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Title: On the Anzac trail: Being extracts from the diary of a New Zealand sapper

Author: Anzac

Release date: June 19, 2022 [eBook #68345]

Language: English

Original publication: United Kingdom: William Heinemann

Credits: Charlene Taylor, Brian Wilsden and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ON THE ANZAC TRAIL: BEING EXTRACTS FROM THE DIARY OF A NEW ZEALAND SAPPER ***

Transcriber's Note: Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.




ON THE ANZAC TRAIL




  SOLDIERS' TALES OF THE
  GREAT WAR

  Each volume cr. 8vo, cloth,
  3_s._ 6_d._ net.


   I.  WITH MY REGIMENT. By
       "PLATOON COMMANDER"

  II.  DIXMUDE. The Epic of the French
       Marines. Oct.-Nov. 1914. By CHARLES
       LE GOFFIC.              _Illustrated_

 III.  IN THE FIELD (1914-15). The Impressions
       of an Officer of Light Cavalry.

  IV.  UNCENSORED LETTERS FROM
       THE DARDANELLES. Notes of a
       French Army Doctor.     _Illustrated_

   V.  PRISONER OF WAR. By ANDRÉ WARNOD.
                               _Illustrated_

  VI.  "CONTEMPTIBLE." By "CASUALTY."

 VII.  ON THE ANZAC TRAIL. By "ANZAC."


  LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN
   21 Bedford Street, W.C.




  ON THE ANZAC
  TRAIL
  BEING EXTRACTS FROM THE DIARY
  OF A NEW ZEALAND SAPPER
  BY
  "ANZAC"


  LONDON
  WILLIAM HEINEMANN




_London: William Heinemann, 1916._




TO THE MEN




BY WAY OF ADVERTISEMENT


This is the story of the Anzacs. It is told by one of the New
Zealanders who was with them in Egypt, was present at the Landing, and
who did his little best to uphold the honour of Maoriland in the long
and grim Battle of the Trenches. It is the tale of a man in the ranks.
It is told without gloss or varnish. _And it is true._

  _Komate! Komate!
    Kaora! Kaora!
  Komate! Komate!
    Kaora! Kaora!_
  Tene Te Tonga Te,
  Pohuru Uru;
  Nana È Tiki Mai,
  Whaka Whiti Tera—
  Hupani! Hupani! Hupani!
  Kupani È Whiti Tera!

Which is also true.




CONTENTS


                               PAGE

  JOINING UP                      1

  OFF                            13

  LIFE IN EGYPT                  28

  EAST AND WEST                  48

  DAY BY DAY                     68

  "THE BATTLE OF THE STREETS"    98

  AT GRIPS                      108

  THREE WEEKS                   143

  SITTING TIGHT                 174

  THE ORDER OF THE PUSH         204





CHAPTER I

JOINING UP


When the Great War struck Europe I was living with my people in
Ireland. I had served in the South African campaign, so, of course, I
realised that it was up to me to roll up again and do my bit towards
keeping the old rag flying. It's a queer thing, but let a man once go
on the war-path and it's all the odds to a strap ring he's off again,
full cry, to the sound of the bugle. I reckon it's in the Britisher's
blood; he kind of imbibes it along with his mother's milk. When all's
said and done we are a fighting breed. A sporting crowd, too, and we
tackle war much as we would a game of football—or a big round-up in
the Never-Never.

When England took off the gloves to Germany I knew the Colonies
wouldn't hang back long. They breed men on the fringes of our Empire.
Hence I wasn't surprised when I saw a notice in the papers calling on
all New Zealanders, or men who had seen service with the Maorilanders
in South Africa, to roll up at the High Commissioner's office in
London, to be trained for service with the "Down Under" contingents.
Well, I had lived for years in New Zealand, and had fought Boers time
and again side by side with New Zealand troops, so I sent in my name
right away. In due course I received a polite letter of thanks, and
was told to turn up at the office on a certain date, to be examined
and attested. I did so, and in company with some two hundred other
Colonials was put through the eye-sight, hearing, and other tests, said
"ninety-nine" to the doctor's satisfaction, and was duly passed as fit
for service.

And now began a period of stress and strenuous life. Morning after
morning we repaired to Wandsworth Common, there to acquaint ourselves
with the intricacies of "Right turn," "Left turn," "Form fours," etc.,
under the tutelage of certain drill-sergeants of leathern lungs and
bibulous-looking noses. At noon we knocked off for an hour and a half,
repairing for refreshment to a house of entertainment which stood
fairly "adjacent" to our drill ground. Here we very soon found that our
instructors' looks did not belie them. However, we consoled ourselves
with the reflection that English beer was cheap as drinks went, and
that all things come to an end in this world. The afternoons were
repetitions of the mornings, with the added attraction of a largish
audience composed principally of nursemaids and infants in arms—and
prams. The audience enjoyed our efforts if we, the actors, didn't. It
was thirsty work.

During this period we lived in London, "finding" ourselves, but
receiving a slight increase of pay in lieu of quarters and rations.
It's a gay city is the Rio London. Our pockets suffered, hence most of
us, although we growled on principle (being Colonials), were secretly
relieved in mind when the order came to transfer to Salisbury Plain,
there to camp in tents until such time as huts should be prepared for
us.

I think we all enjoyed our stay on the "Plain"—a sad misnomer, by the
way, as I never ran across a hillier plain in my life. It was autumn in
England, and when we first arrived, except for cold nights the weather
was really good—for England! It soon broke, however, and we sampled
to the full the joys of sleeping on rain-soaked blankets and ploughing
our way through the sticky chalk soil that hereabouts is so strongly
in evidence. Hence we weren't sorry to transfer our swags to the more
kindly shelter of the huts. In fact, we took possession of them before
they were quite ready for occupancy, electing to complete the work
ourselves. Most of us were "bush carpenters," so the job was right into
our hands.

Our camp lay within two miles of Bulford village, a kind of Sleepy
Hollow inhabited by a bovine-looking breed, whose mouths seemed
intended for beer-drinking but not talking—which, in a way, was just
as well, for when they did make a remark it was all Greek to us. We
wakened the place up a bit, however, and the Canadians, who settled
down to the tune of over five thousand round about us, nobly seconded
our efforts, so I reckon the power of speech was restored to the
villagers—after we left! For all I know they may be talking yet. Come
to think it over in cold blood, they had cause to.

Those Kanucks were a hefty lot, and blessed with real top-knotch powers
of absorption. They were sports, too. We beat them at Rugby football,
but they took their change back at soccer. Honours were even, I think,
at drill, but they drank our canteen dry every night. You see, there
were five thousand of them and only a little over two hundred of us.
As they were inclined to talk a bit in their cups we were forced to
mount an armed guard in the canteen. The guard's principal duty was
to stop scrapping on the premises, and the first sign of "peeling"
operations being indulged in was the signal to round up the mob. Once
outside, however, they could do as they liked. And they generally did!
Discoloured optics and flattened nasal appendages soon ceased to be
objects of curiosity down our location. On the whole we got on well
with them, and we had many things in common. Poor fellows, they got
stuck into it cruelly in France, between German gas and overpowering
numbers, but they showed real grit right through—just as we who had
been camp-mates with them knew they would.

Barring the heavy frosts, the rain, and the foot-deep mud, things
weren't so bad in camp. The tucker was really good and there was
plenty of it; the huts were, on the whole, fairly dry, although a bit
draughty; and our kit was first-rate. We slept on the usual "donkey's
breakfast," of course, but it isn't the worst bed to sleep on, by a
long chalk. And it felt real good to me when the "Get-out-of-bed" bugle
went every morning before sun-up, and the Kanuck band made the camp
rounds to the tune of _John Peel_. How we cursed that band!

Our daily work began with the usual before-breakfast breather—a brisk
march over the hills, a spell of physical exercise, a pipe-opening
"double," and then a free-and-easy tramp back to camp, soap-and-water,
and breakfast. The feeds we used to take! I reckon the morning
programme alone in the Army would fetch a double "lunger" back from the
hearse door—if it didn't kill him outright. Dyspepsia disappeared from
our camp, while as for stomachs, we grew to forget that such things
formed part of our interior works—except when they reminded us in
unmistakable terms that "Nature abhorred a vacuum."

The forenoon was generally spent on the parade ground, carrying out
platoon and company drill. To give the reader an idea of the size of
our fellows it is only necessary to state that in my platoon (No. 4)
there were six men on my right—and I stand over six feet in height. I
believe there was only one man in the platoon under five feet ten. They
were not "cornstalks" either; they carried weight on top of their legs.

After lunch we usually went for a route-march, a form of training which
was highly popular with all. On most days we did about ten miles, but
twice a week or so we put in a fifteen to twenty mile stunt, cutting
out the pace at a good round bat. Considering the state of the going
(in many places the roads were simply muddy swamps) and the hilly
nature of the country, I reckon we'd have given points to most fellows
when it came to hitting the wallaby. Once I remember taking part in a
platoon marching competition. My platoon won it by a short neck, but we
were all out. The distance was just over eleven miles of as tough and
dirty going as they make, and when it is borne in mind that we cut it
out at an average pace of four-and-a-half miles an hour the reader will
guess that we didn't sprout much moss on the trail. We lost a goodish
deal of sweat that trip, but the messing contractor didn't look like
saying grace over our dinner that night. (By the wish of the men the
evening meal was made the principal one; it was always a solid, hot
tuck-in, and the best preparation for a cold wintry night that I know
of.)

For recreation we had football on Saturdays and—don't look shocked,
dear reader!—Sundays; concerts and "smokers" on week-nights, etc. We
rigged a spare hut up as a theatre and concert-hall, and it looked
real good when completed. The stage was elevated, and fitted with
kerosene lamps as foot and head lights; a nifty curtain, and the
latest thing in brown-paper pillars painted like the front of a Maori
_pataka_, with little Maori gods sitting on their heels, tongues
sticking out sideways, and hands clasped on distended abdomens. The
centre-piece was the gem of the show, however; it represented the War
God, Tiki, chewing up the German Eagle between teeth like the tusks
of an old bush wild pig. Altogether the whole outfit had a decidedly
homelike air about it—although it didn't seem to strike our English
visitors in that light. But, then, neither did our war-cry, even when
it was chanted in their honour by two hundred healthy-lunged New
Zealanders. They did seem to appreciate the concerts we gave, however,
and, bragging apart, we had talent enough in the mob to make a show
most anywhere. We even ran to a trick contortionist and dancer, whose
favourite mode of progression towards his nightly couch was on his
hands with his feet tucked away behind his ears. Taking it all in all,
we were a very happy little colony, and despite the mud, frost and
snow, I fancy those of us who may escape the Long Trail will reserve
a kindly spot in their hearts for the old camp down Bulford way. But,
alas! our ranks are already sadly thinned.

As time went on our little force became reinforced by men joining up
who had come long distances to do their bit for King and Country.
We were a peculiarly heterogeneous crowd. There were men from South
Africa, from the Argentine, from Canada, the United States, and even
from Central America. One at least had fought in the Spanish-American
War, and owned to being a naturalised Uncle Sam citizen. There were
quite a few who had seen service in the late Boer War, some who had
been members of the New Zealand contingents, others having gone
through the campaign in one or other of the South African irregular
corps. About 65 per cent. were born Maorilanders, the remainder
being mostly "Colonials" of many years' standing. I should think we
had representatives from every corner in New Zealand—and all _men_
in every sense of the word. Men of whom Adam Lindsay Gordon, the
Australian stockman poet, might have been thinking when in his "Sick
Stockrider" he penned the following lines—

  "I've had my share of pastime and I've done my share of toil:
  Life is short—the longest life a span;
  I care not now to tarry for the corn and for the oil,
  And the wine that maketh glad the heart of man.
  For good undone and gifts misspent and resolutions vain
     'twere somewhat late to trouble—
  This I know, I'd live the same life over if I had to live
     again,
  And the chances are I go where most men go."

And this _I_ know: a finer lot of fellows to be with, either in
light-hearted frolic or the grim struggle in which they were destined
to take part, I never ran across in my natural.




CHAPTER II

OFF


We sailed from Southampton on December 12, 1914, the name of our
transport being the _Dunera_, an old British India Company steamer,
I believe. The Canadians were no end sorry that they weren't going
with us, and our fellows would have liked nothing better, for both
contingents had grown to like and respect each other. However, it
wasn't to be, and being debarred from accompanying us the men of
the Western Dominion did the next best thing and gave us a rousing
send-off. They turned out about two battalions as a guard of honour,
and, headed by a couple of bands, we marched the two miles to Bulford
Siding between a double line of cheering and hat-waving "Kanucks."
They may have been a bit lively, those Canadians, but their hearts were
where they belonged, and they were all white.

She was a rare old hooker, was the ss. _Dunera_. Besides our little
lot of 250 she carried over 1400 "Terriers," many of whom looked as
if they hadn't forgotten the taste of their mothers' milk. They were
a poor lot as regards height and build, and our fellows could have
given them a couple of inches and a deal of weight all round. However,
they may have done all right in the scrapping, like many another
Territorial regiment: one often gets left when one starts in to judge
by appearances, and a weed many a time carries a bigger heart than a
score of six-footers.

We slept in hammocks, and were packed in like sheep in a pen. The
tucker wasn't much to write home about; still there was enough of it,
and sea air is one of the best sauces I know of—when there isn't too
much of it! Our deck space was a bit limited, of course, and after
dark it almost vanished, so that a chap was never quite sure whether he
was walking on it or on Territorial. Then there were other things which
made the going even more treacherous—and we carried broken weather
right down through the Bay!

Our lot were quartered in the 'tween decks. At the best of times the
atmosphere there couldn't have been much catch, so the reader can
imagine what it was like when every inch was taken up by living,
breathing (and sweating) humans. I don't like rubbing it in where men
who have rolled up to do their bit are concerned, but the habits of
those Terrier shipmates of ours were enough to set you thinking. They
brought homeliness to a fine art. Spittoons (had we possessed such)
would have been scorned by them as savouring of artificiality. Socks
were made to wear, not to be hung up at night and looked at. Feet were
intended to be walked on—and soap cost money. As for toothbrushes,
well, they were all right for polishing buttons. The spectacle of a
big, husky bushman cleaning his teeth night and morning was a thing
they couldn't understand at any price, much less appreciate. "If I did
that," observed one in my hearing, "I'd have toothache bad"; which
seemed to be the general opinion.

They were great trenchermen, those shipmates of ours. Lord, how they
did eat! I am beginning to think that we rough-and-ready Colonials from
the back of beyond have girlish appetites as compared with some of the
Old Country boys. And we like our tucker clean: we can chew hard tack
with the next one, but we take all sorts of fine care that the cook
washes both himself and his utensils. But those Terriers of ours didn't
seem to care a cent whether the stuff was clean or filthy. Trifles like
that didn't worry them. And the way they used their knives! Still, they
were wonderfully expert: I didn't see a single cut mouth all the time
I was on board the _Dunera_. Funning apart, however, they just ate
like pigs and lived ditto. I don't like to have to record this, but
necessity compels me. Tommy Atkins can fight; we admit it, and we take
off our hats to him, but compared with the Australasian bushman—the
man who fears neither God, man, nor devil—he is in many respects an
uncivilised animal. True, we may have run across him at his worst. I
hope so, anyway.

After leaving the Bay the weather took a change for the better; the sea
calmed down and the atmosphere grew much more balmy. We were a little
fleet of some five or six transports, escorted by a couple of small
cruisers. Our ships were by no means ocean greyhounds, so we made slow,
if steady, progress.

We killed time in the usual way—concerts, boxing, etc. on weekdays,
and Church Parade on Sundays. Life on a trooper is about the last
thing God made. I've had my share of it, and I don't want any more. I'm
not greedy.

On reaching Gibraltar our escort left us, signalling to the
transports to follow their own courses. We didn't stop at Gib., but
pushed straight on up the Mediterranean. The weather was now quite
summer-like, and all on board began to perk up considerably. The sea
was a beautiful deep blue, the air had the wine of the South in it, the
sun shone brightly, and its setting was glorious.

On sighting Malta we mistook a signal, and made tracks for the harbour
of Valetta. Before we could get in, however, we were _shoo'd_ off
by the Powers that Be. We didn't seem to be the party they wanted,
so we had to hit back to the old trail. Apart from wishing to see
the place and getting a chance to stretch my legs, I had a personal
interest in paying it a visit, as a great-uncle of mine, who had been a
fleet-surgeon during the Crimean War, lay buried in the naval cemetery
in Valetta. However, it wasn't to be.

The weather all through the Mediterranean remained as near perfect as
they make it, hence seasickness was a thing of the past. We had the
usual boat-drills, fire alarms and so forth. At that time there were
no submarines down south, so we travelled with all lights going, both
aloft and below. What with sea games, boxing, concerts, and cards the
time passed quickly. Likewise our money. Faro and Crown and Anchor were
the favourite card games; you could lose your partable cash fairly
slickly at either. I have seen more than one pound resting on the turn
of a single card. I reckon Colonials are to a man born gamblers, so it
wasn't surprising that our available capital should be "floating"—in
more ways than one. However, some one introduced a roulette table, and
our cash soon floated all one way, the "bank" taking no risks and the
"limit" being strictly enforced. Needless to say, the bank was never
broken—but I fancy the wheel was.

Being in wireless communication with the shore we got an almost daily
smattering of news, which was typed out and read aloud in various parts
of the ship. Thus we heard straight away of the German bombardment of
the Hartlepools. The Russians, also, seemed to be going strong, but we
were never quite sure where, as the wireless operator made a queer fist
of the names on the map. Come to think of it, it wasn't surprising, for
they seemed to get most all of the alphabet into those Eastern front
locations, and they sounded jolly like an assorted mixture of coughs
and sneezes. It is easy to account for the illiterate state of the
inhabitants of those parts; it would take them a lifetime to learn to
spell their own names. So I reckon they just give the whole thing best.

We arrived without mishap at Alexandria on the 24th of
December—Christmas Eve. It was a beautiful morning as we steamed up
the Bay, and we got a fair idea of what the warships had to face the
time they bombarded and captured the place. And right here I don't
make any beans about stating what I think of that scrap. The town, at
that time, was quite open to attack; the forts were old and crumbling;
I am fairly sure the guns were not of the latest pattern; and as for
the natives who served them, if they were anything like the fellows
_we_ ran across I don't think our jolly tars would lose much sweat
in knocking the fight out of them. I used to read a lot about the
Bombardment of Alexandria, but now after seeing the place (and I had,
on various occasions, a good look round the old positions) I don't
think much of it.

