when we were sniping so I let you lie around back here but you immediately got yourself into strife again.’
‘I don’t think Jacko likes me,’ I replied while spitting dirt from my mouth.
He hauled me to my feet.
‘Good to have you back in the land of the living, matey.’
They moved Clem out more carefully than they had me. He was mumbling and groaning so I knew he was alive.
‘Did I miss anything?’ I asked Robbo.
‘King George paid us a social visit and we shared an afternoon tea of scones, jam and fresh cream. Other than that, we’ve just been playing with little Johnny Turk.’
We’ve had a bit of communication with Jacko in the past week. It seems he’s as fed up with the situation as we are. We’ve each thrown notes and gifts into each other’s trench. In one note they described us as brother soldiers. Our officers forbid friendly chitchats so we have to be discrete. We’re under orders to throw bombs not rations. Another note said we Australians are gentlemen, then asked, so why do you throw bombs?
‘That’s a good bloody question,’ Robbo commented.
Harry looked surprised. ‘Because they’re the enemy. They sided with the Huns so they deserve to die.’
‘Son, when you’ve been here as long as Quickie and me and get to know Jacko a little better, you’ll change your mind. He’s a hard but fair fighter who gives as good as he gets.’
‘But you’ve been sniping Turks for the past fortnight.’
‘That’s my job. You’ve got to learn to separate business from pleasure, cobber.’
‘But you can’t talk to the enemy.’
‘I’ll talk to anyone I want to, mate. Just watch me.’
He stood and waved his rifle butt above the parapet then called, ‘Cooee, Jacko. Cooeeee.’
‘Hello, Australian.’
‘You want tucker, Jacko?
‘Tucker. Yes.’
‘Coming over. Catch.’
He threw two tins: one of bully beef and one of jam.
‘Thank you, Australian.’
Robbo turned to Harry. ‘See. Jacko’s a perfect gentleman.’
A series of shells exploded just behind us and flung dirt all over us.
‘Steady on, Jacko. I was just singing your praises and you repay me by ruining my cup of tea.’
He threw the muddied tea over the parapet in Jacko’s direction.
What rotten weather we’re experiencing. Winter has come and it’s only mid-autumn. We slip and slide whenever we go: two steps forward and one back. It’s almost more pleasant in the frontline where you’re not expected to carry endless boxes of supplies up the rapidly eroding slopes.
The big news is that General Hamilton, our Commander-in-Chief, has been recalled to England.
‘I wish I could be replaced,’ I said. ‘I’m cold, dirty, lousy, smelly and feel crook.’
‘Apart from that, is everything all right?’ Robbo asked. He smiled. ‘Are we downhearted?’
I smiled back. ‘Never. Not while my feet point down.’
‘That’s the spirit.’
I tended the graves again today. Robbo prefers to sit and read a newspaper, no matter how out-of-date it is. Clem and Harry have no need to accompany me. The graves, so far, are not relevant to them. Give them time and Gallipoli will bowl over some of their friends too. No-one, here, gets any special favours.
I also spent time helping Mr Jessop in the YMCA tent. He’s been scrounging sandbags, timber and sheets of iron to make the tent safer from bombardment. Although the tent’s set up in a fairly protected section of a gully, he knows no-one’s safe anywhere.
We put the finishing touches to the structure today and cleaned the floor where water and mud had gushed under the sides. If the weather permits, Mr Jessop plans to ship in comfort foods every day and distribute them from the tent. He hopes to sell a selection of cakes, buns and scones as well as fresh fruit and vegetables. They’ll keep the Barcoo Rot at bay.
Our rations have improved in the past couple of weeks to help combat the Rot. The Big Brass are concerned about the number of men shipped off the peninsula every day because of ill-health. It almost seems that getting shot by Jacko is the least of our worries.
Dear Mother and Father,
We’ve been here six months today. We’re going nowhere fast. We can’t push forward and Jacko can’t push us back into the sea.
When I return home I never want to think about Gallipoli again. The men who have been maimed or crippled for life will never be able to do that.
There is one feature of my time here that I will always treasure: my mates. To ensure I never forget them I took a chance late this afternoon, crept to the lonesome pine and collected a pinecone. I’m sure you’ll have read about the lone pine in the papers—it’s where we fought and had success some months ago.
I’ll bring the cone home with me then one day, when the time is right, I’ll collect its seeds and plant lonesome pines around Moonta.
I got the idea from you, Mother. You said tending Hans’ garden reminds you of him and in nurturing it, you gain great pleasure.
I’ll carry the pinecone as a good luck charm until I get home. It is only by luck that any of us survive each day.
Robbo says I’m lucky to have such loving parents. He sends his regards.
Your lucky son, Victor
After all my kind words about Jacko, he’s turned nasty on us. He’s got new bombs that we call ‘Aunties’. They’re not your nice auntie, let me tell you. They look like a giant lollypop. The bombs are attached to broomstick-size handles which allow the Turks to fire them over into our trenches like sky rockets. When they lob they explode and blast iron cubes in all directions. They do terrible damage to our lads.
