Chapter VII: The Landing

A great convoy of transports, guarded by destroyers, ploughed silently through the waters which lap the European side of the Gallipoli Peninsula. The ships had the Australian force on board, and the destroyers were there to assist them in one of the most daring missions in modern war.

All lights were out and strict silence was observed. Each man had, therefore, time to commune with the spirits of those nine thousand miles away. It was not a time for the buffoon; they were faced with all the dread perils of war.

Nearer and nearer the ships drew to their objective. At last they reached the point assigned them by the Staff. A quiet signal was given. Destroyers, pinnaces, and row boats were placed at the sides of the transports, rough gangways thrown out, and the command to move quietly was passed along. Noiselessly they stepped from the transports; but all the while there was an electric-like feeling around the heart--that peculiar something which only the soldier knows. However, there wasn't time to romance or moralise. War rules out sentiment and fears. There was a job to be done.

When each boat was packed with its human freight, the gangways were slipped, cables thrown off, and all were quietly towed to the shore. It was still dark--one hour, in fact, before the dawn. When close inshore, the hand of Providence proved kind. This took the form of a strong current--so strong, in fact, that it pressed the boats away from the point previously assigned for the landing and washed them into a safer part for the historic encounter.

That current saved thousands of Australian lives; indeed, it may have ensured the success of the mission. Had the Australians landed at the point decided on, it is doubtful whether the landing would have been so thoroughly effective as it proved on the other beach.

"Not much doing--eh?" said Colonel Killem to his adjutant as he peered through the darkness to the shore. Indeed, it seemed that the enemy had left this shore unguarded. But the Turks are wily soldiers. They allowed the boats to near the shore, then opened up a murderous rifle and machine-gun fire.

"Gad! Boys, I'm hit!" said a subaltern, falling, his blood spurting in a stream all over his clothes.

"So'm I!" said another youngster with a ping in his arm.

"Holy Father, preserve us!" muttered Doolan, crossing himself, as they grated on the shore.

"Jump, boys, jump!" shouted the colonel. There was no need to tell them, no need to show the lead. They leaped pluckily from their boats and dashed up the beach. There was a pause while a few collected.

Then, seeing the Turks firing furiously from a trench ahead, somebody yelled out, "Charge!" A cheer electrified the chilling dawn as they rushed on. Some were killed; some fell, wounded, on the way; the others pressed forward, their faces grim, their eyes alert, and the muscles of their arms all taut with the fierce gripping of the rifles in their hands. It was their first charge; but they did it like the veterans of Corunna and Waterloo.

"Allah! Allah!" shouted the Turks as they neared the trenches.

"Too late, old cock," said Bill, plunging his bayonet home.

"That's one for Paddy Doolan."

"Help, Paddy; this big deevil's got me," yelled Sandy, who had been struck by a Turk. Crash went the Irishman's butt on the Turk's skull, and he fell back dead. Sandy's wound was dressed, and he was sent to the rear. Meantime some supports had come up.

Seeing the Turks fleeing into another trench some fifty yards up the slope, the colonel ordered them to charge again. The Australians' blood was up. They had seen red and had felt success. They wanted more. Throwing off their cumbersome packs, they charged forward again.

"They've got me," shouted an officer, throwing up his arms and letting out the awful shriek of death. But this withering fire did not appal these young Australians. The sight of their comrades, dead and wounded, roused them more. Revenge set their faces hard, and with many a fierce and terrible oath they leaped into the second trench.

"The Australians will retire," said an officer, jumping in front of the attacking line.

"Who said so?" asked Colonel Killem, looking at the man.

"I say so. I'm one of zee Staff."

"You damned German!" shouted the colonel, shooting him dead. The game which had been so well played in France did not come off.

The remnants of the Turks were bayoneted and butted to death; but the main body were fleeing up the hill.

"Rapid fire!" roared the colonel; but the eager men were already after the enemy with the bayonet. Up the steep, steep sides of the cliff they clambered and stumbled. It was more like a race for a prize than a juggle with death. Occasionally the morning light showed the red blood on the bayonets and hands of the charging men.

These blood-stained, panting soldiers terrified the Turks at the top of the hill. Their tactics had surprised them. They had looked for the usual musketry assault; instead, they had received the chilling steel. And the bayonet on a cold morning is a sight that sickens the best. Furiously they pumped another dose of lead into the gallant Australians. More fell dead, others dropped wounded, blood spattered the grass, and above the din of musketry and guns could be heard the cries of:

"Bearers--stretcher bearers!"

"Water, for God's sake!"

"Send up the doctor."

"I'm done, boys--I'm d-o-n-e!"