Once tied up to the wharf it was a case of get our coats off and set
to work unloading ship. This took up most of the day, and a very hot
day we found it. Some of the packages were fairly hefty and took a
deal of handling, and I can't say we were over gentle in our methods
of shifting them—at least the flying men didn't seem to think we were
when it came to handling the cases containing their engines. Our old
hooker was just alive with cockroaches, too, and regular boomers they
were; some as big as locusts. As the various packages were swung over
the ship's side the beggars kept dropping on us below. We didn't like
it; there are nicer things than fishing for lively cockroaches inside
your shirt. The natives who were assisting us didn't care a hang about
trifles of that kind. They weren't a handsome lot by any means, but
they were a fine, stalwart crowd, lively and animated—like their
shirts. They wore flowing skirts, elastic-side boots, and stockings
that pretended to be white. They are intensely religious, always
looking for _backsheesh_, and have no morals. When we started in to
boss them up they didn't seem to know the meaning of the word "hustle,"
but, ignorant as we were of their language, we managed to enlighten
them; truly, the army boot hath its uses.

English money, we found, would pass in Alexandria—with profit to
the merchant who accepted it. Thus we were enabled to purchase
oranges, figs, grapes, tobacco, cigarettes—in fact, 'most anything
one had a hankering for. The native hawkers and bumboat men are a
picturesque-looking lot of blackguards enough, in a comic opera way;
they are to a man top-knotch liars, and invoke the aid of Allah to help
them out in their perjuries. They are truly Eastern in their love of
bargaining; also in their smell.

We left the same evening by train for Cairo. The Egyptian State
Railways are, on the whole, not bad; the trains got over the ground
much faster than I had anticipated: about forty miles an hour, I should
say. The accommodation was good enough (no cushions in the third-class,
of course), and the whole outfit appeared to be kept fairly clean. The
carriages were hitched on to each other like a series of tramcars, a
corridor running down the centre of each, and a couple of overlapping
metal plates taking the place of the concertina-like arrangement used
in corridor trains in England. If you got tired of sitting inside the
cars you could always find an airy perch on the platform outside. To go
from one car to another necessitated a climb over the platform guard on
to the afore-mentioned metal plates. The officials appeared to be all
Egyptians, and I am bound to admit they were as civil and courteous a
lot as one could wish to bump up against. They knew their work, too,
and didn't grow flies. The fares were reasonable—and soldiers only
paid half.

Being a troop train, we travelled third class. On ordinary occasions,
however, it is only natives who do so, whites going first or second.
There are reasons for this; lively ones, too.

The old _Dunera_ had been a temperance ship, hence our chaps had
worked up a forty-horse thirst on the voyage. Now drinks were
cheap (for the East) in Alexandria, so our crowd, being mostly old
campaigners, took full advantage of what they considered a merciful
dispensation of Providence. The bank not being too solvent, they
couldn't all run to whisky, of course, and many had to content
themselves with larger beer "made in Germany"; however, the bottles
(and things in general) became a bit mixed _en route_, so they got,
perhaps, even more fun out of the assorted brew than if they had all
been sipping at the same fount. Our train travelled to an accompaniment
of coo-ees, war-cries, bush ballads, and breaking bottles. It was a
distinctly lively trip, and I shan't forget my first Christmas Eve in
the Land of the Pharaohs. So far as I recollect, there were no bones
broken, either, and not so very many windows.

We ran into Pont de Koubbeh station, a few miles outside Cairo, about
ten o'clock that night, and disembarked straight away. A number of
staff officers were on the platform, so we were fallen-in for a hasty
inspection; and it was really marvellous, considering the amount of
liquid refreshment that had been consumed, how steady a line was kept.
It might certainly have been improved, but any little shortcomings in
the way of dressing, _et cetera_, were put down by our officers to the
fatiguing day we had had, plus the heat of Egypt. Perhaps the staff
believed them. But it was a mistake to give the order, "Fix Bayonets!"
when those weapons were already so firmly "fixed" amidst the gear we
were burdened with that nearly half the company utterly failed at first
to find them—and when they did succeed, the officers of the staff had
turned to go: thinking, no doubt, that the climate had a lot to answer
for.

We marched the couple of miles or so to Zeitoun, where the New
Zealanders were camped, about seven miles from Cairo, passing on the
way many soldiers of the Dominion, who were in a slightly "elevated"
condition. One six-foot infantryman attached himself to us as guide,
informing all and sundry the while that he was as "right as the
_adjectived_ bank!" He may have been, but he didn't look it. And those
two miles were easily the longest I ever padded. However, we found our
camp at last, and in the fullness of time our blankets and kits also,
and, after doing justice to a savoury, if rather overcooked, stew,
turned in early on Christmas morning. Later we were informed that the
boys had fixed to give us a boncer welcome, but "Christmas come but
once a year," and in the words of our informant, "they blued their
cheques, got shikkared, and the show was bust up." We got to sleep
at last, lulled by the dulcet strains of a Maori _haka_ voiced by a
home-coming band of late—or early!—revellers.




CHAPTER III

LIFE IN EGYPT


Christmas Day on the edge of the desert, within sight of the
Pyramids of Gizeh! The very last place in which I ever thought I
should celebrate the festive season. And the outlook was far from
"Christmassy": A big wide stretch of yellow sand; a rough, trampled
track styled a road; a straggling collection of low, flat-roofed,
mud-built native houses that looked as if they had been chucked from
aloft and stuck where they happened to pitch; a few vines, date
palms, and fig-trees, disputing the right to live in company with
some sun-baked nectarines and loquats; a foreground made up of tents,
both military and native, wooden shanties, and picketed horses; a
background of camp stores, mechanics' shops, and corded firewood,
closed in by a line of dusty poplars; in the distance the desert, a
vast study in monochrome, the horizon line broken in places by an
Arab village and cemetery, a camel train, and the forbidding walls of
some Egyptian grandee's harem; overhead a scorching sun shining in a
cloudless sky; underfoot the burning sand—and everywhere the subtle
aroma (or "sense," if you will) of the East, at once repellent and yet
attractive, calling with ever-increasing insistence to some nomadic
strain that has hitherto lain dormant in our beings—calling with the
call of the East....

There was general leave, of course. Most of the chaps took the Cairo
trail, those who remained doing so in nearly every case not from
choice, but dire necessity: a week's pay at the rate of 2_s._ per day
(once on active service we had to allot 3_s._) doesn't see one far in
Egypt. Our crowd elected to stay for dinner, and I must say the cooks
turned out an A1 meal. The turkey was missing, ditto the goose, but we
had as much frozen mutton, followed by Christmas duff, as we could find
room for. The wet canteen lay close handy, so the beer (English, too)
wasn't missing. The desert didn't look so dusty when we left the tables.

They are keen on the dollars, are the Egyptians. They swarmed round our
camp like a mob of steers round a water-hole in a dry spell; everywhere
you ran across their matchboard stores where you could buy 'most
anything, from a notebook to a glass of ice cream, made from camel's
milk! They had the time of their lives, especially the orange-sellers.
I have bought seven jolly good oranges for a half-piastre (1-1/4_d._)
more than once, but as a rule the price ranged from eight to twelve
for a piastre (2-1/2_d._) Barrows or baskets aren't in favour with the
Gippy fruit-sellers. They wear loose shirts and wide skirts, and by
making full use of these garments one man will carry nearly a sackful
of oranges—and at the same time help complete the ripening process. It
paid to wipe the fruit before eating it.

In Egypt a man's wealth and standing is usually reckoned on the basis
of the number of wives he possesses: when our crowd arrived many of the
fruit-sellers had only one—or one and an old one—yet inside a week
or two the same johnnies were bossing up a tidy little harem of prime
goods. So indirectly I guess our pay helped keep polygamy going—and
increased the population.

Egypt exists by favour of the Nile. Outside the irrigation belt lies
desert and nothing but desert—the Hinterland or Never-Never of
Northern Africa. Except for an oasis here and there the eye searches
in vain for a trace of greenery. A huge rolling plain of yellow sand
mixed with limestone, and carpeted in places with round, seemingly
water-worn pebbles, amongst which one finds agates in abundance;
here and there broken and serrated rocks outcropping boldly in
fantastic shapes from great drifts of storm-driven sand; a brooding
loneliness—there you have it.

And yet in the Valley of the Nile what a contrast! The very atmosphere
is redolent of fertility. Here is, indeed, a "land flowing with
milk and honey"; a land which, give it the water, will bloom like a
garden and smell like a huge pot-pourri. I have seen some of the best
country in four continents, yet I never ran across richer soil or more
exuberant growth than that of the Nile Valley. When one bears in mind
that the methods of irrigation and system of tillage are those of
the dim and distant past; that a metal plough is an object of mixed
curiosity and distrust; that steam is not; that the fertiliser used
(when it _is_ used) once sheltered, in the form of towns and villages
whose history was closed ere the Bible was written, the heads of their
own forefathers—then one is, indeed, forced to marvel at a land which
yields such husbandmen seventy- and eighty-ton crops of sugarcane to
the acre, and gives nine and ten cuttings of berseine—in the year,
while carrying at the same time the mixed flocks and herds of the lucky
proprietor. Little wonder, then, that the _fellahin_ pray to the Nile
as the Romans used to pray to Father Tiber—although hardly with the
same objects.

The climate of Egypt was rather a surprise to us. True, it was winter
when we arrived, but we had an idea that such a season existed in name
only in the Land of the Pharaohs. The first night, however, made us sit
up and think things, it was bitterly cold. Even packed nine in a tent
with two blankets and a greatcoat over us we could hardly get to sleep;
the tent felt like a refrigerator. Indeed, until we hit on the plan of
donning our greatcoats, and pulling on a pair of woollen socks, we were
anything but comfortably warm. The days were hot enough, it is true,
even in mid-winter, but it was not till towards the end of February
that the nights lost their bite. Before we left for Gallipoli, however,
we found a single blanket quite all right; as for the days, they were
something to remember in your prayers, the sun seemed to get right down
clear to your backbone, and stew the stiffening out of your spine.

I saw rain only twice during the three months and a half we put in in
Egypt; it wasn't more than an anæmic Scotch mist on both occasions. I
reckon the average annual rainfall for those parts would figure out at
about point ten noughts and a one. We were told, however, that once in
every three years or so, the rain came down good-oh, and washed half
the houses away, at the same time cleaning things up generally. But the
natives take such things as a matter of course; being highly religious,
they observe that Allah wills it so, and set about rebuilding their
happy homes. I expect it's really a blessing in disguise, and the
overflow from these villages of theirs should certainly fertilise the
soil that receives it.

We were told by the local residenters that February was the month noted
for sandstorms. Well, we ran across two—or, rather, they ran across
us. We didn't like them a little bit. There was only one thing to
do—get under cover straight away and stay there till the beggars blew
themselves out. You would see them coming, for all the world like a big
yellow smoke-cloud stretched right across the desert. Then it was a
case of hop into your tent, fasten up the flap, and pray that some one
else had driven the pegs home. If even a single one should draw—ugh!
it gives me the shivers even now! Once I saw a pole go clean through
the top of a tent, the canvas, of course, sliding down like a parachute
and "bonneting" the inmates: I reckon it says something for the power
of their language when we heard it rising high above the storm.

I have mentioned that we came out from England as an infantry
company. Well, naturally we hoped to be attached to some battalion
of the N.Z.R.'s (which stands for New Zealand Rifles). Failing that
we reckoned on being split up and spread over the various infantry
battalions. So it came rather as a bit of a facer, when we were
paraded, told that a Field Company of Engineers and an Army Service
Corps Company was required straight away, and given our choice as to
which crowd we should care to take on. At first we were inclined to
think it was a bit of a bluff; but no, there was no get out about it.
Boiled down, it meant service with the Engineers, the A.S.C.—or our
discharge and passage back to New Zealand. We didn't like this stunt at
all, and at first some of the boys felt like shaking things up some;
but, of course, no one held for going home, so they made the best of a
bad deal and took their choice. I plumped for the Engineers; I had no
hankering after the A.S.C.—or "'Aunty' Sprocket's Cavalry," as it was
promptly dubbed, from the name of one of our officers who took on with
it. ("Sprocket," I may say here, is not what he calls himself.)

We had already been through the mill as infantrymen: we had now to
start in to train as engineers. It meant hustling some, for the time at
our disposal, we were told, didn't amount to much. Well, we had made
our choice, and although we felt a bit sore over being rushed, we knew
it was up to us to see the thing through to rights. So we got into the
collar straight away, consigned the war, the Army, and the New Zealand
Government to an even warmer location than Egypt—and put in overtime
imbibing engineering knowledge.

We had our work cut out, for we had to learn in the space of a few
weeks a course that, in the ordinary run, would have been spread
over more than the same number of months. But most of our fellows
had done work of a similar kind, so it was fairly well into their
hands. I reckon we had just about every trade and occupation that ever
was in our crowd, from civil engineers, miners, surveyors, marine
and electrical engineers, master mariners and mates, right down to
shearers, boundary riders, roustabouts and bushmen generally. Even
a few "cockies" were not missing. ("Cockie," by the way, is short
for "cockatoo," meaning, in the language of Australasia, a small
farmer.) Hence we made progress like a house on fire, and the officers
congratulated themselves on the kind of chaps the Lord had sent them.
Indeed, some of the sappers could have turned the commissioned officers
down had they chosen when it came to getting about a ticklish job—and
I guess the officers knew it. So we simply took the course on the run,
as it were, building bridges and blowing up same, digging trenches,
fixing up and fortifying positions, and so on.

I think, taking all in all, the lectures were the most popular
items on the list. Sometimes we had one every day, generally after
dinner—which is about the sleepiest time of the day in a hot country.
Snorers weren't liked; they disturbed both lecturer and audience.
Apart from the value of the lecture itself one was always sure of a
quiet, after-dinner smoke. Yes, I fancy those pow-wows ranked first in
popularity.

Then there was bomb making and throwing. There is a lot of
excitement to be got out of that racket—especially when you go in
for experimental work. Some of our home-made bombs were fearsome
contraptions. Most of us had quite a number of narrow shaves, and even
the niggers, keen as they were to sell their oranges, wouldn't come
within coo-ee of our mob when engaged in bomb-throwing operations.
They knew a thing or two, did those niggers.

I almost forgot to mention field geometry. I fancy it about divided
favour with bomb-work as an occupation. For one thing, it was more
restful and distinctly quieter; for another, it was a jolly sight
safer. You could sit down on the sand, when it wasn't too hot, and
get right into field geometry without having to keep your ears open
for a constantly recurring yell of: "Look out, boys! Here she goes!"
or—"Duck, damn you! I've got a whole slab in her!"

Once or twice during our training we had a written examination
covering the work, both practical and theoretical, we had done; and
the examining officer smiled on us like a tabby with new kittens when
he came to read our papers. Joking apart, he was more than pleased,
and he didn't forget to tell us so. This sort of thing may strike the
reader as a bit far-fetched—sort of blowing one's own trumpet; but if
the said reader will pause to consider the class of men that composed
our company he will be bound in common fairness to admit that I am
not straining things too much. Colonial training, I reckon, isn't the
worst preparation for most branches of the service; it turns out _men_
anyway. And you don't run across illiterates in the colonies—even way
back in the Never-Never.

Once or twice we took part in field manœuvres—or Divisional Training,
to use the proper term. For our little lot such things usually meant
hard graft with the pick and shovel plus a lot of tough marching. The
fun seemed to go to the infantry and mounted men—if there was any fun
in the game. Sometimes we were out for only a single day, but it mostly
worked out at a night and a day. Once we were away from camp for five
days and nights. In all cases actual war conditions were observed.

I shan't forget the last Divisional Training we took part in. The idea
was that the enemy, an infantry column, was strongly entrenched at
some point unknown out in the desert. The attacking party, a division
of Australian and New Zealand infantry, was to march out of camp at
sunset, duly discover the enemy's position, and deliver a night attack
with its full strength. The "enemy," to which my company was attached,
left early the same morning, being given a day in which to select the
position and fortify it.

Our luck was out when it came to dig. My word that subsoil was hard!
In some places, graft as we might, three feet was all we could sink
the trenches; we seemed to have struck the bedrock of Egypt. After
messing up our tools badly and losing a lot of sweat we gave it best,
contenting ourselves with raising the parapet where necessary, so as to
afford the requisite cover and shelter to the defenders.

Our own O.C. was naturally anxious to make an A1 show in his
particular line, so we prepared a boncer defensive position. We had
stacks of wire, and we didn't spare it, shoving up entanglements that
called for some getting through all along the line. It was understood
that the wire would be plain stuff; but on the quiet, and to make
matters more realistic, we shoved in a couple of strands of barbed—and
smiled expectantly. We also rigged up a real good outfit in the way of
coloured flares, and fixed dummy mines here and there in front of the
entanglements; the latter were harmless, of course, but they sounded
pretty bad when sprung.

The trenches were manned at the appointed time, the flares set, the
mines connected up to the exploders, and everything made ready against
the advance of the attacking division. Our chaps (the engineers) were
spread along the position and placed in charge of the mines, flares,
etc. It was slow work waiting; lights were forbidden, so we couldn't
even smoke. It wasn't to say warm, either, and I reckon every man of
us would a dashed sight sooner have been snug in camp.

Presently our patrols sent in word of the approach of the enemy's
scouts, the main body having halted under cover of a dip in the ground
about 1000 yards back. We had arranged a big collection of jam tins
and similar alarms along the front of the entanglements, and it wasn't
long until they began to play a lively tune in one or two places. We
guessed what had happened: some of the aforesaid scouts had run foul
of the wire, and owing to the barbed stuff we had mixed through it,
couldn't get clear for love or money. We sent out a party to make them
prisoners, and they were ignominiously herded in, protesting the while
in lurid language against what they styled "a crook trick."

