Chapter C: Leyshon-White

1915

COMPLAINTS of the SEASON]

The Anzac Book

THE LANDING

_By a Man of the Tenth_

Come on, lads, have a good, hot supper—there’s business doing.” So spoke No. 10 Platoon Sergeant of the 10th Australian Battalion to his men, lying about in all sorts of odd corners aboard the battleship _Prince of Wales_, in the first hour of the morning of April 25th, 1915. The ship, or her company, had provided a hot stew of bully beef, and the lads set to and took what proved, alas to many, their last real meal together. They laugh and joke as though picnicking. Then a voice: “Fall in!” comes ringing down the ladderway from the deck above. The boys swing on their heavy equipment, grasp their rifles, silently make their way on deck, and stand in grim black masses. All lights are out, and only harsh, low commands break the silence. “This way No. 9—No. 10—C Company.” Almost blindly we grope our way to the ladder leading to the huge barge below, which is already half full of silent, grim men, who seem to realise that at last, after eight months of hard, solid training in Australia, Egypt and Lemnos Island, they are now to be called upon to carry out the object of it all.

“Full up, sir,” whispers the midshipman in the barge.

“Cast off and drift astern,” says the ship’s officer in charge of the embarkation. Slowly we drift astern, until the boat stops with a jerk, and twang goes the hawser that couples the boats and barges together. Silently the boats are filled with men, and silently drop astern of the big ship, until, all being filled, the order is given to the small steamboats: “Full steam ahead.” Away we go, racing and bounding, dipping and rolling, now in a straight line, now in a half-circle, on through the night.

The moon has just about sunk below the horizon. Looking back, we can see the battleships coming on slowly in our rear, ready to cover our attack. All at once our pinnace gives a great start forward, and away we go for land just discernible one hundred yards away on our left.

Suvla from Anzac.]

Then—crack-crack! ping-ping! zip-zip! Trenches full of rifles upon the shore and surrounding hills open on us, and machine-guns, hidden in gullies or redoubts, increase the murderous hail. Oars are splintered, boats are perforated. A sharp moan, a low gurgling cry, tells of a comrade hit. Boats ground in four or five feet of water owing to the human weight contained in them. We scramble out, struggle to the shore, and, rushing across the beach, take cover under a low sandbank.

“Here, take off my pack, and I’ll take off yours.” We help one another to lift the heavy, water-soaked packs off. “Hurry up, there,” says our sergeant. “Fix bayonets.” Click! and the bayonets are fixed. “Forward!” And away we scramble up the hills in our front. Up, up we go, stumbling in holes and ruts. With a ringing cheer we charge the steep hill, pulling ourselves up by roots and branches of trees; at times digging our bayonets into the ground, and pushing ourselves up to a foothold, until, topping the hill, we found the enemy had made themselves very scarce. What had caused them to fly from a position from which they should have driven us back into the sea every time? A few scattered Turks showing in the distance we instantly fired on. Some fell to rise no more; others fell wounded and, crawling into the low bushes, sniped our lads as they went past. There were snipers in plenty, cunningly hidden in the hearts of low green shrubs. They accounted for a lot of our boys in the first few days, but gradually were rooted out. Over the hill we dashed, and down into what is now called “Shrapnel Gully,” and up the other hillside, until, on reaching the top, we found that some of the lads of the 3rd Brigade had commenced to dig in. We skirted round to the plateau at the head of the gully, and took up our line of defence.

As soon as it was light enough to see, the guns on Gaba Tepe, on our right, and two batteries away on our left opened up a murderous hail of shrapnel on our landing parties. The battleships and cruisers were continuously covering the landing of troops, broadsides going into the batteries situated in tunnels in the distant hillside. All this while the seamen from the different ships were gallantly rowing and managing the boats carrying the landing parties. Not one man that is left of the original brigade will hear a word against our gallant seamen. England may well be proud of them, and all true Australians are proud to call them comrades.

Gaba Tepe from Anzac.]