Robbo was not amused. ‘Oi, Jacko, he yelled. ‘If you shoot any more of those sky rockets in our direction, I’m taking you off my Christmas card list.’
Jacko’s response was immediate.
BANG. BANG.
‘That’ll teach me to open my big mouth,’ Robbo said with a smirk.
One year ago today we caught our last glimpse of Australia. We steamed away from Albany with high hopes of a great overseas adventure. Our service to the Empire has turned out to be a tragic misadventure.
It’s Guy Fawkes day and Jacko celebrated the event with us. We copped visits from his Aunties all day and on top of that suffered a horrendous shelling from Turkish artillery. My ears are aching and a tooth that’s been a tad sensitive for several days has been shaken up and turned nasty. With every explosion, I suffer shock waves through its nerve. The way it’s throbbing I won’t be getting much sleep tonight.
We were relieved last night. I made my way straight from the frontlines to the dentist. We have top doctors and surgeons here but the dental staff are a different kettle of fish. The fellow I saw this morning proudly told me he’d been a blacksmith before he enlisted. He had forearms the size of my thighs. He could rip my head off if he chose.
‘That tooth’s got to come out,’ he told me. ‘It’s got a cavity the size of a shell hole.’ Then without asking if I was willing to have an extraction, he grabbed my head in a bear grip, took hold of the damaged tooth with pliers and ripped it out. The side of my head is more swollen now than when I copped the periscope injury.
‘You can keep it as a souvenir,’ he said with a smile and shoved the tooth into my jacket pocket. ‘Next,’ he yelled in my ear which added to my discomfort.
I didn’t sleep for two or three nights before the tooth was pulled and the way it’s throbbing, I don’t reckon I’ll sleep for a couple more.
My face blew up like a balloon after the extraction and nearly closed my eyes so I was sent to the casualty tent on the beach to do light duties and fatigues until the swelling goes down. I’m not able to accurately site my rifle at the moment.
The break away from the usual routine did me good. I was given fatigue in the cemetery which sadly, grows bigger every day: and I’ve been able to help Mr Jessop in and around the YMCA tent. He’s getting supplies shipped in quite regularly. They need to be unboxed and made ready for sale. The purchasers line up as soon as fresh Comforts arrive. Every man here is eager for some small taste that might help him feel in touch with everyday life beyond this blasted peninsula.
The biggest of the Big Brass paid us a visit: Lord Kitchener, the British Minister for War. Word spread like wildfire and men ran from everywhere to welcome him with three rousing cheers. He looks exactly like his pictures: he has a red face and walrus moustache. He spent two or three hours inspecting the lines from Walker’s ridge to Lone Pine. Today was my first day back on full duty. It was marvellous to know that such an important man knew we existed and wanted to see how we were faring. He made a short speech in which he passed on a message from King George.
‘The King says you have done splendidly.’
‘Splendidly,’ Robbo said with a shake of his head. ‘Our situation is hardly splendid.’
‘You should feel proud that the King and Lord Kitchener have heaped praise upon us,’ replied Clem.
‘If they want to show us how much they care, they can order us off this rotten peninsula.’
‘Unless we’re trained to walk on water,’ I added, ‘I don’t see how that’s possible.’
We are learning to walk in water, not on it. And we’re learning to sleep while squatting on our haunches because our dugout is flooded again. The rain has been relentless.
A huge storm struck without warning. Shelters and awnings designed to protect us from sun and rain were whipped away by strong wind gusts. The trenches have three inches of water running through them and the steps to the beach are almost completely eroded away.
To carry our water rations back up the hill today required a massive effort. Men slipped and swore and spilt the precious liquid. If you did manage to stand up, the wind caught you and knocked you down again. We get storms straight off the sea in Moonta but none as fierce as this.
The craziest thing is that despite the downpours, they’ve cut our water rations. The wild winds and crashing waves have smashed the pier and so the barges bringing fresh supplies of water cannot land.
Dear Mother and Father,
Winter has set in early. It started raining yesterday and the deluge has continued non-stop. Everything is flooded and everyone is soaked. When this storm ends, Mother, I’d love to have a hot shower, pull on some warm clothes and be served a bowlful of your wonderful homemade soup. I can but dream. Our winter uniforms are yet to arrive. We needed them weeks ago. No wonder men are suffering poor health.
The Turks along the line have been as quiet as us these past two days. They must be taking shelter too. I’ve come to realise that men from both sides suffer in war.
You’ll be amazed to hear that we had a visit from Lord Kitchener. He spent half a day wandering around the trenches. He proved very popular with the troops. He looks just like he does on his posters. What a shame he didn’t inspect the trenches today. He’d have seen first-hand how terrible conditions can be.
You are probably experiencing days where the temperature is in the mid-90s. How l would love weather that warm and to be able to enjoy a peaceful swim after work. ‘Beachy Bill’ still shells the beach here and any swim could be my last. There are times when l take that risk, so desperate am l to feel clean.
Your son who dreams of home and warmer climates,
Victor
My morale hit rock bottom this afternoon. I visited the cemetery when I went down to the beach on water-carrying fatigue: Needle’s grave has been washed away. Several others have gone too, ripped open and their contents removed by the surging waves.