The first attack was delivered fairly early in the night, and resulted
in a decided repulse for the enemy. Hardly a man reached the
entanglements, for our flares lit up the heavens with a wealth of
illuminating colours never before seen in the desert ("just like a ——
picture show," as one of the officers remarked), and the explosion of
a mine or two caused them to beat a hasty retreat. They didn't seem to
fancy those mines a little bit, and had evidently some doubts as to
their harmlessness. The whole thing was fairly realistic, what with the
heavy rifle fire and the language, and both sides soon warmed up to
their work. In fact, things got so warm that several lively bouts with
Nature's own weapons took place between our patrols and some of the
enemy who had crawled up with the intention of cutting the wire.

The next attack in force came off in the early hours of the morning,
and after a long and fierce scrap the position was carried. In spite
of the fact that they were under a deadly Maxim and rifle fire at
point-blank range, those heroic infantrymen set to work in grim
earnest, pulling down our entanglements and stamping out our flares.
Time after time we notified them that they were all dead men over and
over again, but they couldn't see it, and were disposed to argue the
matter. Rifle fire, we soon saw, had no effect; however, there were
plenty of handy-sized flints and agates lying around, and a judicious
application of the same caused a considerable amount of delay and some
loss to the enemy. I wonder what the umpires thought? They didn't
show up during this phase of the operations—perhaps because of the
reception that had been accorded them some little time previous, when
both sides mistook them for an enemy patrol!

On being cleared out of our trenches, we retired to a new position on
some rising ground, beat off the pursuing foe, and, operations ceasing,
went into bivouac. Afterwards, the umpires gave out their report, and
we felt good when it was announced that the attacking column had taken
almost thrice the number of hours allotted to them in which to storm
our position. But the infantry never quite forgave us for that barbed
wire. The mines were also a sore point. And when we pointed out that it
was simply realism we were after, their comment was brief and caustic:
"Realism be damned!—look at our clothes!"




CHAPTER IV

EAST AND WEST


Egypt is surely one of the most cosmopolitan countries in this old
planet. It is also one of the most interesting. You will find all the
breeds you want in or about Cairo, Alexandria, and Port Said—and some
you don't. Quite a variety of languages, too, although English, French,
and Arabic are most in favour.

The natives stick to Arabic, but many of them have a smattering of
French and English of a sort. They are all there at picking up a
new language, especially if there is money back of it. They will do
anything for the dollars. They may have had souls once; but now——
They have sold them long ago.

The newspaper sellers were real dabs at learning English. They used
to visit our camps daily (like the "orangemen"), calling out the most
striking items contained in their wares. Everything out of the common
was to them "very goot news"—although _we_ mightn't think so. Thus one
morning you might hear: "Very goot news; Engelsch 'vancin'"; while the
same evening the beggars were announcing: "Very goot news: strike in
Glas_gow_." We got to take this kind of thing as a matter of course,
but it was a bit tough to hear: "Very goot news: Lord Roberts dead."
However, as time went on their knowledge of English increased at a
rapid rate. But it was camp English—Australasian at that—and when
they took to airing it in the streets of Cairo things happened. They
were especially disrespectful to the Kaiser, inventing fancy diseases
for him every day, and prefacing each item with the usual: "Very goot
news——"

One of the institutions of Egypt is the Bootblack Brigade. We struck it
in full force at Cairo. No sooner did you step out of the train there
than your ears were assailed by a shrill chorus of, "Mister, clean 'im
boots." There was only one thing to do—let them clean them. It was no
good trying to dodge those boys; they were out to black your boots,
and they meant to black them or perish in the attempt. You gained
nothing by bolting into a pub or restaurant; no sooner were you seated
comfortably than they had you bailed up by the leg and their brushes
going at forty horse-power. Even boarding an electric car didn't fill
the bill; they just chased the car till it pulled up, hopped on board,
and got to work. Swearing had no effect; calling their parents names
had less—they were used to it. Let them earn the usual half-piastre
and you could call them and their forefathers all the names in the
Bible. You found yourself entirely in their hands; go where you would
those Cairo bootblacks ran you down.

It is a gay old city, is Cairo. It is the home of Eastern curios,
priceless fabrics, beautiful pottery, good coffee, bad liquor, donkeys,
dirt, vermin, ear-splitting noises, and rampant vice. You can get as
much of each of these goods as you like. East and West certainly do
meet in Cairo. But they don't mix—for obvious reasons.

The Egyptian of the better class struck me as rather a fine fellow in
a way. He was certainly intelligent, handsome as men go, and clean-run
enough while on the right side of thirty. After that age, however, he
was prone to pile on flesh and drop his chest lower down. His chief
amusements seemed to be eating, drinking iced lemonade and sherbet,
riding in big, costly motors, listening to the band, and admiring the
Western ladies. In dress he was an out-and-out howling swell—a flash
of the flashiest. On the whole I should say he liked and respected the
Britisher in a lazy, good-tempered way; was a law-abiding citizen, but
would never find the sand to stand up to the Westerner in a mix-up for
the showboss's job.

The lower-class natives were just a cut above the poor devils of
donkeys they exercised their cruelties on. They would sell their own
daughters to the highest bidder—and throw in a wife as _backsheesh_.
They were nearly all "crooks," and cheated you right and left if you
allowed them. It was only a new chum who gave them anything like the
price they asked for their goods. They hated you like poison when you
drove a fair bargain and despised you for a tenderfoot if you didn't.
They were as saving as a Cousin Jack, investing their earnings in
donkeys and wives. I once asked a chap with a face like a Murchison
black-fellow, which fetched the higher price: he side-tracked, but
admitted that while it was always easy enough to pick up a passable
wife, good donkeys were anything but common. Taking them bye and large,
the lower-class natives, as we found them, were twisters, crooks, and
liars; they were (like most Eastern breeds) cruel devils with animals,
loading their wretched donkeys and ponies down till they could hardly
move, and then cutting them up with heavy sticks and whips till a
fellow felt like putting the swine to sleep. I fancy they treated their
camels rather better; camels are costly animals, and I have heard it
stated that if ill-treated they have a habit of eating their masters.
This I cannot vouch for, by the way. I once nearly put my great toe out
in an argument with one of the brutes (a native, not a camel), over
a poor little donkey. I had only light canvas shoes on at the time,
instead of the military hob-nailed boot. I never made a similar mistake
again. However, I had the satisfaction of knowing that the unfortunate
animal would be spared _his_ weight for a day or two. In dismissing the
low-down Gippy for the time, I have only to add that he is as husky as
they make them, intensely religious, and works his wives and daughters
much the same as the other animals he possesses. He is also a deal
dirtier, and his washerwoman must have a lively job.

Before visiting Egypt I had the usual Western ideas regarding harem
life. I soon changed that. I'd lay an even bet that the women of the
East are, on the whole, quite satisfied with their lot. True, they have
no choice in the matter, and have never run across anything better.
Anyway they just take things as they find them, and seem quite content
to graft away like billy-oh, while their owners lie in the shade and
smoke. They are really only big children, these women, with undeveloped
brains. The men have the education, seem to hold the bank, while the
women are treated by them sometimes as toys to play with, and sometimes
as wilful kids that have got to be either humoured or punished. I
must say I never ran across a brighter or more cheery lot than those
so-called down-trodden females. We used to meet them everywhere, for
they knock around quite openly, at times with their husbands, and
again in charge of an elderly lady or two, of a rather more severe
cast of countenance. They wore veils that hid their faces from the
eyes down, and from what we did see of them were not on the whole
bad-looking. They were rather fine about the eyes, and they made full
use of those organs, even in the company of the "old man," who didn't
seem to be overjoyed when he caught them giving the glad eye to a mob
of khaki-clad Christians. We were warned not to return same, no matter
what the provocation, lest we should offend native feelings—an order
which, of course, we obeyed!

The Turkish ladies were as flash as they make them, dressed in what
struck us as the latest from Paris. They used to knock round Cairo
in big Rolls-Royce cars, and seemed to have no end of a jolly fine
time. _They_, at least, certainly didn't appear down-trodden. I don't
remember seeing an ugly one; they were as pretty a crowd as you could
wish to bump into, and as lively as a basketful of jack rabbits. The
way they used to smile and roll those dark eyes of theirs! It made a
chap feel like owning a harem and turning Mohammedan right away. They
were out-and-out flirts, and their veils helped them, being made of
stuff like white muslin that you could see through. To our surprise
their complexions were of the pink and white brand. They went in for
plumpness a bit, wore high heels, hobble skirts, and ran to fineness
about the waist. Their weak point lay in their action; they didn't walk
too well (tight shoes, I reckon). But, on the whole, they were jolly
fetching—and knew it. We were specially warned against those Turkish
ladies. Poor girls! And they were so keen on learning English, too.

I used to like watching the Egyptian women carrying water gourds and
things on their heads. I never saw one come to grief; their sense of
balance was A1. It made a fellow stare some to see a slender little
woman about seven-stone-nothing pick up a big gourd of water for all
the world like a ten-gallon drum, balance it on her head, and trip off
with it, wearing a kind of "old-man-you-couldn't-lick-that" smile on
her face. I once saw a woman carrying on her head what I at first took
to be a small hut; on coming closer it proved to be a large door piled
up with all the family goods and chattels. The man of the house rode
beside the old lady on a donkey, encouraging her the while between
puffs at his cigarette by singing an Arab love song. He had a voice
like a quinsy-smitten parrakeet, so, perhaps, that accounted for her
staying power. And yet she seemed quite satisfied with this truly
Eastern division of labour. They all do: ask a woman in Egypt why she
doesn't make her better half (or quarter, or other fraction) graft a
bit more, and she thinks you are poking fun at her; go one further and
tell her that _your_ wife doesn't do any hard work (which is a lie!)
and she, if she can speak English, promptly informs you that "Engelsch
woman one dam fool!" So there you are—where you started.

I used to read of the spicy and scented East, but it was some time
before we struck the brand you find in books of travel. True, we had
found a variety of "scents" in the land of Rameses, but they weren't
the kind of thing you'd invite your latest girl to inhale—although
they were all fairly "spicy," and typically Eastern. Cairo has its full
share; in fact, it bubbles over in parts, and yet it was in Cairo that
I ran the travel-book's own particular to earth.

Reader, were you ever in the Native Bazaar in Cairo? If you weren't,
take my tip and pay it a visit the first time you happen to slide
Eastward. You'll not regret having done so. But—a word in your
ear—don't carry more than, say, £1000 in your pocket, for you'll spend
every piastre you can lay hands on before they let you go, and you'll
blue the cash without caring a well-known adjective where the next
cheque is coming from.

The entrance to the Bazaar is far from imposing. I toddled in by
way of a row of butchers' booths and fruit-sellers' stalls, to find
myself transplanted straight into a scene from the Arabian Nights
Entertainments. I rubbed my eyes, opened them again—and lo! the Grand
Vizier bowed before me (with a face like an Adelphi assassin—but
this by the way, for I don't suppose it was his fault). He named his
price, I offered him 200 per cent. less; for a moment he seemed on the
point of fainting from surprise and indignation, then, recovering, he
accepted my terms and proceeded to do the honours of the place in the
capacity of guide. An amusing enough cut-throat he proved to be, too,
although just a bit too fond of talking about his adventures with the
ladies. Some of his yarns—— Ahem!

 (Here in parentheses let me give the new chum a word of advice on
 the engaging of guides in Egypt. On arriving at the particular show
 he has set out to inspect—and often before he gets within coo-ee of
 it—he will find himself beset by an ill-clad and evil-smelling mob of
 hooligans all yelling fit to raise Lazarus. Don't let them rattle him,
 however; his game is to select the biggest, ugliest, loudest-voiced
 and most villainous-looking assassin in the push, make his bargain
 with the gentleman much as he would with a Paddy jarvey, then order
 him to "Lead on, Macduff"—and leave the rest to the aforesaid
 gentleman. There will be no further trouble with the other lot; the
 guide, if our friend possesses the faculty of reading faces, will see
 to that.)

I soon found I had made a wise selection, for a single glance from the
Vizier's eagle eye was sufficient to send the rest of the unemployed
scuttling to cover. He didn't have to use his feet once; it was another
instance of the triumph of mind over matter. I told him so, but I fancy
he didn't quite take me—bowed almost to the ground as he requested me
to "spik Engelsch as he no spik French moch well." I think he must have
been the Prince of all the Assassins.

On entering Aladdin's Palace the first thing that strikes you is the
narrowness and crookedness of the streets: in many places a long-armed
man could pinch scent from a booth on one side, while helping himself
to a silk scarf on the other—if he were not watched so closely by the
merchants. Then the light is very subdued; something like that you
run across in the bush, while everywhere your nose is assailed by the
perfume of crushed flowers and spices. Look upward and you will see the
sky a mere slit between the confining walls of the lofty, old-world
houses; look around and you will see the wealth of the East in lavish
profusion. In a word, you are in Old Cairo, to my mind one of the most
interesting spots in Egypt.

Let us stroll down this close-packed double row of little windowless
stalls that resemble nothing so much as dog boxes in a canine show.
See that old fellow with the Arab features and dress, working so
industriously at his clumsy native loom: he is eighty if he is a day,
and just as likely as not ten years older. Note the speed and skill
with which his knotted old fingers do their work. He is weaving a
silk scarf, a beautiful piece of work, which later on may adorn the
shoulders of some harem favourite—or a New York belle. In the next
stall squats a native tailor or vestment maker. Opposite him a spice
merchant calls your attention to his wares, just as his forefathers
did in the days of Abraham. A few yards farther and we come on a
couple of young natives busily pounding away with heavy steel pestles
in a mortar surely identical with the jars in which the Forty Thieves
secreted themselves—scent and pot-pourri makers almost certainly.
Squeezing past a mild-looking camel, which we do not trust, however,
we almost stumble over a couple of silk spinners, an old man and a
precocious-looking boy. The spinning-wheel might have come straight
from an Irish cottage. The yarn is passed through the interstices of
the boy's small white teeth, the idea being to clean it of foreign
matter, I suppose. Flattening ourselves against a sweetmeat stall to
permit of the passage of a train of heavily laden donkeys, our eyes
are dazzled the while by a glimpse of a silk merchant's stock in the
booth opposite; hanging to the walls, piled in huge heaps, and lying
around anyhow, are scarves, robes, and vestments in all the colours of
the rainbow. What would that stuff be worth in London or Melbourne? Who
knows?... We turn the corner, dodge a cow and a goat that are being
milked in the street, and find ourselves at the entrance door of a
dealer in beaten brass and copper goods, Japanese ware, and antiques.
This we enter, ignoring the protests of our guide, who would much
prefer that our custom should go to the more flashy-looking store
farther up the street—kept by his brother or uncle, most likely, and
a first-rate house for buying Eastern curios and antiques _made in
Birmingham_. You tell him so, insult the memory of his mother, and
leave him to continue his protestations on the threshold.

There are many things we should like to purchase. That pair of vases,
for instance, so beautifully chased and inlaid with silver, price £20.
Or that group representing a couple of Japanese wrestlers, dirt cheap
at £18. Or that magnificent cabinet—— But our finances only run to
two weeks' pay at two shillings per diem, so we turn our attention
to flower-holders, candlesticks, and such-like cheaper lines of
goods, enjoying the while a cup of excellent Egyptian coffee and some
unusually good cigarettes at the expense of the proprietor. Shopping
in Cairo is a slow game, so we kill an hour in the making of our
purchases—and emerge with a balance still at the bank.

And now we come on a street almost entirely given over to the vendors
of silks and ostrich feathers. What a wealth of colour! And how
harmoniously the myriad tints blend with the flowing robes of the
natives, the duller hues of the crumbling walls, rickety, projecting
balconies, and sun-blanched lattices! Looking down the narrow
thoroughfare packed as it is with a moving sea of quaintly garbed
figures, suggests an ever-changing arabesque, kaleidoscopic-like in
its effect. It is the East as Mohammed found it, a bit of Old Egypt
basking snugly in the warmth of a truly oriental setting.... We thread
our way slowly through the noisy crowd of guttural-tongued natives, and
emerge with something approaching a shock into the clang and rattle of
a modern city street with its electric cars, resplendent automobiles,
and plate-glass windows. Yet even here the East holds its own: you see
it in the strings of camels and the numerous donkeys that dispute the
right of way with the big touring cars and electric runabouts; in the
open-air cafés; in the dress of the natives, especially the sherbet and
lemonade sellers, and the hawkers of sweetmeats and cigarettes; but it
is the meeting of the Occident and Orient, the commingling of the East
and West, and the effect is anything but congruous.

Reader, I am not out to describe Cairo. For one thing, space forbids;
for another, I reckon I amn't a boss hand at descriptive writing; and,
lastly, you can get as much of that kind of thing as you want in the
guidebooks. But I should like to point out three places you should
really pay a visit to the first time you blow into the old City: the
Citadel, the Museum, and the Tombs of the Mamelukes; add to these the
Zoo, and the Hezekieh Gardens on a Sunday afternoon, and you won't
regret it. It is a gay city, is Cairo; a bad old city, but, above all,
an intensely interesting one. You will there, it is true, find vice,
dirt, and immorality flaunted openly, the trimmings all shorn away.
But you needn't stop and look, you know—(you will, all the same). And
"to the pure all things are pure." Besides, when away from home things
often strike you from a vastly different standpoint. You are out to
"do" Egypt; you have paid to "do" it—then "do" it by all means. But
take my tip, and exercise a wise discretion when writing to the folks
at the old farm. Or don't write—just mail them the guidebooks.




CHAPTER V

DAY BY DAY


As time went on we grew more and more accustomed to our Eastern life.
With the passing of the weeks the weather became warmer, until it
dawned on our O.C. at last that, in the interests of his men's health,
he would have to ease off work a bit in the heat of the day. So it came
to pass that the bigger part of our training was carried out in the
early morning and at night, the long desert marches in the afternoons
being pretty well cut out. No one regretted it; those wallaby trots
pulled blasphemy and sweat out of the chaps in about equal proportions.
Besides, they were by this time in hard fighting trim; fit to go for
a man's life. It was quite an everyday occurrence for the crowd to
come into camp off an eighteen or twenty mile foot-slogging jaunt with
all on, have tea and a wash-up, and then trot into Cairo to spend the
evening. That shows the kind of training they were in.

