Chapter C: J. N

DAVID BARKER]

FURPHY

It was the colonel who propounded the theory first, on hearing some rumour more optimistic than reliable. “These furphies[11] are the very devil,” he said.

Now, I had a theory about Furphy. I was waiting for an opportunity of following it up, and it came this way:

I was on the beach one day when a friend met me and asked if I had heard the latest dinkum. On learning that I hadn’t, he informed me that Greece had declared war on Turkey, and was going to land 100,000 men within the next few days on the Peninsula. I inquired for the source, and he said he got it from a fellow who had just gone along the beach towards the left. I asked what the man was like. That sort of puzzled him. He said he was a tall man—no, he thought he was only middle height or perhaps a bit on the small side. His hair was dark—no, now that he thought a bit, he fancied it was fair. In fact, the more he tried to describe him the less could he remember him. “He’s my Moses,” I said, and hurried off in in the direction he had gone.

Passing through the sap to Shrapnel Gully, I met another friend.

“Heard the latest?” he inquired.

I said “No.”

“Four Italian staff officers seen on the beach to-day,” he said breathlessly. “Two hundred thousand Italian troops being sent here.”

“Who told you?” I asked.

“Fellow just going into White’s Valley.”

“What was he like?” I inquired excitedly.

“An ordinary fellow—not tall, and not short.”

“His hair?”

“Well, it wasn’t dark—yes, it was—no, I don’t know.”

“How did he walk?”

“I never noticed,” he said; “in fact, he didn’t seem to walk at all.”

I left him standing, and got down the sap and over into White’s Valley in a record time, and bumped into another acquaintance.

“Heard the news?” he said.

“No.”

“Why, three hundred thousand Italians have landed at Helles, and Achi Baba is to be taken to-night.”

I asked who his informant was, and he began to flounder into contradictions. I rushed off, knowing that I was well on the track of Furphy.

In Victoria Gully I heard that Roumania had declared war, and 400,000 troops were marching through Bulgaria to Constantinople.

“Who told you? What was he like?” I gasped at the teller.

“Just a bloke,” was the answer. “’E ’ad two legs, two arms, and a ’ead, two eyes——” Then he added in a puzzled fashion: “But, dammit, did ’e?”

I didn’t wait any longer, but was off again. At Shell Green I heard that a man—just a feller, rather—had told them that the Russians had surrounded and captured Hindenburg’s army, and that 500,000 Russians were to make a landing in Turkey. The Russian officers were here already. The man who had seen them had just passed five minutes before. I wasn’t far from Furphy now.

At Chatham’s Post they were buzzing with excitement over the news that 600,000 French were going to be landed between Kaba Tepe and Helles.

I asked if they thought it was true, and they assured me that they had heard it from a man who looked as if he knew. No two descriptions of him, however, agreed. I was getting closer to Furphy.

I hurried along the trenches as fast as I could, but got no information till near Lone Pine, where I heard that a big mob of Turks was expected to surrender that night. It was said they could not face the prospect of the coming landing of the whole Italian army. Besides, they were short of food and water, they were being badly treated by their officers, and their guns had hardly any ammunition left. A 75 just then knocked a portion of parapet over me. I remarked that anyone could see the information was right about Abdul being short of ammunition, but where did the information come from?

“A fellow that just went by,” they said; “looked like a staff officer.”

Getting near Steele’s Post, I saw in front of me a man with an indescribable gait. He seemed to float along instead of walk. It was Furphy!

I hurried, but seemed to make no gain on him. I began to run. Near Courtney’s Post I was twenty yards from him, and called to a man to stop him. My quarry brushed past. I put on a spurt. I was within about five yards of him when, all of a sudden, he sank into the earth. As his head disappeared he smiled an oily grimace at me.

And I noticed that there were small horns behind his ears.

Q. E. D.

FOOTNOTES:

[11] Furphy was the name of the contractor which was written large upon the rubbish carts that he supplied to the Melbourne camps. The name was transferred to a certain class of news item, very common since the war, which flourished greatly upon all the beaches.—EDS.

FROM MY TRENCH

A clear, cold night, and in the southern air
Those far-off thunderings so often there;[12]
A Turkish moon is shining fitfully—
My thoughts are ’neath another moon where we
Paced slowly through the tree stems—you and I.
And, looking back at yon farewell, I sigh
And wonder whether then I cared as much
As now I do when far beyond your touch.

Cpl. COMUS, 2nd Bat., A.I.F.

FOOTNOTES:

[12] Cape Helles is about 12 miles south of Anzac, and the distant rumble of the guns there was constantly in the air at Anzac.—EDS.

ABDUL

We’ve drunk the boys who rushed the hills,
The men who stormed the beach,
The sappers and the A.S.C.,
We’ve had a toast for each;
And the guns and stretcher-bearers—
But, before the bowl is cool,
There’s one chap I’d like to mention,
He’s a fellow called ABDUL.

We haven’t seen him much of late—
Unless it be his hat,
Bobbing down behind a loophole ...
And we mostly blaze at that;
But we hear him wheezing there at nights,
Patrolling through the dark,
With his signals—hoots and chirrups—
Like an early morning lark.

We’ve heard the twigs a-crackling,
As we crouched upon our knees,
And his big, black shape went smashing,
Like a rhino, through the trees.
We’ve seen him flung in, rank on rank,
Across the morning sky;
And we’ve had some pretty shooting,
And—he knows the way to die.

Yes, we’ve seen him dying there in front—
Our own boys died there, too—
With his poor dark eyes a-rolling,
Staring at the hopeless blue;
With his poor maimed arms a-stretching
To the God we both can name ...
And it fairly tore our hearts out;
But it’s in the beastly game.

_Drawn by TED COLLES_]

So though your name be black as ink
For murder and rapine,
Carried out in happy concert
With your Christians from the Rhine,
_We_ will judge you, Mr. Abdul,
By the test by which _we_ can—
That with all your breath, in life, in death,
You’ve played the gentleman.