I feel so useless. I promised Needle’s mother I’d look after him. I allowed him to be killed and now I’ve been unable to protect his remains. He is lost forever and I feel responsible.
To add salt to my wound, Beachy Bill has shelled the beach continuously for the past few days and I have been unable to search the shoreline for Needle’s remains. It’s almost as if the big gun is mocking my loss.
Every day I feel we have less and less hope of surviving this campaign. The Turks’ fierce capacity to fight, coupled with his endless supply of shells and bullets, leaves them in a good position. Our lads are good fighters too but if the rumour is correct, we only have food supplies for another two days. The water situation is dire too. Rations are at an all-time low: we’re now issued one mugful a day.
My woes worsened when I received a letter from home. It contained bad news.
Dearest Victor,
Hans is very ill. I have not seen him for months which adds to my worries. He has a lung infection. The authorities have moved him to the Royal Adelaide Hospital. As soon as I get information, I will write again.
Father has been very understanding. He insists I travel to Adelaide and visit the poor old chap. I am making plans to go and can only hope that I will be allowed to sit with him in the ward.
I am well—apart from the worries about my ‘boys’. Father does not worry as much as me. Maybe he is better at hiding his emotions.
Please do not get hurt, Victor. I need you alive so very much, Mother
PS Richard and William have finally been accepted into the army. The government is struggling to get men to enlist since the thousands of names of the dead and wounded at Lone Pine were published in the papers. They are now prepared to bend the rules for volunteers. They eagerly accept men who do not meet the health, height and age restrictions.
There is NO WAY Father and I would give you permission to enlist if you asked us now. The endless casualty lists reduce me to tears.
The battalion’s on Lemnos. The Leave couldn’t have come at a better time for me. I’d become totally dispirited on the peninsula. Robbo noticed the signs and kept a close watch on me during our last hours in the frontline. We ‘old-hands’ have all seen men who give up the ghost. Such a state almost always ends in the chap copping a sniper’s bullet. You must never drop your guard. Thank goodness for our cobbers. Robbo became my guardian angel when I needed one: I’ll forever be in debt to him for that.
My mind feels somewhat rested in this peaceful place but my body is still suffering. The island has little vegetation to protect us from the howling winds. I have clean, dry clothes and many layers of socks and scarves but still I’m chilled to the bone. Winter, as such, doesn’t officially start till next week. How cold will it be by mid-winter? I do not dare to imagine.
This afternoon I took Robbo to Fish’s gravesite. We stood in silence for such a long time. Sometimes words are not necessary.
Dear Mother and Father,
I am on a Greek island—not just me, the whole battalion. We’re on three days’ Leave. We return to the peninsula tomorrow.
I was very upset after reading the news about Hans and couldn’t bring myself to reply straight away. I’m sure you are praying for him, Mother. I hope your prayers are answered. Write as soon as you have an update on his health.
Winter is well and truly upon us so if you could knit and send me gloves, a scarf, a singlet or a balaclava your efforts will be greatly appreciated.
I have learned to harden up to many things since we landed on Gallipoli but I cannot harden up to this icy wind—it gets to me more than some of the violence.
I said many times in the past that I wanted to work outside in the fresh air but this weather is unbearable.
Your semi-frozen son, Victor
We arrived back on the peninsula to a bizarre situation. We are under orders NOT to fire back at the Turks, no matter what. Jacko’s getting suspicious and a few of their fellows are popping their heads up to see if they can get an idea of what’s going on over in our lines.
Apparently this Silent Stunt, as they’ve called it, is to be part of our battle plan for the next few weeks.
‘Maybe the Big Brass are hoping to lure the Turks out of their trenches so we can mow them down,’ I suggested.
‘Who knows what our fearless leaders are up to,’ Robbo said with a sigh. ‘What I do know is that every plan for the past seven months has failed so why should we have faith in this one succeeding. We’re short on food and water and winter-proof clothing so the truth is we’re probably low on ammunition too. I suspect that’s the real reason we’ve been ordered not to shoot.’
‘The British wouldn’t just abandon us here, would they?’ Harry asked looking concerned.
‘It may be best if they did,’ Robbo replied. ‘I have more faith in Australian initiative than British planning. I’m sure, if left to our own devices, we lads in the frontline could come up with a plan to solve this hopeless stalemate.’
Things have gone from bad to worse. Last week’s rain and winds were chicken feed compared to the current weather. Snow covers the ground, forked lightning regularly strikes the ridges and rolling thunder rumbles more loudly than Jacko’s artillery. The winds are hurricane strength. Men huddle in their tiny dugouts and burn fires inside trying to keep warm. The small amount of heat brings some relief but leaves men’s faces black with smoke stains. Washing the stain off is impossible because we have so little fresh water.
We have been warned not to collect and drink the water swamping our trenches because it runs downhill across No Man’s Land where hundreds of men are buried in eroded graves.
I don’t know how many times I have written this—things could not get worse.