But it wasn't "all work and no play." We had amusement and recreation
in plenty, between concerts at night, tennis, football, etc. on the
desert by day. We even ran a gymkhana once, and played polo and
wrestling on horseback—with donkeys as mounts. I don't think they
enjoyed it (the donkeys, I mean), and some of the competitors got in
the way of each other's clubs, and showed it. But the spectators were
tickled, and I fancy the natives sized us up as all mad—or tanked. Add
to this boxing, and Church Parade on Sundays, and you will have a fair
idea of how we put in time when we weren't training. The latter was
the least popular; it was held out on the desert where there wasn't a
vestige of shade. It's almost impossible to sleep in the full glare of
an African sun.

As a rule we had Saturday afternoons off, also Sunday from the
conclusion of Church Parade, besides an odd whole day or two, for which
we had to get a special pass. Sometimes a fellow got the chance of
going in to Cairo to fetch back a prisoner from the military jail. In
this connection I remember forming one of a corporal's guard dispatched
into the city to bring out a couple of chaps who had been run in by the
pickets for getting shikkared and playing round some. The O.C. let them
off with a caution—and a week later one was made a sergeant while the
other got his commission! Still, they were good boys, so the fellows
only laughed.

We were reviewed several times during our stay in Egypt—once by Sir
Ian Hamilton. Oh, the dust of those marches past! They had the cinema
going on us at the saluting point, but I'll take my oath they "snapped"
more dust than soldiers. We were dressing by the centre—at least we
were supposed to—but the line was hidden in such rolling clouds of
suffocating desert topsoil, that it was a matter of speculation as to
where the centre actually was. However, we marched as uprightly as the
soft going would allow, mounted our fiercest touch-me-if-you-dare-look,
and as the chaps actually in range of the camera averaged over six
feet in height right through, I guess we looked some fighting men, and
no error. It was a day of tropic heat, we had been kept standing-to
for over a couple of hours with full packs up, so our expression
wasn't to say curate-like—as a mob of Gippy hawkers and sightseers
who happened to get in the line of march at one time seemed to think,
for they turned tail and bolted like a harem of scalded tabbies. At
first it used to amuse us the way the citizens of Cairo stared at the
Australasian troops; the place was simply dry-rotted with sedition, but
after our chaps took it over there was jolly little talk of native
risings or such-like. Of course, there were little isolated pow-wows
now and then, but they always ended in such an all-fired jamboree that
the tenderfeet _effendis_ and solemn-faced _pashas_ thought the bottom
had fallen out of hell, and concluded to give the game best. Our chaps
had their own way of tackling the beggars. And it worked O.K.

At another time we were paraded in hollow square and addressed by the
Honourable "Tom" McKenzie, High Commissioner for New Zealand, and Sir
George Reid, representing Australia. They had come out from London,
and, needless to say, they got a boncer welcome from the boys. The
Maoris made the dust fly and set the desert shaking with a big _haka_
of greeting. Altogether things went off _kapai_, and I fancy the two
representatives of the "Fatherland" (both real sports and white men)
enjoyed themselves. Anyway, the men from Down Under were real glad to
see them; and when addressing the Division the speakers soon showed
that the pleasure was mutual.

It would be about this period that the Australasian forces began to
be called "The Ragtime Army." I never knew who started the name,
but anyway it stuck. Then some johnnie, gifted with the faculty of
rhyme-stringing, took it into his head to compose a set of verses
dealing with our daily life and training in Egypt, every verse ending
with the words, "Only an Army standing by." This title also stuck, and
it was quite an everyday occurrence for the infantry to march out of
camp to the sung and whistled tune of the "Army standing by." The fact
was, that the fellows were by this time trained to the hour; they were
sick of the dust, heat, and flies of Egypt, and were longing to be up
and doing. They had had as tough a gruelling as men could be put to,
and were beginning to ask what was the good of it all if they were
going to be kept "standing by" in a God-forsaken hole on the edge of
the desert. You see, rumours were in the air; true, these "wireless"
messages, it was proved, almost all emanated from a rather unsavoury
source (the Anzacs will recognise the locality), but they travelled
round the whole camp with most disconcerting frequency until one
never knew what to believe and what not. And one of these rumours oft
repeated was to the effect that the Australasians were destined to form
the permanent Army of Occupation in Egypt. Hence the growing feeling of
discontent, the constant grousing, and the daily lament of "Kitchener
hasn't got any use for us; we're a 'Ragtime Army,' 'An Army standing
by.'" But Kitchener knew what he was about. He generally does, come to
think of it. He expected a lot from that ragtime push—and I reckon he
was satisfied.

There has been a lot of rot written and said about the lack of
discipline in the Australian and New Zealand forces. There _was_
discipline, although not quite the same brand as that of the British
Army. It is true they didn't cotton on to saluting as an amusement,
and you can lay a safe bet they never will. But what of it? Their
own officers didn't press the point, knowing the class of men they
commanded. At the same time those officers knew that the rough diamonds
under their orders would play the game right to the last man; that
they would fight like lions in their own devil-may-care, reckless
way—and, if need be, die like men, with a careless jest or muttered
oath on their lips. I say there was the highest form of discipline in
the Australasian Army—the discipline that called on a man to die, if
necessary, that his comrade might live. Let the order go forth that a
certain position was to be held _at all costs_. Was it lost? No—except
over the dead bodies of the holders. Has a single instance come to
light in which even a platoon of Australian or New Zealand troops
abandoned their trench and bolted? No, even when out of ammunition and
unable to reply to a murderous fire. What was it that caused first one
line and then another of those big Australian Light Horsemen to charge
to certain death at Quinn's Post? Discipline! War discipline! The kind
that counts. They didn't salute much (except when in an unusually good
humour—or outside a big drink), even their own officers, but they
would follow those officers to certain death—and well the officers
knew it. They were just big, hard-living, hard-drinking, over-grown
boys: not exactly saints or respectable church-going citizens, I
fear. But they were white right through—even if they sometimes did
go looking for trouble! And there wasn't anything on the Gallipoli
Peninsula could show them the way when it came to scrapping. They were
absolutely the grandest fighting men that God ever put breath into! You
saw it in the square set of their jaws and the grim, straightforward
glance of their eyes. But parade-ground soldiering wasn't much in their
line, nor the cheering crowds either.

I think I have already stated that Cairo is a wicked old city. Well,
it is. There are places in Cairo that I wouldn't take my grandmother
through—places that would curl a padre's toenails backwards, or send
the blood to the cheek of a Glasgow policeman. Shebangs where they
sell you whisky that takes the lining of your throat down with it, and
lifts your stomach up to the roof of your skull; a soothing liquid that
licks "forty-rod," "chained lightning," or "Cape smoke" to the back
of creation; the kind of lush that gives you a sixty-horse dose of the
jim-jams while you wait. Real good stuff it is—for taking tar off a
fence.

There are streets in Cairo where the stench is so great that the wonder
is how any living thing can breathe it and survive; in comparison with
which a glue factory or fertiliser works is Attar of Roses, and an
Irish pigsty a featherbed in heaven; and yet in these streets—these
cesspools—the painted ladies of low degree live and move and carry on
abominations which are unnamable; things which the brute creation is
guiltless of.

There are other streets in Cairo where the painted ladies of higher
degree—the very patricians of their profession—follow their calling
in an atmosphere of luxury permeated by all the seductive and sensual
voluptuousness of a land which for countless æons has been the home of
the voluptuary and the pleasure seeker; an atmosphere to breathe which
might shatter the vows of an anchoret.

There are houses in Cairo in which certain male and female vampires
batten and wax rich on the proceeds of a thriving trade in the White
Slave Market; houses in which wives are bought and sold like so many
bullocks; aye, and houses in which, if rumour say truly, a man will
sell you his own daughter—and not think it worth his while to witness
the wedding ceremony!

Yes, it is a wicked old city, the Rio Cairo. I have a lively
remembrance of a certain Sunday evening which I put in as one of a
strong Town Picket. Our "beat" lay for the most part in the localities
I have just been describing, and it would be putting it mildly to say
that we had our eyes opened to the pleasant little ways of the Eastern.
It was more than an eye-opener; it was a revelation. And in some ways
I reckon it was an education. At the same time I shouldn't advise the
prospective student to imbibe too deeply of that sink—er—well of
learning. I can smell that aroma even now.

About six or seven miles up the line from our camp lay the native
village of Maarg. I had heard that this was a typical Arabic-Egyptian
settlement, and that it was quite unvisited by the troops, so I
resolved to prospect it. Giving Church Parade a miss the following
Sunday, my mate and I toddled down to Helmieh Station, had an early
dinner in an eating-house there, and took train to Maarg Siding. The
country we passed through was very different from that which surrounded
our camp; it was all irrigated soil, hence the track wound through
a belt of land blooming with flowers, lush grass, and magnificent
berseine crops. Everywhere the date palm, the prickly pear, the banana,
and the fig grew in the most prodigal profusion; everywhere one saw
donkeys, buffaloes, camels, goats, and hybrid sheep revelling in the
midst of plenty. The soil simply exuded fertility; tickle its bosom and
the milk flowed.

Yet it wasn't worked. The surface was only scratched by an ox-drawn
wooden plough, the pattern for which came out of the Ark. True, it was
irrigated—as Joseph and his Brethren irrigated _their_ selections.
Here and there one caught a glimpse of a scantily clad _fellah_ raising
water from a channel by means of a rope attached to a weighted and
counterpoised pole and bucket, or slowly turning the handle of an
archimedean screw. Occasionally oxen were pressed into the service,
and kept to their work by women or children armed with goads. In such
cases the water was raised by the agency of a wheel furnished with
gourds, or sherds, attached equidistantly all round its circumference.
The ox walked round in a circle, its dexter optic being obscured by
means of a pad to prevent its entering on the broad way that leadeth to
destruction—and, incidentally, throwing the water supply out of gear.
When you bellowed _Ah-h-h!_ like a goat, it kept going on its circular
tour, and an abruptly terminated _Ye-e-es!_ caused it to come to a full
stop. It would rather stop than go any time.

We left the train at the siding, and bumped straight away into the
usual mob of donkey boys and beggars. Threading our way through this
lot we skirted a native café and store, and set out for the village
situated some half-mile to the right front, the crowd of jabbering
and gesticulating mongrels falling into procession behind us. In this
formation we betook us through a plantation of date palms, past a
paddock or two of vivid green berseine, and arrived at a flour-mill
on the outskirts of the settlement. An old dame with a face like a
gargoyle sat at the door selling sticky-looking native sweetmeats and
Turkish Delight, while inside the mill was a crowd of women and young
girls, some of the latter by no means bad-looking. When they smiled
(which later on they did) you had a vision of ivory teeth, flashing
eyes, and A1 lips and cheeks—the latter tinged with a nut-brown bronze.

Just now, however, there wasn't a smile in the bunch. They were as
scared as a mob of full-mouth ewes. I doubt if some of them had ever
seen a soldier in their natural—although I expect they had heard a lot
about the boys. Anyway they just crowded into a corner of the mill and
squinted at us like a bunch of half-tanked parrakeets. Something had to
be done. My mate solved the difficulty.

"How about buying the old lady out and filling up the nippers?" he said.

We did so, and in exchange for a few piastres received a fairly heavy
consignment of bilious-looking lollies and Turkish Delight. These we
straightway proceeded to hold up to the expectant view of the smaller
kiddies. The thing worked like a charm: kids are the same all the
world over. In a few minutes the mothers stole shyly forward and held
up their babies to receive their rightful share of the unexpected
windfall. Soon the whole crowd, mothers, kids, and flappers, were
laughing and jostling round us to the admiration and envy of our
retinue. They could not resist the call of those sticky confections.
They had been seduced by a concoction of sugar and gum arabic. We
bought the old Ishmaelite right out and distributed _backsheesh_ with
a lavish hand, then proceeded to "do" the township at the head of a
now much augmented following. I guess they sized us up as a new brand
in the public philanthropic line. It wasn't every day that millionaires
who sported five-piastre pieces came to town. I fancy _their_ coinage
was a copper one.

Maarg we found to be a typical _fellaheen_ village, inhabited by the
usual mob of picturesque-looking and untidy natives, half Egyptian
and half Arabic; goats, donkeys, bastard sheep, and hens. It boasted
a miniature mosque, a grocery and provision store, a broken-down
potter's factory, a cemetery, but no sanitation department. The low,
dirty-white houses were topped by the customary flat roofs on which the
family washing (when there happened to be any) flaunted its shameless
nakedness. The streets, carpeted with the freewill offerings of the
citizens, began anywhere and finished nowhere—except when they led
you unsuspectingly into the living-room of one of the aforesaid
citizens. On the whole we found Maarg to be a really interesting place,
and the inhabitants even more interesting. But they took some getting
acquainted with, for at first every woman and child bolted to cover as
soon as we loomed in sight, following at a safe distance when we had
passed on, and stopping when we stopped. We smiled our sweetest: no
effect. We purchased lollies from the provision merchant and started
scrambles among our own immediate train: they approached.

Those scrambles were the limit. They began with the nippers. Then the
flappers joined in. Next the mothers, some with babies in their arms,
took a hand in the deal. Finally the men, their dignity upset by the
thought of so much good tucker going into other stomachs than their
own, joined in the general mix-up, and the show ended in a flurry of
legs and wings for all the world like a cross between a ballet dance
and a Rugby scrum.

We had a most interesting conversation with the Mayor, or Sheik, or
whatever he was, of the community. He proved quite an affable old
gentleman, able to speak a little English. He didn't seem quite able to
size us up at first, and was naturally curious to know what had brought
us to his township. We said we had come on a matrimonial project (we
thought we might as well tell a good one when we were about it; they
are all liars in those parts, anyway), whereat he pricked up his old
ears, scenting _backsheesh_. In answer to certain parental queries
we informed him that we possessed a wife each already out in New
Zealand (which was a lie), my mate owning to five kiddies, and I to a
couple—the latter bit of information striking him as rather ludicrous
seeing that I had just told him that I had been married a little over a
year; however, I made it right by explaining that my family consisted
of twins.

If we had been objects of curiosity before we were tenfold so now. The
market was well stocked, and had we wished we could have been fixed up
with a tidy little harem each right away. It was a toughish job keeping
our faces straight, while the goods were paraded before us and a full
inventory of each laughing-eyed young lady's charms and accomplishments
made out. And some of them were real pretty; quite as modest, too, in
their own way, as most white girls. Not that they were niggers (except
in name); the colour of a ripe peach would about fill the bill; and
when you get that brand of complexion added to a smallish mouth and
chin, teeth like pearls, a short straight nose, a low broad forehead
thatched with glossy, raven-black hair (plenty of it, too), you begin
to tumble to the fact that the _fellaheen_ girls weren't _all_ behind
the door when faces were served out. As regards hands and feet they
could give points to most Englishwomen, while their action was a treat
to watch. I guess the Eastern habit of carrying loads on their heads
accounts for their graceful carriage. They were a smallish breed;
slimly built and averaging about five feet and a fraction, I should say.

I forget what the price ruled at, taken in a camel, donkey, and goat
currency. The sheik's own favourite daughters, I know, had a top-market
reserve placed on them. They were certainly the pick of the bunch. Like
most native women they had a tender spot in their hearts for men of the
sterner Western breed—and like _all_ Eastern girls they admired height
and weight. We filled the bill; modesty debars me from saying more.
They would have shaken the dirt—er, dust—of Maarg from their shapely
little feet and followed us to Gallipoli had we asked them.

We didn't. We tore ourselves away, saying that we would return to
see them the following Sunday. We meant it, too—being both fond of
prosecuting the study of native types of mankind. But, alas! the
following Sunday found us on the sea, bound for the Dardanelles and
Johnnie Turk. We presented our prospective helpmeets with sufficient
Turkish Delight to ensure them dyspepsia for the ensuing seven days,
_backsheeshed_ their parents till they smiled sixteen to the dozen, and
took the back trail, escorted all the way to the Siding by the united
population of the settlement. I doubt if we should have saluted the
General himself had we bumped up against him, we felt so good.

On the whole, we had a rather good time during our stay in Egypt.
Our camp lay close to both Old and New Heliopolis. The new town was
built as a kind of Eastern Monte Carlo, by a continental syndicate
which, however, failed to obtain the necessary gaming licence. It is
spotlessly clean, the streets are like glass, and the architecture
mostly snowy-white and Corinthian-Roman in design. An enormous hotel,
said to be one of the largest in the world, occupies the centre of a
prettily planted square; there is a fine, showy Casino, and whole
streets of beautifully designed buildings. It is, in fact, a model
little town resting incongruously enough on the arid desert, a bit of
Monaco transplanted to the land of the Pharaohs. A close inspection,
however, reveals the fact that a large part of the solid-looking
architecture is a sham, most of the ornamental work being moulded in
stucco. In this connection the natives will tell you that when the
heavy rains put in an appearance (they only visit these parts about
once in every three years or so) Heliopolis begins to moult—in plain
words the outer crust of lime washes away, and the town bears the
appearance of a fleshless skeleton.

You can still see bits of Old Heliopolis—the Heliopolis of the
Scriptures. In fact, the modern town is built partly on the site of
the ancient city which the Virgin Mary passed through. Your guide will
point out to you the Virgin's Well and what purports to be the tree
she rested under. You can swallow the latter assertion with a large
mouthful of salt; the plant looks altogether too flourishing and full
of life to have so many years on its head. The original Virgin's Tree
is, I believe, to be found close handy—an old dead stump that might
be any age. In the Virgin's Chapel adjoining you will find a number of
beautiful mural paintings depicting the Flight into Egypt.

A few minutes' walk will bring you to the foot of the oldest obelisk in
the world, I believe: an obelisk compared with which Cleopatra's Needle
is an infant in arms. Save for the marks of Napoleon's shot which it
received during the Battle of the Mamelukes, its surface is practically
unscratched. It is the dryness of the Egyptian climate, I reckon, that
accounts for the staying powers of these old-timers. Most of them seem
to have suffered more during Napoleon's short stay than they did during
the flight of centuries. I guess his men were pretty rotten shots. I
often wondered how they came to mess up the poor old Sphinx's nose, or
what they were actually shooting at. It couldn't have been the old lady
herself, for if they had they'd have missed her.

Still, I shouldn't say too much against Napoleon and his men, for
the bread we ate while at Zeitoun was nearly all baked in the ovens
originally built by them.