The units, by this time, had become mixed. Many officers had been killed. There was that confusion which is found in all attacks. Still, all these men knew that "forward--forward" was the game. The roughest and most daring took charge of little groups, and, with these, they cheered, cursed, and leaped into the trench at the edge of the green plateau. Again, the main body had fled, leaving the more weary and stubborn to defend the hill.

"Kill the beggars!"

"Plug his bread-basket!"

These were some of the things that were shouted, for all soldiers, in a charge, curse like Marlborough's troops did in Flanders.

A charge seems a terrible thing when reading of it at one's fireside. Folks shiver and ask, "How can they do it? Don't they feel afraid?" They may at the outset; but the noise, the swing, the officers' inspiration, the sight of blood and a fleeing foe damp down the sensitiveness of culture and recreate the primitive lust to kill.

For the moment the man is a savage; Nature blinds him to the perils of wounds and death. Duty steels him harder still, and pride of race tells him that he must do as his fathers did--die like a gentleman and a soldier.

The success of the first troops inspired the following reserves. They all wanted to emulate the Kangaroo Marines and other dashing corps. Without waiting for their complete units, these little groups crawled, floundered, and wriggled their way up the gully on to the hill. It was now daylight. As they gained the summit the Turks greeted them with terrific bursts of shrapnel and common shell. The crack, the white puff of smoke, then the scattering balls of lead did not dismay these warriors.

It roused their curiosity, and, like schoolboys, some stopped to see the fun of the show. Cover they disdained. They were too proud to duck and hide in a hole or trench. This was the recklessness for which they had to pay. Yet it was useful. It taught them that to take advantage of all cover was the modern soldier's game.

"Extend, boys, extend!" roared an officer as the reserves came up. They ran out and tried to make a long, rough line. They could see the fleeing Turks, and behind them the Kangaroo Marines and other members of the first landing force. Ahead was a little valley and then a slope. This was commanded by the Turks.

"Come on, boys," shouted an officer.

Little groups, under subalterns, N.C.O.'s, or privates with the leader's instinct, dashed towards this hill. More were killed, more wounded on the way; but, undaunted, they pushed on. Up the slopes crawled, clambered, and cursed the dashing infantry. They reached their objective, and, again, the Turks had gone.

"My God--what a sight!" said Claud, looking behind. The ground was dotted with dead and dying. Wounded men crawled and limped to the rear, their clothes soaked in blood. Men with limbs shattered to pulp lay moaning and pleading for death. Others, slightly wounded, poured water down the parched throats of the suffering. It was a shambles. It was war.

Yet the touch of mercy and humanity was not absent. Doctors and bearers, disdaining death, tended the wounded and dying. Under a ruthless fire orderlies carried the sufferers down to the beach below. Many were killed at the job. Nobly they stuck to it. The heroism of these Red Cross men is one of the finest things in the Gaba Tepe show.

The attack had now developed into a galloping pursuit. Turks were demoralised, and after them went the Australians like whippets on the course. There was no regular line. Little units were here and there. It was the day for the born leader. Having no precise information as to where the pursuit should end and a defensive line made, many pushed right on with a courage that was amazing.

One group was caught in a gully and decimated; others, who pushed almost across the Peninsula, were either killed, wounded, or captured. The remainder, realising the need of consolidating into a general line, came back to the main body. With their entrenching tools they dug holes in the ground, and from behind these little mounds of earth they kept up a steady fire. Without rations, without water--and, at times, without ammunition--they patiently hung on.

All this, too, in a sweltering heat and in the centre of a terrific bombardment. It was the greatest trial any force could have experienced. The Australians exceeded all expectations.

"They're coming back again," said an officer late that afternoon.

Sure enough, there was the Turkish host. Rapid fire wiped many out; still on they came right up to the line. The Australians charged. And all day it was charge and counter-charge. Officers have seldom displayed the tenacity and courage of these Australians' leaders. They played the game as well as the scions of Eton and other historic schools. And then God, in His mercy, sent down the fall of night. This hid the shambles, gave ease to the wounded and dying, and allowed the living to snatch a drink and bite.

But none were idle. On their knees, on their backs, on their sides, they had to dig in, for the fire was still deadly and many were being killed and wounded. The sailors worked like Trojans, bringing rations, ammunition, and reserves ashore. Thanks to them, the gunners, and the untiring zeal of the Staff, the line next day was fairly well established.

The landing was complete; they had achieved what the Germans had advertised as the impossible. Australians have, therefore, every right to feel proud. And all Britishers ought to feel proud of them too.

* * * * *

"Well, boys--how's things?" asked Colonel Killem, one day, when visiting his men in the trenches.

"A1 at Lloyd's, colonel. But I reckon we ought to pull old Johnny Turk's leg."

"How?"

"Play tricks on him. Give a cheer an' kid we're going to charge. They'll fire every bally round they've got."