The good news is the blizzard has cleared but there’s a nasty rumour that the Turks have got their hands on some brand new artillery from Germany. The big guns are called Howitzers and apparently they fire with high trajectories which is ideal for dropping shells almost straight down into enemy trenches. If that’s the case, then my prediction that things couldn’t get worse, is very, very wrong.
We lose several men a day under the bombardment from their current artillery. More powerful and effective guns will kill a greater number of our boys.
The death and casualty figures from the blizzard are horrific. Dozens of men froze to death and hundreds are in the process of being evacuated with frostbite to finger, toes and even noses. I can only imagine that Jacko is suffering more. Whenever I see a batch of Turkish prisoners they’re in worse condition than us. The Brass Hats have ordered our guards to treat them well, give them warm clothes and a belly-full of decent tucker then turn a blind-eye so they can escape.
The idea is for the escapees to return to their trenches and tell their comrades how easy we’re living over here. It’s hoped the knowledge will demoralise our foe. Unfortunately, I’ve been told, that no matter how lax the guards are, the Turks won’t escape. They enjoy life as an Australian prisoner more than as a Turkish soldier. Jacko’s existence must be bleak indeed if our conditions are an improvement on theirs.
After I wrote yesterday we received a proper hammering from Jacko’s artillery. It seems the rumour is correct: the Turks have high explosive weapons. We lost twenty-one dead and sixty-seven wounded. We moved our mates down to the morgue then prepared graves for them. The deceased were rigid with cold and quite easy to carry but the ground was almost impossible to dig. It was frozen with frost, ice and snow.
Despite the hours of strenuous digging, I remained cold. I did not begrudge doing the work. I will do anything for my comrades, dead or alive.
Despite the carnage caused by Turkish artillery we are still under orders at specific times not to fight back. It seems unnatural to sit back and take it, to cower in our dugout and do nothing but that’s what the Brass Hats want.
‘It doesn’t come natural to me to turn the other cheek when someone’s having a go at me,’ Robbo said. ‘My old man taught me never to bow down to any man and said that if I was threatened, to give as good as I got.’
On the rare occasions I can tune out from the stuttering bursts of machine-guns, the ping and hiss of bullets, the bang of Aunties, and the roar and blast of our naval guns and Turkish artillery, I appreciate the beauty of the peninsula I so often claim to hate. In truth, it’s the war I hate, not the peninsula and not even Jacko.
If Needle was alive and if this war ended today, I’m sure he’d be the first to extend a hearty hand of friendship to Jacko and say, ‘Let’s forget about all the rubbish of the past seven months, cobber. What say I make you a cuppa and we let bygones be bygones.’
As unbearable as the sleet and ice and snow have made our lives, it’s also placed a unique beauty before us. I had never seen snow until recent days. Now it covers everything; No Man’s Land is powdered with a sheet of pure white snow; the hilltops, where the Turks are entrenched (pity them) have caps of snow; the gullies are deep in ice and snow; and every branch of every tree and shrub has a sprinkling of snow and dangling icicles.
Surrounded by such beauty it is impossible to be downcast for long.
‘What are you looking at, Quickie? Jacko’s the other way.’
‘Nothing. I’m just thinking.’
‘Dangerous thing to do.’
I laughed. ‘Maybe, but I need to start thinking beyond our day to day existence. For seven months we’ve lived minute by minute, day by day.’
‘We didn’t all live,’ Robbo reminded me solemnly.
I looked him firmly in the eye. ‘True. But we’ll never forget them, will we?’
‘Never.’
We’ve been expecting mail from home for weeks. Most of it will never arrive. We’ve been informed the tug bringing it to the peninsula, has foundered. Not a lot is going right at the moment.
The lads often ask, ‘But are we downhearted?’
They say, ‘Never,’ but in truth the answer is sometimes, ‘Yes.’
We continue sitting on our hands while the Turks make merry hell with our lives. They scored a direct hit on one of our hospital tents and killed everyone inside. Some lads have no luck while others of us have plenty.
Water continues to be perilously short. We are now issued one half of one mug per day to clean our teeth, shave and wash our face. We need to shave to minimise areas for lice to breed. At least this frozen snap has killed the flies. The Turks, however, are alive and kicking.
I worked in the YMCA tent again today for a couple of hours. Mr Jessop is upset because he has few supplies to sell to the lads.
‘What pains me even more,’ he told me, ‘is that we’re short of paper. The men can live without their chocolate but they need to write letters home. Expressing heartfelt words to loved ones is good for their souls. And who knows, what they write could be their final earthly words.’
Before I returned to my dugout I sat quietly alone in the tent. I tried to forget the war going on around me and remember my family back home. I realised I was terribly homesick. Our daily life here is so predictable and monotonous in so many ways that we live only for the present.
I can’t wait to go home and plan a future.
I sat until the cold got to me and roused me from my daydream. I looked down at myself. I haven’t washed or changed my clothes or socks for a week. It’s too cold even to remove my boots. I must stink. We all must stink.
Why would a peace-loving man such as Mr Jessop volunteer to come to this ungodly hellhole and work amongst broken men such as us?