Se-ee-e-e ... bang ... swish! The front firing line was now being baptised by its first shrapnel. Zir-zir ... zip-zip! Machine-guns, situated on each front, flank and centre, opened on our front line. Thousands of bullets began to fly round and over us, sometimes barely missing. Now and then one heard a low gurgling moan, and, turning, one saw near at hand some chum, who only a few seconds before had been laughing and joking, now lying gasping, with his life blood soaking down into the red clay and sand. “Five rounds rapid at the scrub in front,” comes the command of our subaltern. Then an order down the line: “Fix bayonets!” Fatal order—was it not, perhaps, some officer of the enemy who shouted it? (for they say such things were done). Out flash a thousand bayonets, scintillating in the sunlight like a thousand mirrors, signalling our position to the batteries away on our left and front. We put in another five rounds rapid at the scrub in front. Then, bang-swish! bang-swish! bang-swish! and over our line, and front, and rear, such a hellish fire of lyddite and shrapnel that one wonders how anyone could live amidst such a hail of death-dealing lead and shell. “Ah, got me!” says one lad on my left, and he shakes his arms. A bullet had passed through the biceps of his left arm, missed his chest by an inch, passed through the right forearm, and finally struck the lad between him and me a bruising blow on the wrist. The man next him—a man from the 9th Battalion—started to bind up his wounds, as he was bleeding freely. All the time shrapnel was hailing down on us. “Oh-h!” comes from directly behind me, and, looking around, I see poor little Lieutenant B——, of C Company, has been badly wounded. From both hips to his ankles blood is oozing through pants and puttees, and he painfully drags himself to the rear. With every pull he moans cruelly. I raise him to his feet, and at a very slow pace start to help him to shelter. But, alas! I have only got him about fifty yards from the firing line when again, bang-swish! and we were both peppered by shrapnel and shell. My rifle-butt was broken off to the trigger-guard, and I received a smashing blow that laid my cheek on my shoulder. The last I remembered was poor Lieutenant B—— groaning again as we both sank to the ground.

When I came to I found myself in Shrapnel Gully, with an A.M.C. man holding me down. I was still clasping my half-rifle. Dozens of men and officers, both Australians and New Zealanders (who had landed a little later in the day), were coming down wounded, some slightly, some badly, with arms in slings or shot through the leg, and using their rifles for crutches. Shrapnel Gully was still under shrapnel and snipers’ fire. Two or three platoon mates and myself slowly moved down to the beach, where we found the Australian Army Service Corps busily engaged landing stores and water amid shrapnel fire from Gaba Tepe. As soon as a load of stores was landed, the wounded were carried aboard the empty barges, and taken to hospital ships and troopships standing out offshore. After going to ten different boats, we came at last to the troopship _Seang Choon_, which had the 14th Australian Battalion aboard. They were to disembark the next morning, but owing to so many of us being wounded, they had to land straightaway.

And so, after twelve hours’ hard fighting, I was aboard a troopship again—wounded. But I would not have missed it for all the money in the world.

A. R. PERRY,

10th Battalion A.I.F.

_Photograph by C. E. W. BEAN_

THE SUNRISE OF APRIL 15, 1915

The small boats taking troops to the shore can be seen beside the transports and close to the land]

THE REMINISCENCE OF A WRECK

[It may be necessary to explain that wood—for the roof-beams
of dug-outs and the shoring up of trenches in wet weather—was
priceless in Gallipoli. But whilst this book was being compiled
Providence sent a storm. In the morning the beach was littered
with portions of a wrecked schooner, stranded lighters, pieces of
pier—all strictly the property of H.M. Government as represented
by the officer commanding the Royal Engineers. “A gift from
Heaven,” one Australian was heard to remark as he looked at the
desolate scene next morning. Nor were his British brethren less
grateful.—Eds.]

The storm had ceased, the sea was calm, the wind a trifle raw,
And miles and miles of wreckage lay upon the sandy shore;
And every time the waves came up they brought a little more.

The Sergeant and the Junior Sub. in contemplation stood.
They wept like anything to see such quantities of wood—
And then they smiled a furtive smile which boded little good.

The wood lay round in lovely heaps and smiled invitingly.
“Do you suppose,” the Sergeant said, “that this is meant for me?”
“I doubt it,” said the Junior Sub. “Here comes the C.R.E.[1]

“If fifty kings and fifty queens and fifty C.-in-C.’s
Presented fifty indents and bowed low upon their knees,
I hardly think that they would get more than a few of these.”

The Sergeant and the Junior Sub. walked on a mile or so,
Until they found a shelving bank conveniently low;
And there they waited sadly for the C.R.E. to go.

“Oh, timbers,” quoth the Junior Sub., who spoke with honeyed speech,
“I hardly think it _safe_ for you to lie upon the beach.”
And as he spoke he stroked the backs of those within his reach.

The timbers leapt beneath his touch and hurried plank by plank;
They crowded round to hear him speak, and lined up rank on rank—
But one old timber wagged his head and hid behind a bank.

“The time has come,” the Sergeant said, “to talk of many things—
Of bully beef and dug-outs, of Kaisers and of Kings,
And why the rain comes through the roof, and whether shrapnel stings.

“Some good stout planks,” the Sergeant cried, “are what we chiefly
need,
And four by fours and spars besides are very good indeed—
So if you’re ready, sir, I think we may as well proceed.”

“Oh, C.R.E.!” remarked the Sub., “I deeply sympathise.”
With sobs and tears they sorted out those of the largest size,
While happy thoughts of days to come loomed large before their eyes.

Next morning came the C.R.E. to see what could be done;
But when he came to count the planks he found that there was none—
And this was hardly odd, because they’d collared every one.

Lieut. A. L. PEMBERTON,
R.G.A.

TAYLOR’S HOLLOW,
8.12.15.