During our sojourn in camp we "did" the Pyramids of Gizeh, of course.
It is a stiff climb to the top, especially if you are wearing riding
breeches, but the view you get as a reward is really grand. The
interior is also well worth a visit. You'll find the inside of this
big sugar-loaf to be as hot as anything this side of Eternity, and
you can't help wondering how you'd get out if the top fell in. By the
way, most folks when they speak of the Pyramids seem to imagine there
are only three in Egypt—those of Gizeh—yet there are several dozens
of them, big, medium, and little, scattered about the country. At one
place (Sakkarra) I counted either fourteen or sixteen, ranging from
little piccaninnies to the oldest one in the world, the Step Pyramid.

I also spent a most enjoyable day on the Nile, in a native
boat—_feluccas_ I think they are called, or our own particular
craft may have been a small _dhow_. We paid a visit to the palace
of Pharaoh's daughter (the one that found Moses). The foundations
and lower part of the original palace are still standing, the upper
structure being more modern. The river washes the place on three sides,
which, perhaps, accounts for it being fairly clean and fresh-smelling.
Little _fellaheen_ villages, partly fishing and partly agricultural,
lie scattered here and there along the river banks just as they lay
in biblical days. We visited one of these hamlets (they are all much
the same), and breathed the usual mixed aroma of camels, goats, sheep,
fowls, stale fish, and stale native. I don't wonder that Moses went to
sleep there.

I had often read about the yellow Nile water: well, it is yellow
enough, in all conscience. But it is a noble old river, and it slides
placidly along as if well aware of the fact that Egypt exists on its
good-natured benevolence. Its average breadth near Cairo would work out
at about 300 yards, I should say. There is no sign of hustle or flurry
about the Nile, and if you live near it for a spell you'll have a tough
job keeping in the collar, for its spirit is apt to get into your blood
some, and you'll find yourself dropping into as big a slow-go as the
slowest of the natives who pray to it. And you'll enjoy the experience.

When the bank was good we used to make a point of visiting the show
places that could be "done" during the hours of a Sunday. Thus we
explored Sakkarra and the buried city of Memphis; saw and admired
the excavated statue of Rameses; tried to read the bird-and-animal
writing on the walls (some of which was painted _over 2000 years_ B.C.,
I believe—and still retains its colour); inspected the Tombs of the
Sacred Bulls, and were beat to guess how in thunder the huge sarcophagi
were got to where we found them. We also paid a visit to Barrage, the
place of many dams and much engineering effort—not to mention really
pretty gardens wherein one may picnic on lawns clothed with English
grasses, and yet rest in the shade of purely tropical and sub-tropical
palms and tree-ferns. Some of the chaps even managed to see Luxor,
getting three days' leave for the trip. I drew a blank, however: the
fare ran to £2 10_s._ or £3, and at the time I was dead up against
it—much to my disgust, as I should have liked immensely to have had a
look at the Fayyum, the Garden of Egypt.

Taking it bye and large I don't think we did at all badly in the
sight-seeing line, from the Citadel and the Tombs of the Mamelukes in
Cairo to the Pyramids, the Nile, and other shows farther afield. We
sailed in native boats, rode in _gharris_, and bestrode camels, mules,
and donkeys to further orders. I don't think there was much lying
within range of our purses that we failed to prospect. It is a mighty
queer country is Egypt, and I hope to see more of it "when the Germans
cease to trouble and the Turks are laid to rest."

Before closing this chapter I feel compelled to pay my grateful
tribute to the many French friends we made while camped near Cairo.
They were courteous and kindly at all times, and in the case of those
who, like myself, had numerous opportunities of meeting them, their
warm-hearted generosity and lavish hospitality will never be forgotten.
They treated us more like brothers than chance acquaintances, inviting
us into their homes, and going out of their way to show that they at
least believed in the permanency of the _entente cordiale_. We were
brothers-in-arms—just that. Surely Briton and Frenchman shall ever
remain so. That I know will be the abiding wish of every man of the
Australian forces. I had previously met many of our Gallic friends
and liked and admired them; now that we have had the opportunity of
becoming better acquainted I embrace this opportunity of expressing my
admiration and liking in the strongest possible terms. I feel that I
could not do less.

_Vive la France!_




CHAPTER VI

"THE BATTLE OF THE STREETS"


I SHALL pass over the Turkish fiasco at the Suez Canal. Suffice it to
say the thing was foredoomed to failure. Whatever hopes the enemy may
have cherished of breaking through and causing a rising in Egypt were
squashed by the arrival of the Australian and New Zealand Expeditionary
Forces. With those forces actually on the scene it is hard to
comprehend what devil of rashness and crass folly impelled the Turkish
leaders to go on with the venture. Perhaps it was pride; perhaps German
influence lay back of the move; perhaps some queer twist in the Eastern
character—who knows? Not I. But this I do know: they came on bravely
enough—as Turks always do—and were slaughtered like sheep. It was
just a glorified shooting match. Poor devils!


Reader, have you heard of the "Battle of the Streets"? That isn't its
right name, but it's near enough. Anyway, it was fought in Cairo,
the scene being a locality much in favour by the painted ladies for
residential purposes.

No one I have spoken to seems to be quite clear as to what actually
started the scrap. One yarn was to the effect that a New Zealander had
been stabbed; another was that some Australians had been robbed of a
biggish lot of cash. Letting the reason go, however, there is no doubt
that things were fairly lively in Cairo that night, and at one time it
looked an odds on chance that the whole street might have been burnt.

I happened to be in Cairo that evening having a run round in company
with three mates. We had got comfortably outside an A1 dinner and a
bottle of light Greek wine when the row started. As a matter of fact,
we drove slap into the mix-up in a _gharri_, and before we got shut of
it the battle had developed into a first-class slather-up. The street
was packed full of Australians and New Zealanders, with here and there
little groups of badly scared _effendis_ working overtime in their
efforts to get clear of the struggling mass of grim Colonials, who, to
an ear-splitting accompaniment of yells, cat-calls and coo-ees, were
devoting their energies to an all-round wrecking and smashing game.
_Crash!_ went a wardrobe as it struck the ground with the impetus
acquired by a forty-feet fall from a top-storey balcony. _R-i-p-p!_
went the balcony itself as it followed hard on the heels of the bedroom
furniture. Hither and thither rushed the lightly-clad love-ladies
screaming as only Eastern women can, and stopping only to hurl a bottle
or other missile at some grinning Vandal who ducked quickly, then went
on enjoying himself. Soon the street bore the appearance of a West
Indian town that had bumped up against a cyclone. It was a work of art
threading one's way through it with all those household gods hurtling
round one's ears.

Presently the street was illuminated with a dancing red glare as the
stacks of piled-up furniture broke into flame. Soon a house itself
began to belch smoke and fire, the bone-dry woodwork responding eagerly
to the licking tongues of flame that ran lizard-like from doorway to
eave, and danced merrily through the interstices of the sun-scorched
shutters and blistered piazza rails. In a minute the lofty structure
was sheathed in rolling smoke clouds, pierced with darting spears of a
ruddier hue; the whole house was blazing fiercely, the roar of the fire
blending with the wild shouts and cheers of the excited incendiaries as
they danced a mad corroboree round the burning wreckage in the street
below.

Another sound—the clang of a bell—broke on our ears as the
fire-engines came racing up. Out came the hose; the police, who had
hitherto remained in a state of "armed neutrality," endeavoured to
clear a way for the native firemen. That settled _them_; no Colonial
will stand the touch of a nigger's hand on his shoulder.

"Rush the adjectived, asterisked, double-starred sons of lady dogs,
boys!"

The "boys" did so. I never saw a command obeyed so promptly and with
such unanimity. The black police were just as quick to appreciate the
general unhealthiness of the locality, and left with one accord. The
firemen, bereft of their lawful guardian angels, followed. The hose
was cut, and the engines were captured. This done the mob proceeded
with the work they had set out to accomplish—the cleaning up of one of
Cairo's cesspools.

Another interruption! This time from the "Red Caps," the military
police, a little coterie of well-fed, rather pampered, and intensely
self-consequential johnnies who were openly accused by the
Australasians of suffering from "cold feet." Perhaps this was just
a bit unfair, as they knew Cairo like a book, and knew all there
was to know about their own special job. But our chaps could never
understand why an active man of military age and training should remain
permanently on a soft town job (as _they_ did) instead of going on
active service with the other boys. Come to think of it, who could?
And some of the military police I have run into have had feet like
refrigerated mutton. They didn't join the army to be shot at. Not much!
Which perhaps accounts for their zeal in hunting down the unfortunate
Tommies who, coming home from the front wounded or on leave after a
pleasant little spell of "killing or being kilt," may have neglected to
salute an officer, to have buttoned up their greatcoats, or committed
some other such grave military offence—running him down, I say, and
seeing to it that the erring one received every single day of "C.B."
that hard swearing could procure him. Such, in far too many cases, is
_their_ conception of soldiering.... And the previous sentence reads
for all the world like an Irish bull. All the foregoing by the way,
however.

The police behaved like looneys. They seemed to imagine they had a mob
of English Tommies or niggers to deal with, but when they began trying
to force their horses on top of the crowd they soon dropped down to the
fact that they were up against something tougher. They were told pretty
straight to go home and eat pie and not come meddling round where they
weren't wanted. They didn't like being treated that way and showed it,
so they had to be shoo'd off. At this they seemed to lose their top
covering altogether, and, being armed with revolvers, opened fire on
the crowd.

It was now hell with the lid off. A number of the boys were hit, which
sent the rest fair mad. You should have seen those Red Caps do a scoot!
I don't think they got away unharmed; one I heard never got away at
all. They had been looking for trouble, and I reckon they found all
they wanted. You don't shoot down the chaps from the Colonies and get
away with it: "An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth," is the motto
of the men from Down Under.

Our little party now came to the conclusion that it was time to take
the back trail. We could foresee what was likely to happen. Already
strong mounted pickets were coming in from the New Zealand camp. We
made tracks for Shepheard's Hotel, but found all exits from the scene
of hostilities barred by cordons of dismounted men. We looked at
each other. There were four of us, all six-footers and all at least
thirteen-stoners. There was only one thing to do—and we did it. When
the part of the line we charged had regained its formation we were too
far away to make pursuit worth while.

The "Battle of the Streets" eventually ended through the combined
effects of thirst on the part of the law-breakers and the arrival of
strong pickets to the aid of the Powers that Be. There was certainly a
biggish lot of damage done, and the natives who saw the scrap got the
scare of their lives. But I fancy there weren't more than a house or
two burned down—more's the pity! Had the whole quarter been gutted
there wouldn't have been many voices raised in mourning, and it would
certainly have been no loss to Cairo.

One result of the row was the curtailment of leave to visit the city.
From this time on we had to obtain special passes to do so. Signs were
not wanting, however, to show that our stay in Egypt was drawing to
a close. No one regretted it; the weather was growing hotter day by
day; we had seen 'most all we were ever likely to; we were in hard
training, fighting fit, and were looking forward with eagerness to
having a dust-up with the enemy. In a word, we had attained to that
top-knotch pitch of condition in which we felt we must fight some
one—or burst. Hence when the call did come we boarded the train for
Alexandria with hearts as light as our pockets, and the determination
to show "K. of K." that the trust he had placed in our "Ragtime Army"
would never be betrayed.




CHAPTER VII

AT GRIPS


From now on I fancy this "history" of the doings of the Anzacs is going
to be more of a diary than anything else. I kept a rough note of things
as they happened day by day. For one thing the diary style pins the
various events down to a kind of sequence and insures their being told
in the order in which they happened; for another it saves the author
a deal of labour. This by way of explanation and apology. Here goes,
then—

_April 17, 1915._—Sailed from Alexandria in transport _A26_, otherwise
the s.s. _Goslar_, a captured German prize. We had a Danish skipper
and a Greek crew—a poor lot as seamen go. We were quartered in
the forepeak, the quarters being rough, but on the whole fairly
comfortable. We shared them with a healthy and mighty lively lot of
brown bugs. The tucker wasn't too bad.

The weather was fine and the sea calm all the way to Lemnos Island.
Had a pow-wow with the O.C., who read out aloud the General's orders,
informing us that we should land under cover of the warships' guns,
that we were to drive the Turks back, secure a footing, and hold it _at
all costs_. Anticipated heavy losses. When dismissed went and made our
wills.

Were met on the 19th by the cruiser _Dartmouth_ and escorted by her
till the evening, when a destroyer took us in charge and saw us safely
into Mudros Harbour. The _Dartmouth_ informed us by semaphore that
transport _B_12, steaming one hour ahead of us, had been attacked by an
enemy torpedo boat, three torpedoes being fired at her, all of which
missed. A number of soldiers jumped overboard, thinking the transport
was doomed, and were drowned. The torpedo boat was engaged by our
ships, driven ashore and destroyed.

We arrived in Mudros Harbour, in Lemnos, on the night of the 19th. It
was just crowded with shipping, and looked for all the world like a big
floating town. Were informed that there were over 200 transports and
60 warships gathered in the harbour. Had a splendid view of the _Queen
Elizabeth_ as she lay quite close to our old hooker. The anchorage
was simply alive with destroyers, torpedo boats, submarines, etc.,
both French and English. The French craft struck me as being a bit
mouldy-looking, not so up-to-date as the British. You could always tell
a French destroyer, she was so crowded up with all kinds of deck gear,
and had a general Back of Beyond look about her—like a chap who had
stopped washing and shaving for a longish spell.

During our stay at Lemnos we amused ourselves by practising boat drill,
landing of troops, etc. It was no joke swarming down a rope ladder
loaded up in full marching order—and it was just as bad climbing up
again. One of our chaps let go his rifle; the rest contented themselves
with language. No one was drowned.

It was while lying here we had our first solid day and night's rain,
the first really heavy fall since leaving home. The temperature rapidly
dropped in consequence till it became like early summer in England.
Were told that we should find no firewood where we were going, and
orders issued that each man was to carry a bundle of kindling wood
strapped on top of his pack. We shall look like a mob of walking
Christmas Trees when we get all on. Living on bully beef and biscuits
now; no bread.

_April 23._—Had a rather pleasant sail in one of the ship's boats
to-day. Landed on a small island in the harbour and cut a big supply
of green fodder for the horses we had on board. Found the formation of
the island to be volcanic in character, as all the land round about
these parts seems to be. Not much sign of water, yet the sole of grass
was good, and the colour a vivid green. Plenty of white clover, some
of what looked like English cocksfoot, and a plant that struck me as
Italian rye-grass. Heard the cuckoo and the lark, and noticed some
small green lizards scurrying over the outcropping rocks. _Thought_ I
saw a tarantula spider, but wouldn't swear to it.

Coming back to ship found we had to beat against a head wind. Our craft
was lug-rigged, the sail something like a dirty pocket-handkerchief.
She had no use for beating; there wasn't a beat in her. Tried to ram
an outward bound mine-sweeper which refused to get out of our way.
Mine-sweeper's captain called us names that may have been true but
didn't sound nice. Doused the sail and rowed back. In the evening
we watched the French and English transports and warships leaving
the harbour. Rumours fill the air—the latest that we leave for the
Dardanelles to-morrow (24th).

_April 24._—Preparations for the big event. Told that the staff were
prepared to lose 80 per cent. of the forces to effect a landing; also,
that the fleet could see us ashore but that _it couldn't take us off
again_; once ashore we'd got to look after ourselves. The fellows
stroked their chins and looked thoughtful for a spell; I reckon they
were thinking of the pie that mother used to make—or of their latest
girls. We were also told that as like as not all the wells on Gallipoli
would be poisoned, and that we should have to do on our water-bottles
for three days. Three days on about a pint and a half! And biscuits
ditto! We began to cotton on to it that it wasn't a picnic or mothers'
meeting we were out to take a hand in. Were served out with a 2-oz.
tin of tobacco between four men, and three packets each of cigarettes.
Handed in our blankets and waterproof sheets, so will be going ashore
as we stand. Very stiff fight expected, as it is fairly sure that the
Turks will do all that is in them to beat us back. Wonder how many of
the boys will go under?

_Later._—Under way. All lights out and general air of suppressed
excitement on all hands. Some of the chaps making a book on the event,
and laying odds on the chances of the takers getting through the
slather-up unharmed. Others tossing up to see if certain of their mates
will finish up in heaven or hell! No one the least downhearted; all
determined to at least give the enemy the time of his life when they
come to grips. They are certainly as tough a crowd as ever got into
uniform.

Landing expected to take place just at daybreak or slightly earlier.
Creeping along like a "mob of thieves in the night," as one of the
chaps put it. Distance from Lemnos about 45 miles, I hear, so will be
there in whips of time. Funny thing to think that one's folks will be
lying in bed sound asleep at the moment we go into the enemy, and never
dreaming of what their men will be taking on. Just as well, too, come
to think of it. Weather A1. Sea calm; nothing to complain of in that
line, anyway.

_April 28._—First chance of scribbling anything for three days. Been
through hell—just that. War! It wasn't war; it was just cold-blooded
butchery. How the position has been held beats me. But held it has
been—and it's going to be held—at a cost! I wonder what the price of
crêpe will rise to out in Australia and New Zealand! Here goes for a
shy at describing our amusement of the past three days.

It was dark when we left the transports off Gaba Tepe and crept in
towards the denser blackness that represented the shore. The night—or
early morning, rather—was still; everything seemed in our favour; not
a sound welled out seaward, not a light twinkled in the murk ahead.
Could it be that we had taken the Turks by surprise? Or were they
simply lying low and playing a waiting game? Soon we were to know.

On—on crept the boats loaded to the gunwales with the citizen soldiers
from the Dominions. Every jaw was set hard as agate, every eye was
fixed on the forbidding-looking heights now taking form dimly as the
east reddened and the sky became shot with lengthening spears of
greenish-yellow. Minutes passed—minutes that seemed as hours—while
ever shoreward crawled the fleet of boats, and ever plainer and
gloomier loomed the frowning cliffs that dominated the Bay of Anzac.
Back of the flotilla, away to seaward, lay the British warships, their
grey hulls floating ghostlike in the first of the dawn—like couchant
lions scenting blood. A sense of protection, modified to some extent
by the stretch of intervening water and the ghostliness of their
outlines, emanated from those cruisers and battleships squatting like
watch-dogs on the chain, alert and eager. Our gaze wandered ever and
anon from the forbidding shore ahead to where those uncouth grey hulls
broke the sea-line. Would they never give tongue!