The official word’s gone around that every man must be prepared to embark at short notice. The Big Brass want us to rotate on and off the peninsula throughout the winter. That sounds good for those on Leave but perilous for those who will have to man the trenches with even less support than what we’ve got now.
We’ve all lost confidence in off-shore ‘leaders’ who make plans that we have to live with. Their stupid plans cost us our dear lives.
You can’t afford to drop your guard for a moment around here. I was angrily expressing frustration to Robbo about the latest plan and WHAM—a bullet went clean through my hat and grazed my skull. I could’ve been dead as easy as that. The impact bowled me over.
Robbo escorted me down to the Casualty Clearing Station to get a dressing. I’m quite a sight with a bandage wrapped around my scone.
‘That white colour makes you an easy target,’ Robbo joked. ‘If you like I can sew some candles around the bandage so your head’s an even easier shot.’
‘I’ll be wearing my hat over it,’ I reassured him.
Back at the trench the lads had stuck my hat on a bayonet with a note saying, ‘This space to let. Temporary position only.’ I laughed and laughed until my sides hurt.
‘If Jacko’s shot had been an inch lower,’ I said through tears, ‘you could have advertised for a permanent vacancy.’
Robbo and the lads laughed too then Robbo said, ‘Don’t let them get you down, cobbers. Are we downhearted, lads?’
‘Never,’ they chorused as another round of artillery fire threw clods of dirt and bits of torn sandbags over us.
‘Steady on, Jacko,’ Robbo called. ‘We’ve got enough problems without you having a go at us.’
There are strange things happening and rumours flying. The two are bound together. The rumours all centre on one thing: we are to be evacuated before Christmas. The strange happenings are what started the rumours. Everyone has something to offer.
‘You know how they told us we’re to be rotated on and off the peninsula, well some of the lads have noticed there are more of our chums going off than coming on.’
‘And the lads who do come ashore join other groups going off under cover of darkness.’
‘It’s all a con to make Jacko think we’re increasing troop numbers when we’re actually decreasing.’
‘Within a week or so there’ll be no-one left here but a skeleton force.’
‘Haven’t you noticed them trialling those drip guns? You haven’t? Talk to some of the lads up at Quinn’s.’
‘They’re bloody ingenious. They drill a hole in the bottom of a kero tin and suspend it directly above a second tin that has string tied to the trigger of a rifle. Do you follow me?’
‘No. But go on. I might catch on.’
‘Don’t like your chances, mate. You don’t look too bright.’
‘Anyway, as I was saying. The water drips from the top to the bottom can and the string grows tighter on the trigger until BANG. Another Turk bites the dust.’
BLAM. BLAM. BLAM.
A succession of shells caused us to bite the dust then disperse before Jacko got our range and lobbed one right on top of our heads.
The evacuation rumour grows stronger every day. Since we heard it I’ve visited the beach on two occasions so I can observe the goings-on after dark. They definitely are moving a lot of blokes offshore as well as artillery, horses and mules.
It’s obvious we’re moving out. I’m worried that if our lads have cottoned on, it’s only a matter of time before the Turks do too.
‘If we’re undermanned and Jacko attacks, we’re going to be in a spot of jolly bother, old chap,’ Robbo said in his mock British officer voice.
‘The leaflets the Turks have thrown over,’ said Clem, opening one and reading it, ‘say that if we surrender we’ll be well treated and sent to live in comfort in Persian gardens.’
‘Yep, just as we send their prisoners to Buckingham Palace to sip English Breakfast tea with King George.’
Clem was momentarily convinced then realised he’d been had. ‘You’re pulling my leg.’
‘That’s better than some Turk blowing your head off when you throw down your gun and raise your hands in surrender.’
‘They wouldn’t do that, would they?’
‘Probably not,’ Robbo replied. ‘Jacko’s hard but fair.’
‘They’re no longer unloading supplies,’ Harry reported.
‘I saw them. Well, I didn’t see them. You know what I mean.’
‘And we can’t post letters home,’ Clem added.
‘Maybe we’ll be able to hand deliver them,’ Robbo suggested then laughed. ‘I’d happily volunteer for that fatigue.’
‘I’ll be in it too,’ I agreed.
Our frontline has become fairly safe from snipers since Robbo conducted his personal war on them a few weeks back.
Nothing has stopped the Turkish artillery, however, from regularly shelling us. And now that the ground is wet, our trench walls collapse quite easily when subject to a nearby blast.
Our big naval guns come to life occasionally and give the Turks some of their own medicine. The Tommies use spotter planes and balloons to locate the Turk’s artillery but despite the knowledge gained they’ve been unable to silence Beachy Bill since we landed nearly eight months ago.
I spoke to Mr Jessop tonight. Things are quiet in the YMCA tent. He’s also heard the rumours about the evacuation.
‘I can’t confirm them, Victor, but I’ve witnessed a lot of night-time activity along the beach and out on the piers. And there’s been a noticeable drop-off in the number of men using the tent,’ he told me, ‘which confirms my observation that there are less men about.’
‘The lads really appreciate that you’re here,’ I told him feeling slightly embarrassed to speak for others.