"Good idea, Buster--good idea! We'll do that to-night."

About 8 P.M. that night the whole front line fixed bayonets and showed them above the parapet. At a given signal all let out a ringing cheer. The poor old Turks got into an awful stew. Machine-guns, field-guns, and rifles opened up a terrific fire. They kept it up for over half an hour, firing thousands of rounds.

"Another cheer, boys," ordered the colonel.

"Bang! Bang! Bang!" went the Turks again. The ruse was a splendid one. But the wily Turk tumbled to the game at last.

"We'll need to get something new, boys; that game's played out," said the colonel next day.

After consulting his men they hit on another scheme. About twenty men were ordered to fix bayonets and continually pass along the line, allowing their bayonets to show above the parapet as they marched along.

On reaching the end they pulled their rifles down and crept back to where they had started from. Again they marched along, showing their bayonets, as before. The old Turks simply saw this constant stream of bayonets. They concluded that the Australians were massing for the attack. The Turks lined their trenches and opened up another furious fusillade, supported by machine-guns and shrapnel. Thousands of rounds were expended before they realised that they had been fooled once more.

There was a lull next day, so Bill and his friends shaved off their whiskers and had a bath in a cupful of water. Claud cleaned his eyeglass, and Paddy went in search of a glass of rum from some of the sailors. Sandy, then on light duty, opened up a business as a curio agent. He swapped Turkish rifles, bullet clips, and other things for pieces of bread, a tin of jam, a tasty Maconochie, and some tea. This was a godsend to his famished pals in the trenches. Bill also wrote a letter home to Mrs. McGinnes, his old Sydney landlady and financier:

"DEAR OLD SPORT,--Hope's your well. I'm well, but the Turks ain't well. Reckon we've killed millions of 'em. Ain't got the V.C. yet. There's a shipload comin' next week for The Kangaroo Boys. You can 'ave mine for a brooch. Likin' the life fine here--except the bullets. They generally kills a feller wot ain't careful. There ain't no undertakers out here. When we wants a new kit we generally borrows the clothes an' boots of a dead feller. We live in little 'oles jist like rabbits, an' the old Turks keep throwin' nasty things called bombs. They ain't nice--one blew a feller's head off last night. Pore chap, an' he had such a nice pair of trousers--I've got 'em on now. The snipers are nasty fellers, 'demned annoyin',' as my ole friend Claud says. One keeps hittin' my loop-'ole, but I'm going to 'ave the dirty ole rascal's blood to-night. Now, ta ta, old girl. Love to the children.--Your ole friend,

"BILL BUSTER.

"_P.S._--Lend me a quid. What a thirst I've got. We can generally buy rum from the sailors. Make it two quid an' I'll send you a lot of kurios.

"_P.P.S._--I needs tobacco--couple of pounds 'll do. An' throw in some cigarettes. Wot a life!

"_P.P.P.S._--x x x x x x x x. These are for you--don't tell yer hubby. Bye-bye."

That night Claud spotted Bill crawling out of the trenches.

"Where are you going, you silly ass?"

"Who's silly?" said Bill, looking back at his friend in the trench.

Ping! went a bullet from the sniper. It went right through his trousers, but missed his leg.

"It's that feller I'm after."

Before Claud could detain him he disappeared. Dropping on to his knees, he crawled for some distance, then lay flat.

Ping went the sniper's bullet again. He saw the flash. This incidentally revealed the position of the Turk. Fixing his bayonet, Bill made a wide detour, At last he arrived in rear of his object.

Ping! went the rifle again. So intent was the sniper on his job that he did not hear the crawling man behind. Like a snake, Bill wriggled along. He finished up ten yards behind his man. This sniper had killed and wounded thirty men in two days. He did not deserve a quick dispatch, and Bill had no intention of giving him that. With a bound, he jumped on him, and pinned him right through the shoulders with his bayonet.

"Allah! Allah!" shrieked the man, in the most dreadful pain.

"Old Allah ain't no good to you now. Get up!" And he was lifted up with the bayonet.

When he rose from the ground Bill found he had a green bush tied all round him. His face and hands were afterwards found to be painted green. All this the Turks had acquired from their German masters.

"Now, old cock, run!" said Bill, pushing the man in front.

Screaming with pain the sniper was pushed at the double right up to the Australian trench.

"What's all that row there?" roared the Colonel.

"Jest been catchin' a sniper, Colonel," answered Bill, throwing his man off the bayonet into the trench. He dropped dead at the Colonel's feet.

"A good death for him, too," said Sam, thinking of the fine fellows this man had killed and wounded. A sniper, let it be known, does not play the clean game of war, and any punishment is justifiable.

Bill had given him his deserts.