... We were close to the land. The _wouff!_ of a gentle surf breaking
on a sloping shingle beach, followed by the _soughing_ of the undertow,
came plainly to our straining ears. Back of the crescent-shaped strand,
now dimly outlined in a flatted monotint of leaden grey, rose the
darker, scrub-clothed slope, its breast seamed and gashed by _dongas_
and water-courses, that stretched to the foot of the sheer bluff whose
summit cut the sky-line 400 feet above our heads. As the minutes passed
the scene changed. Sand and shingle took form and colour in the rapidly
growing half-tones. The blackness of the slope beyond merged into
a velvet green. The serrated crest of the ridge grew roseate as the
first of the sun-rays stretched forth athwart the fields of Troy and
touched it with gold-tipped fingers. A newborn day begotten of early
summer had sprung from the womb of an Eastern night—a day fraught with
much of suffering, much of mutilation and death, but surely a day that
shall live in the history of the British Empire so long as that Empire
stands....

Was it the surprise we all hoped for, after all?—the surprise that
seemed beyond the bounds of possibility. Were there _any_ Turks there
waiting to oppose us at all? And if so, where were they hidden? In
trenches cut on the beach? In the scrub? Behind the crest of the cliff?
God! were they never going to show themselves——?

_Crash! Bang! Z-z-z-z-z-ip!_ It was hell let loose—hell with the
bottom out! The whole beach belched flame and spat bullets. The scrub
behind burst forth into a sheet of fire. Maxims—maxims everywhere! The
place seemed alive with them. It was as if we had received a blizzard
of lead in our faces. The physical shock was almost more than flesh and
blood could bear. For a moment it seemed as if the whole flotilla was
doomed—a moment in which whole boatloads of brave men were absolutely
cut to pieces and mangled out of all recognition—in which boats were
blown from the water, smashed into matchwood and riddled from stem to
stern by the high explosive and shrapnel fire that came over the crest
of the cliff hot on the heels of the rifle and machine-gun fire. Just
a moment! Then the men from the bush, the plains, and the cities of
Australasia showed the stuff they were made of. In dashed the boats—in
anyhow, no matter how, so long as they touched Turkish soil—some bow
on, some stern on, some broadside. All higgledy-piggledy, a confused
mass like a huge dismembered raft tossed on a sea that hissed and
spouted as its surface was torn by the never-ceasing rain of lead and
iron. Over the sides of the boats dived and rolled those splendid
infantrymen, their bayonets already fixed. They knew what to do; no
need to give them orders. No time to form—no time to think. The cold
steel—nothing but the steel! Off fell their packs; down dropped their
bayonet points, and with a wild yell that rose even above the awful
battle roar that made day hideous they hurled themselves straight as
their rifles at the unseen enemy. In sixes and sevens, in tens and
twenties, in platoons, in half-companies—just as they tumbled out
of the boats—those great-hearted fellows dashed up the beach and
into that sickening inferno. They didn't fire a shot; they didn't
waste a single second. They just flung their heavy packs from their
shoulders, bent their heads to the storm, and with every inch of
pace at their command they charged the Turkish trenches, some fifty
yards distant. Charge! I never saw a charge like it. It was a wild,
breakneck rush, regardless of losses. Nothing short of killing every
man of that magnificent soldiery could have stopped their onslaught.
The machine-guns and rifles took their toll—but they utterly failed
to beat down that desperate assault delivered by those iron-nerved
men—those men who openly boasted that they feared "neither God, man,
nor devil." In a moment they were into the enemy's front line of
trench, machine-guns were captured, and the Turks got a taste of the
bayonet that will never be forgotten by those who escaped. And they
were few. Just a minute of hacking, slashing, and stabbing—one minute
of sickening yet exhilarating butchery in which no quarter was given;
when to _kill!_ and _kill!_ was joy unspeakable—and those long, lean,
brown-faced men with the square jaws and fierce eyes were up again,
their bayonets smoking, and charging the second line of trenches with
the same dare-devil recklessness. What power on earth could stop such
men? Not the Turks, anyway. With imploring cries of "_Allah!—Allah!_"
they abandoned their trenches and scurried up through the scrub, the
panting Colonials straining every nerve to overtake them.

It is difficult to understand the Australasian character. He will joke
even in the midst of danger, nay, death. He is, as a rule, a "hard
doer"; and even his best friends must admit that he is often a hard,
and fairly original, swearer. Nothing is safe from him when looking for
a butt; very little is sacred, I fear, and his humour takes a queer
bent sometimes: which accounted for the behaviour of the landing force
on this occasion, dear reader—that and the desire to inflict all the
Arabic he knew (picked up in Egypt) on the fleeing Turk.

"_Imshi! Yalla!_" yelled the now laughing Colonials, as they followed
hard on the heels of the enemy.

"_Allah! Allah!_" continued the Turks, and they put on an extra spurt.

"_Allah_ be d——d! Clean 'em boots! Eggs is cook! Three for a l'arf!
_Imshi_, you all-fired illegitimates!"

Such, with the addition of ear-splitting coo-ees, wild bush oaths,
and a running fire of blasphemy and unearthly cat-calls were the
battle cries of the men from Down Under as they drove the enemy out
of his trenches and up the hill, through the scrub, over _dongas_
and gullies, right to the base of the sheer cliff itself, up which
finally, all mixed together and sliding, crawling, and clinging like
monkeys, scrambled pursuer and pursued in one loosely strung mob of
panting, war-drunken men. It was the personification of grandeur: it
was the apotheosis of the ludicrous. In a word it was the old reckless,
dare-devil spirit of their ancestors—the men who carved out the
British Empire—re-born in those virile youths and young men from that
bigger and fresher and brighter Britain overseas.

Meantime the guns of the fleet were pouring in a terrific fire, their
shells screaming overhead and bursting well beyond the ridge. It was
difficult at first to see what execution they were doing, and at this
stage of the fight I don't think many of the enemy were bagged. As our
chaps advanced farther inland the shells from the ships began to pitch
amongst them, so their elevation was raised and their fire concentrated
on the Turkish communications and on the dominating hills that lay on
our flanks. They also tried hard to locate and silence the enemy's big
guns, but they were so well concealed that it was almost impossible to
silence them.

Once on top of the ridge our fellows paused for a minute or two to
get their breath, then, as full of fight as ever, they doubled into
the scrub and pursued the retreating Turks with unabated ardour. It
was now an open battle, and except for the fact that the Anzacs were
exposed to a heavy shrapnel fire, Jack was as good as his master. In
threes and fours at a time the shells burst over and swept through the
lines of advancing men, taking their toll all the time. The Turks took
full advantage of the plentiful cover; they knew the country and we
didn't. Now and then one caught a glimpse of a fleeing figure or two;
that was all. We had no field artillery to cover our advance, and the
consequence was we suffered heavily, our guns not coming into action
till the evening, and then only one or two had been landed. Add to
this the natural difficulties of a broken and rugged country which we
had never seen before, and the reader will have some conception of the
task that faced the Dominion troops. It was next to impossible to keep
in touch with each other, let alone preserve something approaching an
unbroken line. Thus the fight resolved itself largely into one of
units. Here and there isolated bodies of infantry pushed far ahead,
then lying down they held on grimly until the main force came up and
eased the pressure.

One or two lots got caught in the beds of deep gullies, were opened on
by concealed enfilade fire from machine-guns and rifles, and died to a
man. But they died fighting. One party at least fought its way almost
to the Narrows, and then disappeared: not a single man returned. The
rest pushed on and on, trusting to the reserves coming up and enabling
them to hold the captured ground—those reserves that came in driblets
only. The fact was that the men could not be thrown ashore quickly
enough to reinforce in the strength required. Where battalions landed
there should have been brigades; where brigades, divisions. It was
just sheer bad luck. No blame attached to the fleet—every man worked
like a Trojan, worked on without paying the slightest attention to
the hail of projectiles falling around. They were white right through,
those boys from the warships, from the plucky little middies and the
jolly "Jacks" right up to the senior officers. I pity the chap who
ever says a word against them if any of the Anzacs happen to be within
coo-ee of him! Come to think it over, I don't see that blame could be
fixed on any one. The country was just made for defensive purposes;
it would have required division after division to have been thrown in
on each other's heels in order to reduce it, or to seize the ground
to the Narrows and hang on. We simply hadn't the men. And the natural
difficulties in the way of getting up such reinforcements as we had,
not to speak of supplies, ammunition, etc., were nigh insurmountable.
There were no tracks, much less roads; the guns that _were_ landed that
first evening had to be pulled by hand through the standing scrub; the
landing parties on the beach were open to continuous shell fire, not
to mention snipers—altogether I don't think there was ever such a
daring or hazardous enterprise attempted in the world's history.

And now strong Turkish reinforcements appeared on the scene. Battalion
after battalion of fresh troops joined the enemy firing line. It
stiffened up: we failed to break it. Our men were falling fast; half
our strength seemed to be down, killed or wounded, while the remainder
were beginning to feel the effects of their tremendous gruelling in the
fierce heat of a sub-tropic sun. Still on came the masses of Turkish
reserves. The naval guns, especially those of the _Lizzie_, cut them
up, but didn't stagger them. They took the offensive. For a time it was
charge and counter-charge, give and take. But it couldn't last; the
odds were too great. We retired fighting—and in that retirement our
losses were something cruel. Machine-guns and shrapnel did the damage
mostly, but the Mausers took their share. Only in one thing had we the
advantage—the bayonet. When we got to hand grips with them the Turks
couldn't stand up to our chaps, who went for them with the cold steel
like devils red-hot from hell.

No man who took part in that retirement will ever forget it. Overhead
burst the shells, underfoot the dust rose and the twigs snapped as the
unending rain of rifle, machine-gun, and shrapnel bullets _zipped!_ and
spattered around. Men fell fast, killed and wounded; every temporary
stand we made was marked by little groups of grotesquely postured
khaki-clad forms still with the stillness of death. Here and there one
saw a sorely wounded man feebly raise his head and gaze pathetically
after the retiring line of hard-pressed men; others (and these were
many) limped and hobbled painfully along in the wake of the retreating
infantry, till in many cases another bullet laid them low. Most of our
wounded fell into the hands of the enemy. It was hard to leave them,
but what could we do?

Time after time we tried to dig ourselves in. In vain! The line had to
be shortened, else we should be outflanked by the enormously superior
forces opposed to us. There was nothing for it but to retire right back
to the ridge and hold the crest—or try to! Back then we went, retiring
by companies and half-companies. There was no running, no panic at any
time. When the Turks pressed us too closely we gave them a shake-up
with the bayonet. In many cases men had to rely on the steel alone,
their ammunition giving out. Time after time the enemy drew back while
his big guns and maxims wrought their will on us. He didn't half like
the steel.

We reached the ridge, and, exhausted as we were, started to dig
ourselves in. Our throats were parched, for we dare not broach our
water-bottles lest we should be tempted to finish them straight away.
Once a man begins to drink he will keep on. In many cases bottles had
been shot through and the contents drained away. Others had left them
with wounded comrades. For food we munched a biscuit—when we had time!
There weren't many biscuits eaten until after nightfall.

We dug a line of holes, scratching fiercely with our trenching tools,
all the while subjected to a withering shrapnel fire. The naval gunners
seemed quite unable to locate and silence the Turkish artillery, so
cleverly was it concealed. Lying down as flat as possible we scraped
away, working frantically for the much-needed cover that should enable
us to hold the position, if it were possible to hold it. At times we
dropped the trenching tools—to lift our rifles and beat back the
oncoming enemy. Yet it was evident that the Turks were beginning to
feel the strain too. Perhaps they thought they had us anyhow, for their
assaults began to lose a lot of their sting, and we were enabled to get
a half chance to dig. As the day waned and nightfall approached they
came again, and we were hard put to it for a time to hang on. Charge
and counter-charge followed rapidly on each other's heels, and all the
time a deafening fire was kept up along the whole position. Then the
brief twilight changed into night; the fire slackened off; the moon
rose, and for the first time since early morning we were enabled to
obtain a few minutes' rest before going on digging again in the attempt
to connect up and deepen the shallow holes we had scratched into one
continuous trench.

We stuck to it hard all through the night, grafting away for all we
were worth. It was our only chance. Yet at times we were absolutely
forced by sheer fatigue to drop our tools and stretch out for a spell.
Sixteen hours of hard, solid fighting through a broken and hilly
country, followed by a whole night's digging; then stand-to before
daybreak, and all the succeeding hours of the second day hold the
trenches against intermittent attacks. At night go on working at
strengthening the trenches; stand-to again before daylight the third
day—and from before dawn till well on in the evening of that day do
your bit at beating off the enemy's attack in force with a fresh army
that outnumbers you by five to one—_the_ attack by which he means to
seize your position _at all costs_! Just do the foregoing, dear reader,
and you will realise what those Australasian troops endured. And do it
(as they did) on a pint and a half of water and a few biscuits.

It was on Tuesday, April 27, that Enver Pasha launched the attack
against our lines that was to drive us into the sea. All through Monday
and Monday night our transports were landing fresh troops under heavy
and constant shelling from the Turkish big guns; under cover of the
darkness these troops were marched up and placed, some in the fire
trenches to fill up the many gaps caused by the enemy's shrapnel and
machine-guns, others massed in reserve at the base of the cliff. Yet
not a man of those who had stormed the position the first day, and who
had been hard at it ever since, could be spared from the front line.
Come to think, I don't fancy a single one would have left it. The
feeling had got abroad that the change was going to be taken out of the
Turks this time (it had leaked out that the big attack would certainly
take place on Monday night or Tuesday morning), and the chaps were fair
mad to get a bit of their own back. They did, too.

Our position as finally formed extended along the very crest, or rim,
of the cliff for a distance of about two miles, or rather better. Here
and there deep gullies, or cañons, ran into and cut the line, or caused
the line itself to "bulge" considerably towards the enemy position.
Such was "Shrapnel Gully," at the head of which lay "Quinn's Post,"
where our trenches had to be pushed perilously forward owing to the
configuration of the ground. "Quinn's Post," in fact, formed the key
to the whole position; it lay right in the centre of the line, and had
it been carried the whole bag of tricks would, in my opinion, have
crumpled up badly, and a big disaster might have occurred. When your
centre is pierced it's no picnic. To the left of "Quinn's" was "Dead
Man's Ridge," held by the Turks, and from which they were able to snipe
right down "Shrapnel Gully"—and, incidentally, our camps and dug-outs.
It was from "Dead Man's Ridge" that General Bridges was shot close to
Brigade Headquarters down in the "Gully." No man was safe from those
snipers; they seemed to be everywhere—before, alongside, and _behind_
our lines even. Hence no supplies could be brought up in daylight;
everything had to be done at night when there was only shell-fire
to worry about. Afterwards we got those snipers fossicked out (they
met strange deaths sometimes!), but in the meantime our life wasn't
anything to hanker after.

Now had the enemy only succeeded in pushing us over the rim of the
ridge, nothing would have saved us. Below lay the open beach. We
couldn't possibly have been taken off with the heights in the hands of
the Turks. I guess it would have been one of the biggest and finest
wipe-outs in history. Old Enver Pasha thought it would look jolly
well in the morning papers, I expect. Anyway he had no end of a hard
try—and to give him and his men their due I don't mind admitting that
they weren't so very far from succeeding.

I don't pretend to describe that struggle. No man could. It was grit,
tenacity, and gameness opposed to overwhelming numbers. A battle of
giants. It was sickening; brutal—and yet splendid. Men fought that
day stripped to the waist; fought till their rifles jammed, picked
up another—and went on fighting. Men with broken legs refused to
leave the trench, cursing those who would have assisted them—went
on firing until a second bullet crippled their rifle arm. Yet still
they clung on, handing up clips of cartridges to their mates, all the
time imploring them to "give the sons of —— hell!" They weren't
Sunday-school models, those big-hearted, happy-go-lucky toughs from
the Back of Beyond. But they knew how to fight—and die. They were men
right through, not kid-glove soldiers. They lived hard, fought hard,
and died hard. And what if they did die with curses on their lips! Who
shall dare to judge them, dying as _they_ died? And it may be that the
Big Padre up aloft turned a deaf ear to those oaths begotten of the
life they had lived—or perhaps He failed to hear them in the noise of
battle!

The Turks attacked gamely, like the big, brave soldiers they are and
always were. Led by their splendid officers, they came on in masses,
shoulder to shoulder, and did all that in them lay to rush our
trenches. They were met by a storm of bullets that would have staggered
anything born of woman. It did stagger them: they recoiled before
that leaden blast that piled their dead and wounded up in ghastly
heaps and ridges like broken-down walls—before that smashing fire
delivered at twenty yards range. They recoiled—yes. But run—no! They
charged, charged right through that hurricane of machine-gun and rifle
fire—charged right up to our parapets.

And now it was our turn. Like one man the colonial infantry leaped
from their cover. _Crash!_ They were into the Turks. Followed a wild
hurly-burly of hacking and stabbing while one might count twenty
slowly; then the enemy were beaten back, and the defenders ran, limped,
and crawled back to their trenches and took to their rifles again.

Thus it went on from before dawn till towards evening. Charge and
counter-charge, till men reeled from sheer exhaustion, and their
bloodclotted weapons slipped from hands sticky with the same red
paint. I am not exaggerating; those who were present on that awful
Tuesday will bear me out.

We were hard pressed. The strongest men in the world are only human.
Loss of sleep, insufficient food, and practically no water, combined
with the exertions we had already gone through, began to tell their
tale. Our losses were also very heavy; and owing to the slippery state
of the clay soil, following on an all-night of rain, our reserves could
not get up quickly enough. Thus yards and yards of trench were at times
empty of all save dead and wounded men, and in some cases the Turks
effected a footing in them; they were always driven out again, however,
or bayoneted to a man. Our fellows were simply magnificent; budge they
would not. To capture those trenches meant the killing of the men who
held them; you couldn't _drive_ them out. And the officers were just
the same.

But it was cruel to hear the continual cries of—

"Stretcher bearers!—Stretcher bearers to the right!"

"Stretcher bearers to the left!"

"_Ammunition!_ Send up ammunition—we haven't a —— round here!"