‘The military authorities have been very supportive,’ he replied. ‘They gave me permission to be here in the first place then provided shipping space for the supplies I bring in.’
‘It’s pleasing to hear a good word about the Big Brass,’ I told him. ‘The lads don’t have a kind word to say about them.’
‘We each have our roles: they have a war to run and I have men’s spirits to care for. Many of the men I speak to have brilliant promise, Victor. Part of my role is to encourage them to stay positive despite the horrors they confront here every day. You and your cobbers are the future of our nation. I tell every man I speak to that I want them to survive this war, and our young nation needs them to survive.’
I’m anxious but trying to stay cheerful. Others are feeling the strain too. Our numbers diminish daily.
‘They vanish like ghosts in the night,’ Robbo commented.
‘They’re the lucky ones. They’re safe now.’
‘True,’ Robbo replied. ‘But think of us as being in a privileged position. We were part of the ‘originals’ who landed in April and we’ll be among the last to leave in December.’
‘Unless Jacko cottons on and then we’ll be overrun and either killed or captured. I’ve seen the condition of Turkish soldiers: if that’s how they treat their own, I hate to think how they treat prisoners.’
We’re back into the firing line tomorrow. Meanwhile, we have fatigues. We have been busy getting rid of the spare gear. Supplies we broke our backs to carry up the hill, now have to be carried down. On one trip my foot slipped in the slush and I did a triple somersault down the slope until I crashed into a shrub.
When Robbo saw I wasn’t hurt he announced loudly, ‘Roll up, roll up. The circus is in town.’
‘The whole bloody army is a circus,’ an anonymous voice said in response.
I struggled to my feet. My clothes and face were covered in mud. I retrieved my box of supplies and followed the men down to the beach. Mr Jessop was carrying a box along the beach too. We fell into stride. I was shocked by what he told me. He is leaving—immediately.
‘The Chaplains, Red Cross staff and I were given four hours’ notice to leave.’
He put down his box. I followed his lead. He looked me firmly in the eyes.
‘One day, Victor, in your own way, you’ll make sense of this war.’
‘Thanks, cobber,’ I replied softly.
‘I’m honoured you call me that.’
He put his hand in his pocket and gave me some seeds.
‘They’re wattle seeds. I brought them from Australia to plant near the graves of our dead. With such short notice to evacuate I didn’t get around to it. Please plant them for me.’
I assured him I would. ‘Gladly.’
We shook hands, lifted our boxes and went our separate ways.
My faith, if there is any left, suffered a major setback at dawn. We were in the frontline trenches and suffering the usual barrage of artillery and Aunties. We had sentries and observers posted. My platoon and I were chatting and taking bets about who could most closely predict our time and day of evacuation when an explosion occurred nearby and catapulted a section of duckboards through the air.
Someone shouted, ‘HEADS!’ but the call came too late and the end crashed into Robbo’s skull with a sickening THUD. He collapsed unconscious. Blood streamed from the wound but also, more frighteningly, from his ears and mouth. I dropped to his aid while someone called for stretcher-bearers.
‘He’s breathing,’ I cried with relief and moved him into a comfortable position. Minutes later he was carried off but we remained at our post. I tried to stay focused but my thoughts kept wandering. I couldn’t bear to lose the last of my three friends, especially within days or perhaps hours of evacuation. My pulse raced. I felt so hopeless.
‘Why him? Why not me?’ I thought.
The dawn sky which only minutes before had appeared so glorious, appeared blood red.
There’s no news of Robbo. I don’t know if he’s alive or dead, on the peninsula or on a ship bound for Lemnos. I feel a failure. I lived while my best friends fell. I would give anything to swap places with any one of them. I want each of them to live so much.
Shells explode, Aunties drop in uninvited, rifle shots whistle past and machine-gun sprays splatter the parapet but I am impervious. I sense nothing can hurt me because I no longer care whether I live or die. My destiny is out of my hands.
The weather is cool but the sky’s clear, the sea calm and the breeze gentle.
Twenty thousand men will be evacuated tonight. Another 20,000 go tomorrow night. I’m in that lot. After we go there will be no Australian soldier on the peninsula, except our dead mates.
I am not afraid to go.
We knew thousands of men were making their way down to the beach last night, onto the piers then onto lighters and launches and out to the ships. We listened intently between shell blasts and rifle fire but heard nothing.
The lads had been ordered to wrap their feet in sandbags to muffle their footsteps. Blankets and empty sandbags had also been laid on the steps and piers. The men, of course, were ordered to be silent. They were.
Jacko would be none the wiser unless he has other means to know what’s going on. Either that or he knows we’re going and is sitting out there thinking, ‘Good riddance to bad rubbish.’
We’re on our guard but we’re philosophical. We discussed how the people in Australia will view the evacuation: as a brave withdrawal or a cowardly retreat?
We did all that men could do. I hope that’s seen as good enough back home.
The lads have filled their backpacks with supplies and materials but also their souvenirs. Photos, cuttings and diaries are safely stored. Clem, Harry and I collected all the mementoes from our little dugout home. The saddest moment was packing Robbo’s bits and pieces.
For the last two days large fires have burned on Anzac Cove and further north at Suvla Bay. Excess supplies and anything we don’t want Jacko to get his hands on, are thrown onto the pyre. Surely this will alert Jacko to our plans?
Not all the excess stores have been burned or marked for destruction. We’ve been allowed to help ourselves. This evening we’ll cook up a storm. It was eerie collecting supplies from the beach. All the tents are standing (YMCA, hospital, headquarters, etc) but they’re empty.
As I retraced my tracks laden with luxuries for the lads, I detoured via the cemetery to pay my last respects. Despite the chaos on the beach, the graves were immaculate. Many a man has visited here in recent days to do one final tidy-up of his mate’s grave site. I was deeply touched by the generosity of spirit men could muster after what they’d been through in the past eight months. I’m sure it broke men’s hearts to abandon their cobbers’ graves to the Turks.
I prayed the dead would not hear us marching back to the beach tonight. In their lifetime no-one considered evacuating the peninsula. They died fighting to hold this piece of land.
As I thought of their sacrifices I realised that what our dead comrades think of our evacuation is far more important than what the people back home think.
I bowed my head and stood in silence, the silence one finds between shells, bullets and bombs. I turned to face the sea. Needle, I now knew, had not been washed away. He’d started his journey home. And I felt confident that I’d survive this war and when I returned to Australia’s peaceful shores he’d be standing on the wharf to greet me.
I took the wattle seeds from my pocket and walked slowly up and down the rows of graves dropping seeds as I went. When my pocket was empty I said ‘Goodbye lads’, and climbed back up to Lone Pine feeling less lonesome than when I descended.
As soon as it was dark we were ordered to pull barbed wire barricades across our trenches and set a succession of drip-guns into operation.
We heard heavy fire north of our position and feared that a Turkish onslaught was about to commence right along the frontline but it died down and with it went some of our tension.
We settled down to our ample supply of bully beef, potatoes, bread and jam. We had a feast.
An officer walked past and asked, ‘Having your last meal lads?’
Without thinking I replied, ‘I hope not, sir,’ and we all laughed.
‘You’ll be the last ones ordered out of this section. Don’t nod off and miss the boat.’
‘No likelihood of that, sir. Jacko hasn’t been the best of hosts.’
He laughed. ‘And we’re probably not his favourite guests.’
Sometime before midnight we said our goodbyes to Lone Pine and made our way slowly and quietly to the beach. An hour or so later we had had our names ticked off by an officer with a clipboard and climbed into a lighter.
As we pulled away from the shore I gazed along the silhouettes of the dimly moonlit ridges. If I could see the ridge tops, I couldn’t understand why Jacko couldn’t see us. We were leaving with very little hindrance from the Turks. Even Beachy Bill, who’d roared at us since day one, was eerily silent.
I looked for Lone Pine and thought I located it. My eyes moved directly down to the beach where the cemetery was located. Either the night air on the water created a mist or my eyes fogged for other reasons, but as I gazed I thought I saw the ghostly figures of hundreds of Australian dead, standing silently, watching us depart.
A distant hand lifted one finger in a bushman’s wave. I blinked and the image was gone.
It’s Christmas Eve and I am on Lemnos but I find no joy in my situation. Robbo is in hospital here. I have visited him every day. His condition has been downgraded from critical to serious but that means nothing to me because he has not regained consciousness.
The nurses are as angelic now as when I was a patient. They look beautiful, they speak so softly and they even smell divine. I have been in the company of men too long: noisy, foul-mouthed, smelly men.
The weather is miserable. It adds to my dismal mood. It has rained continuously since the two nights of the evacuation. I should be grateful that the Greek gods of the sea and the heavens smiled on us as we left the peninsula. If Robbo was conscious, he’d know their names.
On my daily visit to Fish’s grave, I’ve felt lonely and sad. I should be joyous to be on a peaceful island but I’m not. Something’s missing: my friends.
Late yesterday, despite the rain, I stood on the shore closest to Gallipoli and looked for the peninsula’s silhouette just as I’d done from Lone Pine looking towards the Greek islands.
I wondered what Johnny Turk is doing? And what he thought when he found out he was firing on empty trenches? Several of the lads apparently left friendly notes and photographs for him. One lot left a cooked meal and a set table in their little dugout.
There was no love lost between Jacko and our boys when we first arrived but over time we developed a grudging respect for each other.
‘He’s not a bad lot,’ was the popular opinion.
I looked until it was dark. The rain clouds obscured any chance of seeing the peninsula. No matter: it was a place I’d never forget.
The Brass Hats have given us time to recuperate and organised battalion sports for those still with energy to burn. That’s certainly not me: I’m physically drained and mentally exhausted. There are many other lads in my boat. Some are worse: some have been hospitalised to speed up their recovery.
We have broken off the fight with the Turks but we are still in the army and the war against Germany is raging. The Empire urgently needs men with our battle experience. Our days as frontline troops are far from over.
We received a special Christmas mail delivery. I hastily opened Mother’s letter.