"Reinforce! _For God's sake reinforce!_ They're into No. 8! _Christ!
boys, get a move on!_"

At this time we had neither support trenches nor communications—just
one thin line, which, if broken, meant the loss of the ridge with
all that _that_ meant. We were also so clogged up with dead in our
trenches that to make room for the living we had to throw the bodies
out over the back. In many cases where our line was cut on the edge
of the ridge these bodies rolled right down to the foot of the cliff.
At "Quinn's Post" things were about as bad as they could be. There
was only the merest apology for a track from the "Gully" up to the
trenches situated on the very lip of the crest, and at one time when
reinforcements were making their way in single file up this track they
had to scramble in and out through and over dead men lying tossed about
anyhow, while all the way, right down to the valley the wounded were
lying "heads and tails" awaiting transport to the beach. It wasn't the
most encouraging sight in the world for the fellows coming up straight
off the transports.

In one place quite a little stack of bodies had been huddled together
to one side of the track; there might have been eighteen or twenty in
the lot. Owing to the water running down this stack began to move,
and kept on moving till it blocked the track up altogether. I don't
know how many chaps tumbled into that heap and got tied up in it, but
eventually a fatigue party had to be told off to build up the bodies as
you would build sheaves on a wagon. We had no time to bury our dead for
the first few days—and in that climate you don't want to keep them
above ground for many _hours_.

As the day wore on it became evident that the Turks had shot their
bolt. The attack died down, then ceased altogether, and save for the
heavy rifle and artillery fire they kept up on our trenches, we weren't
troubled by them for some time. They had lost tremendously; the ground
along our front looked like a heavy crop of wheat after the binder had
been through it—either 4000 or 7000 dead lay there. (And they lay
there unburied for _three weeks_.) At last we were able to get a little
sorely needed rest. We had been pushed to the extremest limit of human
endurance.




CHAPTER VIII

THREE WEEKS


_April 28 (Wednesday)._—I am writing this in the shelter of my little
dug-out, with the big guns roaring away like billy-o and the rifle,
maxim, and shrapnel bullets pitching all round. One is comparatively
safe in a deeply cut dug-out; if you shove only your head up some
sniper lets go at it. And this _behind_ our own trenches. We aren't
likely to die of _ennui_ here, anyway—nor old age.

Heard that the Turks are mutilating our dead and wounded, but haven't
seen anything of it myself. Strange yarns going the rounds that some
of our chaps have been indulging in reprisals. "An eye for an eye and
a tooth for a tooth" is the motto of the men from Australia and New
Zealand, so if the enemy has been playing up in a way of that kind
he'll get his own back—with interest. Wounded coming in steadily.
Tried to get a few hours' sleep last night. Got one. Spent the night
trenching, or sapping, rather. Engineers don't need rest seemingly.

Infantry holding the enemy all right now. Very big Turkish gun shelling
the warships at long range. Doesn't seem to be making much of it. Heard
that the _Lizzie_ sank a Turkish transport yesterday. Rifle fire not
quite so heavy just now. Heard that the British Tommies were advancing
strongly, driving the enemy down on us. Just had orders to go on
trenching at "Quinn's Post" to-night, advancing new saps and making
a new advanced fire trench. Raining hard, a cold rain. No coat or
blanket. Sure to be pretty miserable.

_29th._—Came back to dug-out at 1.30 a.m., very wet, very cold, very
miserable. All sticky with mud. Got some sleep.

Weather cleared up later. Battle still going on, we holding the enemy
safely. Went on sapping at "Quinn's," in four-hour shifts. Very lively
and "jumpy" work—enemy crawling up at dark and firing at fifteen to
twenty feet range. Periscopes now being used, made in most cases from
glasses cut from large mirrors taken from the ships. These periscopes
don't last many hours at this part of the line, as a rule, and many
nasty scalp wounds have been received through the glass being shattered
by rifle fire. We have had to make them as small as possible—simply a
lath with two small pieces of mirror about two inches by one. In some
cases, even, a walking-stick with the centre cut out has been used with
good results. Miss my overcoat and blanket greatly, the nights being
cold. Haven't seen them since we discarded our packs at the landing.

_30th (Friday)._—Still the same: battle going on. Sapping continued
under difficulties. Stench from enemy's dead lying near the trenches
very bad. Fed up with continuous sapping work. Tucker improving a bit.
No mail yet arrived. Heard that Goorkhas had landed to assist us.
Removed to new ready-made dug-outs further up the hill. Came back again
on hearing that the late owner had been shot while lying in it. Message
of congratulation from Lord Kitchener to Colonial troops. British
Tommies reported to be advancing strongly, and due to join us to-morrow
night. First bombs thrown into our trenches to-day—the cricket-ball
variety fitted with time-fuses. We amused ourselves by making "catches"
of these bombs and slinging them back into the Turks. It was lively
work, and certainly exciting. I'd much rather play cricket on the
Auckland Domain, however. RUM to-night—the first issue since landing.
It went down slick.

_May 1 (Saturday)._—Sapping: still sapping. Getting quite close
to enemy, their nearest trench being now only about twenty feet
distant. Plenty of Turkish bombs to enliven the time. One I picked up
yesterday and pulled the fuse out of was sent down to headquarters
for inspection. On my asking to have it back—I thought of making
an ink-bottle out of it, or a spittoon—I was informed that it was
now Government property, but that I might _as a favour_ get it back
again. Shan't let the next one I get hold of fall into the hands of
the Government! Turks attacked our right flank in force, but beaten
off by Australians after suffering heavy loss. Our machine-guns simply
mowed them down in hundreds. Things looked bad for a bit as the enemy
shrapnel got well home into the open ditch that is supposed to be a
trench, and our losses were heavy. Also, some fresh troops (not Anzacs,
thank heaven!) sent up to help our fellows didn't play the game,
letting the Australians down badly. Why the dickens do they enlist boys
of seventeen in some of the Home corps? They are only in the way when
it comes to cold-blooded bayonet work.

Some of our fellows are now partially deaf owing to the all-fired row
that goes on day and night. Changed camp to-day, shifting to other side
of "Shrapnel Gully," about a quarter of a mile away from "Quinn's."
Made a boss dug-out for four—myself and three mates. While eating
dinner a piece of shell as large as my hand (No. 11 in gloves—when I
wear them!) bumped straight into our happy home, just grazing ——'s
back. Made ourselves fairly snug with sandbags, etc. Have now got a
greatcoat (late owner past caring for such things), but no blankets.
Got our first whole night's sleep last night since landing, rather
broken owing to unusually cold night following extremely hot day.
Snipers very busy; one said to have killed over a dozen of our chaps
to-day down at a water-hole in the "Gully."

_May 2._—Fight still going on: 8th day of it. Shell fire not so
heavy, but rifles talking away as merrily as ever. Very trying in
trenches, owing to stench from dead men. Read the following scrawled
in blue pencil on a cross made from biscuit-box wood just outside our
camp: "_In loving memory of 29 brave soldiers of the King._" We are
living practically on a big graveyard. Our dead are buried anywhere and
everywhere—even _in_ the trenches. It takes a lot of getting to like.
Had a boncer breakfast this morning, firewood being fairly plentiful.
Haven't had a wash, my clothes or boots off, since we landed eight days
ago. Wonder what I look like! Made a road for mules from valley up to
firing line, following a winding course. Came back to camp and heard
that a big general advance is to take place to-night, commencing at 7
p.m. My section is to be divided into two half-sections, each under
command of a non-com., and appointed to a separate unit. My party
appointed to the 16th Battalion, Australian Infantry. Sure to be a hot
picnic. Wonder how many of us will draw rations to-morrow!

_May 3._—Am back in camp again with a smack in the right shoulder
and a useless right arm—and jolly glad to be back, too. Am the only
tenant of our dug-out, my three chums being knocked over—all seriously
wounded. Can just manage to write.

We had a crook spin. The big guns of the ships and the shore batteries
started the ball by shelling the enemy heavily and driving him from
his front trenches with some loss. We followed the infantry to the
attack at dusk, advancing up a dark and evil-looking gully or nullah,
the track being only fit for amphibious monkeys to follow, and so
narrow that single file had to be adopted. We didn't enjoy ourselves
a little bit, as added to the natural difficulties of the passage—we
were up to the thighs in mud and water one minute and scrambling over
roots, branches, and rocks the next, all in pitch darkness—we were
sniped at point-blank range all the way, losing several men. At last,
after a very trying time, we gained the top and found that the leading
companies of infantry had carried the position and were engaged in
digging themselves in under one of the hottest fires I ever ran up
against. Our little half-section of about eighteen men were ordered
to spread themselves along the line, their duties being to advise and
assist the infantry. We did so, and at once men began to fall. The
Turks were only about fifty yards away, and although it was dark they
could see our chaps fairly well against the background of stars. In a
few minutes half our lot were down, I myself being put out of action
by a bullet glancing off a pick and getting me in the right shoulder.
At the same instant my water-bottle was shot through and the rifle
blown from my hand. It wasn't at all a healthy climate. It was just a
shambles. Men were lying killed and wounded as thick as sardines in a
tin. I remember apologising to a poor chap for treading on his face.
But he didn't mind—being dead.

Although my wound was only slight, it settled me for doing any more
work, so I was sent back with a message to the O.C. in camp. I shan't
forget that trip in a hurry. Owing to having to make a detour to avoid
the reinforcements that were coming up, I cut across the back trail
without knowing it, and almost walked into the Turks, who were out on
a flanking game. One son of a gun tickled the back of my neck with a
bullet, and another put one so close to my ear that I felt the organ
to make sure it was still hanging to my head. That was good enough for
me; I wasn't greedy; so I just ducked and ran, never stopping till I
had to —— head down in three feet of mud at the bottom of a ten-foot
_donga_! However, I got my bearings at last, hit the trail, and
staggered into camp, more dead than alive, at about midnight. Delivered
my message, had my wound dressed, and after a pannikin of tea turned
in and had a smoke and an hour or two of sleep. Shoulder hurt a bit.

The captured position was held all day, but owing to being commanded by
some rising ground on which the Turks were strongly entrenched and from
which they were able to enfilade our chaps, it was abandoned at dark.
Hard lines after the heavy losses. But life is cheap here. Heavy firing
towards evening. Stayed in my dug-out smoking and nursing my arm.

_May 4._—Very heavy firing all along the line most of last night.
Distant bombardment by fleet heard. Stayed in camp all morning, but
went up to "Quinn's" in the afternoon and supervised infantrymen
sapping. Very short of engineers now. My section is just about wiped
out. Enemy threw in a regular cloud of bombs, then attacked strongly.
They succeeded in getting a footing in the front line trenches, and
some hard hand-to-hand bayonet fighting had to be put in before they
were cleaned up. Shoulder won't be "fit" for some time; however, I
can always boss up others although doing a loaf myself. Had a very
"scratch" tea to-night.

_May 5._—Up to sap again at 3 a.m., and sat rifle in hand on a
cartridge-box for four solid (and weary) hours keeping guard. Turks
only a few yards off. If one had showed his nose over the parapet I
doubt if I could have raised the rifle to my shoulder; however, the
working party didn't know that. Nothing very lively happened. Sap head
ran into a dead Turk, who was so tied up in the scrub that he couldn't
be shoved to one side except at great risk. Only one thing to do: we
sapped _through_ him. It wasn't the nicest job in the world, seeing the
time he'd lain there. Came back to poor breakfast. Could have done with
a "go" of rum. Didn't get any.

In the afternoon bossed up a whole company of London infantrymen at
road-making. There is plenty of variety in the engineering line I
find. My company certainly didn't know how to go about the job they had
taken in hand, and they had never even heard of a corduroy road, while
their ideas on the question of drainage would have shocked Noah. Their
officers thought they knew all there was to know, but really didn't
know enough to know how little they did know. I had a slight difference
of opinion with those officers. I got my own way.

The country here is rather pretty—deep gullies and cañons with high
hills clothed with dwarf oak (we called it holly) and firs; in the
gullies one runs across the arbutus, the flowering thorn, a kind of
laurel, and a wood that resembles the New Zealand _karaka_. Wild
flowers bloom in profusion; my dug-out is gay with a little pink
rambler rose that threatens to engulf it in its tendrils. The growth
is rapid. We have evidently struck the right time of year for visiting
Gallipoli. In a way the Peninsula reminds me of parts of the North
Island of New Zealand.

In the way of bird and animal life there are larks, doves, pigeons,
hawks, turkeys, cuckoos, and tortoises. The latter animals caused our
sentries many anxious moments. I shouldn't care to calculate how many
tortoises were "halted," nor how many were shot at. They were big
fellows as tortoises go, and when a chap got a squint of one mooching
along the sky-line in the moonlight, it was all the odds to a tin-tack
he let go at it.

In the insect line we could count quite a tidy little collection. We
had flies by the hundred billion. They were everywhere, from the heaps
of dead to the cook's pots. Put jam on a biscuit and it was always
a sprint to your mouth between you and the flies, the event usually
ending in a dead heat. There were other insects not quite so plentiful
as the flies, but even fonder of our company—at least, they stuck
close to us; they're not usually named before ladies, except in the
pulpit.

We had snakes, scorpions, centipedes, and big hairy tarantula spiders;
and when they elected to drop into the trenches things got fairly
lively. We liked them just about as much as they liked us. A state of
war existed between us: we took no prisoners.

——AND (a very big "and") _there is gold on the Gallipoli Peninsula_.
There is. It's there—for I myself panned off the dirt and found the
colour! I know the spot, and some day, perhaps, I'll have a try for the
big seam. I have a fairly good idea—— But that's another tale.

There are other things in our trenches that we don't care overmuch
to have as company. Maggots—maggots crawling in battalions about a
chap's feet and dropping from the sides of the trench down his neck.
Maggots from the dead! You can't sit down hardly without flattening a
dozen or two out. It's bad for one's uniform. Something will have to
be done, or we'll all be down with disease. It's a good job we were
all inoculated against enteric, anyway. The smell is worse than a glue
factory. We have dead Turks right on our very parapets. Only this
morning a bullet pitched into one lying close handy, and the putrid
matter (of the consistency of porridge) was "spattered" right over us.
They say you can get used to anything. Well, maybe so. But it's hard to
get used to that. No news yet, and no way of sending any.

_Later._—First part of a mail arrived at last. Two letters for me. Am
going to try to get letters sent off; they will be strictly censored,
of course. The sergeant of my section killed to-day—a really nice
fellow and a general favourite. I'll soon have no chums left at all.
Enemy is now using explosive bullets. I have seen their effects.

Driven out of sap every time we entered it by bombs. One burst within
three feet of me without doing any harm. Firing going on as usual.
Managed to get a change of socks to-day. Needed them. Rumoured that
the British or the Turks have presented an ultimatum, calling on one
or other to surrender within twenty-four hours—no one seems to know
which. Also that the French have taken a big fort at the Narrows. Air
full of rumours—and projectiles. Big guns almost splitting the drum of
my ear as I write. Very heavy Maxim and rifle fire this evening. Quite
sick of it all; the Turks take a lot of beating. Weather beautiful;
sea calm and of an azure blue colour. Rum issued to-night. Big event.
Things looked brighter afterwards.

_May 6._—Heavy cannonade, but lighter rifle fire. Lots of bombs.
Fellows getting quite deaf. Was down at beach to-day. Navy men very
busy landing stores, etc. Officers (Navy) very fine fellows, and both
they and their men swear by our chaps. No side or laddy-da about the
officers. One—a lieutenant—informed me that our fellows were born
fighters: "But you want to give them plenty to do," he went on; "for
when they're not fighting they're looking for trouble." Afterwards
I overheard him describing the landing to a newcomer. "They're not
soldiers," he finished up, "—— they're not men! They're just wild
devils let loose from hell! The instant the boats grounded over they
went, head first, came up with fixed bayonets, and rushed those
machine-guns like runaway steam-engines! It was the most reckless,
grandest slap-dash charge that I or any other man ever witnessed. Oh,
they're beauties to scrap! And their vocabulary would raise your hair!"

_May 7._—Weather still beautiful. Position just the same. Fire from
all arms still going on. Enemy sapping in line with us. More of my
section laid out; only a few left. Being reinforced by volunteers from
our mounted crowd—drivers, etc.

_May 8._—Heavy fire all night. Fancy considerable waste of
ammunition. Rather quiet day. Some artillery fire from enemy trying
to locate our guns, which are well hidden. Mail supposed to come in
to-morrow. Hope so, as many letters are due. Posted a letter myself
to-day—in a haversack hanging to a bush. Hope it goes all right. Rum
to-night. Very welcome, but short ration. I wonder why?

_May 9._—Very quiet night, with occasional bursts of rifle fire. Enemy
tried hard with his guns for one of our batteries this morning, but
failed to get it. Notice posted that British warships have forced the
Narrows and are in the Sea of Marmora. This should hasten the end.
Hope so, as we are all fed up with sticking to the trenches here.
Rumoured that the Russians are in the Bosphorus: don't believe it.
Heavy, distant cannonade last two days and nights. Fleet, I suppose. As
I write hardly a shot being fired. Arm still queer. Got a short rifle
to-day in place of the old long one I selected. (Prefer long rifle for
good shooting, sniping, etc., but short one better for the trenches.)
There is a history attached to the one I have now. It was picked up
just outside a new sap by one of our chaps, and when found the bayonet
was fixed and a single shot had been fired, the cartridge case still
remaining in the breech. A dead Australian was lying beside it.

_Memorable event_: had a shave to-day, the first since leaving the
transport. The razor was a borrowed one; my beard was like a mop. Both
suffered.

Was detailed as one of party sent to supervise infantry digging
trenches. Went out at 8 p.m. and came off at midnight. Did nothing
but lie about and get miserably cold, as I had no greatcoat with me.
Infantry made another attack on position they captured last Sunday
and retired from. Carried it again—and again retired, owing, it is
said, to lack of reinforcements at the critical moment. Truth is, it
is almost impossible to bring up reserves quickly enough owing to the
nature of the country. Hard lines, all the same, considering what it
costs to capture these entrenched positions.

_May 10._—Fairly quiet. Artillery still throwing shrapnel over our
camp and right down to beach. Did another four hours to-day—from 8
a.m. till 12 noon. To go out at 8 p.m. again. Tobacco and cigarettes
issued to-day, the latter in bad condition—very mouldy. Went out from
8 till 12 midnight to fix a pump and deepen a well. Had no tools, it
was pitch dark, dare not light even a match, so did nothing but lie
around and growl. Mail in.