Dear Victor,
Every day I pray that you are safe and healthy. Please write and tell me you are. Christmas is coming and Father and I could have received no better present than a letter from you (dated 6 October).
We were shocked to read you were in hospital but relieved to know the injuries were only scratches. Father smiled at your names for the various health conditions and hopes you can defeat the lice. So do I—I don’t like to think of my son as dirty with lice.
Again I have responded immediately to your letter in the hope that you will receive our letter around Christmas time. Oh how we wish we could talk to you and finish some of the conversations we have started in writing. And how I wish I could hold my boy in my arms.
As you can see I wish, I pray, I hope that someday, you will come back to us. Which brings me to my wonderful news: Hans is living with us. The authorities released him back into our care. Even they could see that at his age he would not recover while living in the camp.
There were many tears when I collected him from the station—but they were beautiful tears of joy. Even Father wept. Hans’ health has a long way to go but he looks stronger than he did and at times he beams with such happiness. He thanks us continuously. Despite his memory lapses he has never forgotten you. He misses you so much, Victor, and asks after you every day.
We all miss you, Victor. Please write soon and please come home safely.
Your loving family, Mother, Father and Hans
We were allowed to rise late. I lay snug under my blankets and pictured my parents back home sitting down to Christmas dinner under a blue Australian sky. I looked forward to the day when I could once again share a meal with them.
I visited Robbo before our special lunch. There was no change in him apart from some tinsel a nurse had wound around his head.
‘He looks very sweet, don’t you think?’ she said.
‘He’s a good man,’ I replied. ‘He almost got through unscathed. He only had to stay out of harm’s way another couple of days and he would be enjoying Christmas with us.’
‘I often hear that,’ she replied. ‘Men say, “If I’d only been an inch to the left,” or, “If only I hadn’t swapped fatigues with my mate.’”
‘Too true. There’s a fine line between life and death.’
Christmas lunch with the battalion cheered me up or maybe it was the glass of watered-down rum I drank to toast everyone’s good health. At lunch our commanding officer passed on a message from the Chief of General Staff.
‘Men, the Commander in Chief of the Mediterranean Expeditionary Force has issued a Special Order of the Day expressing his unreserved appreciation of the way in which the recent operations ending in the evacuation of the Anzac and Suvla positions have been carried out successfully. It is an achievement without parallel.’
There was moderate applause.
Many of the men in my battalion were no doubt thinking what I was thinking! This is just one set of Brass Hats praising another set. Where’s the acknowledgement that it was probably those same Brass Hats who got every other aspect of the Gallipoli campaign wrong in the 237 days leading up to the two days of evacuation? Where’s the praise for the fighting man’s efforts to dig in and hold on against all odds? And where’s the acknowledgement of the 8,709 Australian lads who will never leave the peninsula?
I stopped myself from becoming mean-spirited. I joined in the festivities and cheery chat with ‘old-’ and ‘new-hands’ alike. After the hearty meal and several small toasts I returned to my tent and napped.
Late in the day I roused myself.
The sun unexpectedly appeared low in the western sky as I made my way to the hospital. Its rays shone strongly under the storm clouds and created a powerful light. Birds responded to the break in the weather and sang their hearts out. My spirits rose and my sadness lifted. I felt more peaceful than I had for many months.
‘You can’t bring that in here,’ the nurse told me firmly when she saw the tumbler of rum I was carrying.
‘It’s not for me, Miss, it’s for my mate.’
She smiled gently and said, ‘That’s all right then. It is Christmas.’
‘I forgot my manners,’ I replied. ‘Merry Christmas, Miss.’
‘Thank you. Same to you.’
I sat on the side of Robbo’s bed.
‘I brought you some Christmas cheer,’ I said softly and placed the tumbler on his small bedside cupboard.
He had not moved since this morning.
‘The Brass Hats are toasting each other on the success of the evacuation,’ I told him, ‘but I thought you’d prefer to toast our mates.’
He remained motionless.
‘To Needle,’ I said and held up an imaginary glass. ‘And to Fish,’ I added and lifted the imaginary glass again. ‘And a toast to your health, Robbo,’ I concluded with a quavering voice.
I bowed my head, closed my eyes and sat there for several minutes. Another shower of rain blew in. The raindrops on the tent top and the wind buffeting the sides created a comforting backdrop to my thoughts.
‘I’m sorry it had to end this way, Robbo. I had such high hopes when I enlisted. I was younger and more naïve than you blokes but you accepted and protected me.’ I paused. ‘And I let you down… one by one.’
I opened my eyes and put my hand on his.
‘I’m sorry, cobber,’ I said through tears.
I sat holding his hand for several minutes then released it and stood to go. The nurse was standing alongside me.
‘Look,’ she said.
I turned.
Robbo’s eyelids were ever so slightly moving.
Thunder crashed overhead and they flickered even more quickly.
‘He’s going to make it,’ she said quietly and smiled so beautifully at him.
The intensity of the wind and rain picked up but inside the tent we were warm and safe and at peace.
‘Are we downhearted?’ I whispered then gave the reply.
‘Never.’