_May 11._—Heavy rifle fire all night. Was out from 8 a.m. till noon
bossing up Royal Marines at trench-digging. Quiet morning, but heavy
rifle and artillery fire in the afternoon. Yesterday, I was told,
shrapnel pitched all round me in camp, tearing up the ground and
smashing a rifle close to my head. I took no notice of it. I was
asleep. Nice safe camps we have in these parts! The 29th Division
(Irish) reported to be only two miles from our right flank to-day.
Report confirmed later. Good news; something ought to be doing soon.
Heavy naval firing going on in the distance. Heard that 4·7" naval guns
had been placed in position on "Pope's Hill", to our left. Wish they
could lay out the Turkish guns—especially "Asiatic Annie"—that keep
warming us up in our dug-outs; we are getting tired of the beggars.
Heard that the _Lusitania_ had been submarined near the Irish coast.
Poor devils!—it's a one-eyed kind of death to be drowned like rats
in a trap. I'd a dashed sight rather be shot any day. "Commandeered"
a can of butter, some cheese, jam, and potatoes, so have lived high
to-day. "Virtue rewarded"—the stuff just smiled at me as I was passing
the commissariat. I couldn't resist its blandishments. Anyway, the
Quartermaster is always complaining about the "non-keeping" qualities
of his provisions. And, when all's said and done, it's simply a raiding
of the Philistines. How does the water get into our rum? Some rain
to-day, cloudy, overcast skies, and not at all warm.

_May 12._—Rum—and not watered! Rained all night; place a quagmire
this morning. Got hold of some sacks and managed to sleep more or less
dry. Have neither waterproof sheet nor blankets. Heard that all our
blankets left behind on ship had been taken for wounded. If that is
where they have gone we don't mind; sick men need them more than we do.
Rather quiet night; expect both sides too wet and miserable to worry
about killing each other. Didn't go out last night; thought I might as
well stay in and nurse my shoulder, which is doing real good. First
night in for longish spell. Went out this morning and bossed up a lot
of marines at trench-digging. It rained all the time and the ground was
as sticky as fish-glue. Climbing up to "Quinn's Post" in this kind of
weather is like the Johnnie in _Pilgrim's Progress_ who found his swag
growing bigger and heavier the farther he went. You can hardly lift
your feet owing to the amount of Turkey sticking to them, and for every
two yards you advance you slide back more than one. And coming down is
just as bad, although a deal speedier. You start off gingerly, sit down
suddenly—_squelch!_—and when your wind comes back you find yourself
at the foot of the hill with a sniper biffing away at you and enjoying
the joke. It's quite funny—to read about.

My clothing is getting sadly in need of repair. Nothing to repair it
with, however. Enemy's shells passing barely twenty feet above my
dug-out—a bit too close for comfort. Thinking of shifting my camp.
To-day the cap from one of our own shells passed clean through a man
in a dug-out just above my own, and injured another. Our gunners do
things like that of a time: perhaps they imagine we need a little more
excitement—or have a perverted sense of humour. Heavy distant firing:
the fleet at it again, I suppose.

_May 13._—Came in at midnight after a spell of sapping—or, rather,
watching others sap. Went on camp fatigue carrying water, fetching
firewood for the cooks, etc. Can do this all right with one good arm.
Otherwise had a light day. Australian Light Horse Brigade arrived from
Egypt (minus horses), and now manning trenches as infantrymen. Employed
my spare time in deepening my dug-out and fixing things up generally
in my camp. Tremendous firing by ships last night; something doing.
Fairly quiet day, with occasional bursts of rifle fire by both sides;
also a little shelling. Noticed the following painted on some of our
shells: "Turkish Delight: distributed free!" Went out at 8 p.m. to dig
communication trench from "Shrapnel Gully" up to firing line on "Pope's
Hill."

The position was a very exposed one, as we had to carry the trench up
over a ridge open to enemy fire at fairly close range. It couldn't
possibly have been done in daylight, so we were sent out to get a
hustle on and complete the job before morning. Even as it was the Turks
must have taken a tumble to our game, for they kept up a hot fire on
the crest of the ridge all night long. As I couldn't use my arm I was
put on sentry-go, and spent hour after hour lying in the scrub with
the bullets hissing and spitting in the air round my head or knocking
sparks out of the flinty soil. It wasn't a bit jolly. We ran into a
dead man while we were working—a Ceylon chap—who must have lain there
since the landing. One of our chaps went down to camp and fetched up
a padre—a fine old sort—who stood up and read the Burial Service
under fire, and remained on the ridge until we had buried the corpse.
I forget the parson's name, but I fancy he was the same man who worked
at stretcher-bearing all through the first night in company with a
Roman Catholic priest. There was a yarn going the rounds about this
priest having taken part in a bayonet charge near "Quinn's": he denied
it, but—well, from what I saw of him, I feel more than half inclined
to believe it. We also found a dead Turkish officer. He had evidently
been sketching round about these parts, his sketching wallet containing
many drawings lying beside him. I wasn't lucky enough to get away with
a specimen.

_May 14._—Quiet morning for this locality. A little shelling plus
some bombing. Enemy now taking to writing messages on pieces of
paper, wrapping a stone in the paper and chucking the things into our
trenches. They seem to imagine we have lost touch altogether with the
world at large, and have taken it on themselves to furnish us with
news. We are surprised to learn that fourteen British battleships
have been sunk by the forts at the Narrows, that Egypt is in a state
of revolt, and that the Germans are preparing to invade England.
They asked us to treat our prisoners well, and they would do likewise
with theirs. In a further message (an ultimatum) they called on us to
surrender with our whole bag of tricks inside sixteen hours, and on
receiving our reply—more forcible than elegant—some merry dog chucked
back the following: "Well, if you won't surrender _we_ will. Suppose we
both surrender!"

Were served out with a new kind of biscuit to-day. It looks and tastes
like stale bread, but when soaked in water and fried in fat it goes
down well. I now save all the fat I can from my morning rasher of
bacon, storing it in a jam-tin. I find it useful for cooking "chips"
(when there happens to be any "spuds" about); also for greasing the
bolt of my rifle. Speaking of bacon reminds me of a little picnic that
happened a few nights ago. Two of us were passing the A.S.C. stores
down in the "Gully." There was much store of jam, bacon, cheese, etc.,
piled in boxes on one side of the track. Now the back of this lordly
stack of cases rested against a high but slender bank. In front was
the camp of the attendant satellites. The thought seemed to strike us
both at the same time. We acted on it right away. Putting in a short
drive through the bank we struck oil—spelled, in this case, J-A-M.
Since then I have done another little bit of prospecting round about
that claim. I feel like having ham for breakfast; therefore I shall pay
another visit to our drive, remove the bush that secures its entrance,
and——!

Our stores are mostly brought up from the beach by mules, Indian
drivers having charge of the stubborn animals. I am bound to say,
however, these Indians seem able to do anything with their charges.
They are very fond of them, too, and they (the mules) look fat and well
cared for. I believe the drivers would almost as soon die as see such a
fate overtake their beasts. Here is a case in point which I witnessed
myself: a shell exploded bang above the track on which a transport team
was making its way beachward. A mule staggered and came down on one
knee, then righted itself. The driver examined the limb carefully, and
finding the damage only amounted to the loss of a bit of skin, he threw
his arms round the animal's neck and kissed it on the nose. I couldn't
help wondering if he'd have kissed his wife in a like case.

Weather growing hotter daily. Flies increasing all the time. Flowers
coming into bloom fast. Eased my feet by changing socks from left to
right—the only change I could manage. Rockets thrown up by the Turks
last night. Wonder what the game is? Fancy homing pigeons are being
used by the enemy, as I have noticed quite a lot flying about lately.
_May_ be wild ones, of course. Went on trenching same as yesterday.

_May 15._—Heavy firing during night. New Zealanders stormed enemy's
trenches to the left of our position last night and held them against
strong counter attacks. Reported loss 500. A good bit of work well
carried out. Antwerp and Ostend reported to be recaptured. Submarines
said to be cruising off Anzac Cove, and all transports have left in
consequence. H.M.S. _Lion_ said to have been torpedoed; didn't know she
was nearer than the North Sea. Went up to "Quinn's" at noon to go on
sapping, etc. Some sniping, but little damage. Wish we could get the
dead buried: the stench takes a lot of getting used to. Fairly quiet
night.

Three weeks to-morrow since we landed! As lively a three weeks as any
man could wish for. It seems like three months. But it's got to be
done. And if I am lucky enough to get through this slather-up I mean to
live a man of peace for the rest of my natural: get on to a tidy little
place, grow spuds and cabbages, and raise early chickens—and kiddies!




CHAPTER IX

SITTING TIGHT


_May 16._—Went on sapping, this time at "Pope's Hill." Had a man
killed here in rather curious way. He was in the act of throwing out a
shovelful of dirt when a bullet struck the blade of the shovel as it
appeared for an instant above the parapet, came right down the handle,
and knocked the poor chap's brains over his tunic. Rough luck! Came
off work at noon. Quiet evening; some artillery and machine-gun fire.
Another of our officers killed by a sniper to-day. A smart sort he was,
too, and popular with all in the corps. Rum and tobacco issued—always
an event. But why do they give us "medium strength" when nine out of
ten of our chaps have been used to hard tack? This soft stuff only
burns our tongues and makes us say our prayers backwards. Got to bed
early and was lulled to sleep by the music of bursting bombs and heavy
rifle fire in the neighbourhood of "Quinn's" and "Courtney's." Our camp
is at the foot of the cliff to the left of "Dead Man's Ridge," only
thirty yards behind the firing line; all day and night we hear the song
of bullets and the scream of shells passing overhead. I expect we'll
miss them when we retire into private life again—if any of us are left
to do the retiring stunt. One of our cooks shot dead while bending over
his pots. Oh, it's a sweet spot, is Anzac!

Weather growing much warmer. Seems to agree with the flies. Wonder what
part in the scheme of Nature flies play?

_May 17._—Very heavy rifle and machine-gun fire in early part of
night, followed by bombs galore. It seems that a company of Australian
infantry stormed an enemy trench, but had to retire from it later
on with considerable loss. Queer that such small bodies should be
sent to attack a strong position. Did a five-hour spell of sapping at
"Pope's." Snipers active, but were well protected, suffering no loss.
Fairly quiet day. Some artillery fire. One of our naval guns got on to
the enemy's trenches and blew them about in fine style with lyddite.
Rumoured that Italy has come in on Allies' side. Also that Bulgaria has
taken off the gloves, but on which side no one seems to know. My own
opinion is that she'll side with Germany, simply because she _seems_
so friendly towards the Allies. I wouldn't trust one of those Balkan
Staters farther than I could see him. Rumania will probably join the
Allies—when it suits her. As for Greece, from what I saw of the Greeks
in Lemnos and elsewhere, I reckon she doesn't count in the deal. Her
men were born with deflated rubber tyres instead of backbones. Rumours
fill the air. Stuck up the Q.M.S. for a shirt. He has promised to do
his best. Hope I'll get one, as at present I don't possess such an
article, and in this weather a knitted woollen cardigan impregnated
with sweat and powdered clay isn't the most comfortable garment to wear
next one's skin. Ordered to go on again on the old four-hour shifts
at "Pope's," bossing up infantry at trench-digging. Would rather do a
bigger spell right off the reel, as we get more sleep.

_May 18._—Enemy throwing 10´´ or 12´´ shells (howitzers) right into
the "Gully" among the thickly clustered dug-outs. The explosions are
fine to watch (so long as your own home doesn't suffer), dirt, stones,
etc. being hurled 200 yards around. I don't think they killed very
many, but the Light Horse chaps are fair mad at the way their camp has
been knocked about. One fellow whose dug-out had utterly vanished, its
place being now occupied by a crater like a young volcano, wanted to
know what the Government was thinking about.

Navy officers inspected our lines yesterday. Heard that they weren't
much impressed with the work of our field batteries. This morning
the troops were withdrawn from some of our trenches and the warships
bombarded the Turks just in advance of our firing line, blowing
trenches, sandbags, etc. up in fine style. The enemy kept pretty
quiet afterwards; expect they were cleaning up things. Heard that the
naval chaps are mounting 4·7´´ and 6´´ guns here; also that the Royal
Artillery have arrived with two 12´´ howitzers. They are badly needed,
as we don't seem able to silence the Turkish big guns.

Easy day on the whole. Still waiting for my shirt. Rumoured that the
enemy has been strongly reinforced, and may try a big assault at any
time. Also, that 20,000 well-armed Armenians have risen against the
Turks. Also, that Italy has certainly joined in—not confirmed. Also,
that Greece wants certain "guarantees" before coming in with the
Allies. Turkish losses since war started reported as 60 per cent.
Hard to credit. More "Jack Johnsons" this afternoon. An enemy big
gun discovered to be using a tunnel; when about to fire she is run
out on rails, being run back into the tunnel the instant the shot is
discharged. One up for the Turks! They are as 'cute as a cageful of
monkeys.

_May 19._—Enemy attacked in force last night. The rifle and
machine-gun fire was something to write home about! The Turks came on
in their usual close formation, and were simply mown down. They just
melted away in places like a snowball in hell. Mostly they failed to
reach our trenches, being cut down and beaten back by the terrific
fire. In some cases, however, they did actually get into our front fire
trenches, but were immediately bayoneted to a man. In other places they
reached our parapets—only to be pulled by the legs _into_ the trench
by one man and bayoneted by another. It was a queer, mixed-up style of
fighting, that suited our Australasian troops right down to the ground.
The attack was repulsed all along the line, finally dying away at about
2 a.m. Two hours later they had another try to push us over the ridge,
advancing under cover of the heaviest artillery fire we have so far
experienced. Again they attacked our whole line, finally concentrating
on our right flank. At one point a New Zealand crowd left their
trenches and charged the advancing Turks with the bayonet. They drove
the enemy back in fine style, but suffered considerably themselves.
Otherwise, however, the attack was repulsed with heavy loss to the
enemy, our own casualties I hear being slight. I should think the Turks
must be getting fed up with these attempts to drive us into the sea.

Heavy firing going on at all points as I write—rifles, Maxims, and
artillery. The row is something awful! Enemy using shrapnel chiefly,
and sweeping the "Gully" right down to the beach. Heard that the "Jack
Johnsons" yesterday killed only about six men and wounded a few more.
It seems almost incredible considering the way they pumped them into
our camps. The soil here is mostly clayey and fairly free from rock,
and the big shells, like our own lyddite, simply blow a huge hole,
or crater, in the ground; and although the effect is rather fearsome
the damage, unless close in, doesn't amount to much. If they pitched
in rocky country I should say there would be a very different yarn to
spin. Heard that the _Lizzie_ pitched a big shell slap into the tunnel
in which a Turkish "Jack Johnson" was hiding and that she hasn't given
tongue since. Also that the enemy tapped one of our field telephone
wires _behind_ our lines, and gave the General Staff twenty-four hours
in which to clear us off the Peninsula, failing which he would blow us
into the sea with big guns. Got my shirt at last, and feel a new man.
If I could only raise a pair of trousers I'd be satisfied. I like
plenty of fresh air and ventilation—but not in my nether garments.

_Later._—A tremendous rifle and artillery fire took place this
evening, continuing for an hour or so. Accounted for by New Zealand
infantry attempting to capture some Turkish guns. They didn't go on
with the venture, however, as the guns were too well guarded. Rather
quiet evening afterwards. Been ordered to go on sapping at "Quinn's
Post" to-morrow at 7 a.m.

_Still Later._—Rather a funny thing happened to-night. We were ordered
to rig up portable entanglements in front of our fire trenches at
"Quinn's." Now as the enemy's trench and our own were separated by only
a few yards it meant a quick death (and a verdict of "suicide while
temporarily insane") to any one attempting to even mount the parapet,
much less starting in to a job of the kind out in the open. You should
have seen the chaps' faces (and heard their prayers) when the order
came along. Of course they all realised it was a mistake, the order
being cancelled later on. The entanglements were there, however, so our
officer thought it would be a bright idea to shove them out in front
by means of long spars. After a lot of trouble we managed this, and
they looked real good standing heads and tails along the front of our
trenches. But when the Turks threw out light grapnels attached to ropes
and dragged the things back to do duty for _them_, they didn't look
half so good. And the infantry laughed some. We went to bed.

_May 20._—Quiet morning. No enemy artillery fire and only a little of
our own. Later some shelling by both sides. Worked at erecting overhead
cover on the support trenches at "Quinn's"—originally the fire
trenches, the outcome of the line of holes dug after the landing. Funny
kind of job: every time you showed a hand above the parapet the Turks
had a shot at it. From 6.30 till about 7.30 all firing ceased on both
sides. It was the first time we had experienced absolute quiet since
our arrival here, and the sensation was a strange one. It was still
stranger to hear the song of the lark; I reckon the birds sized it up
as the end of the Great War, for they seemed to all slip out of their
dug-outs at once. Heard it was a truce to allow the Turks to bring in
their wounded. When the firing began again it was something to listen
to! Big guns and little guns, they all seemed to be working overtime.
They kept it up most of the night, too.

_May 21._—On overhead cover same as yesterday. Fairly quiet all
round. More rumours! Another truce talked of. Heard that quite a lot
of prisoners surrendered to-day. Orders sent round that everything
possible was to be done to encourage enemy to desert. Which reminds
me——

A few nights ago three Turks were captured by a patrol and brought
into camp. They said in broken English that they'd been trying to
surrender. They were taken down to headquarters to be questioned, and
later on sent back to our camp, the O.C. receiving orders to feed them
up well, then give the beggars a chance to escape. The idea was that
they would return to their own lines, tell their chums of the fine time
they'd had in our camp, and thus cause a lot of deserting from the
enemy. Nothing of this was to be said to them, of course.

Well, we took our prisoners down to the cook's quarters and gave them
the time of their lives. They ate about a tin of jam each, ditto of
condensed milk, showed a marked appreciation for the army biscuits,
and (they couldn't have been true believers—or else they were just as
much in the dark as ourselves regarding the contents) tackled the bully
beef with gusto, finishing up with Woodbine cigarettes. They weren't
game to sample the rum, however, but it wasn't wasted. When they were
full up to the back teeth we asked them if they knew where there was
any firewood to be got, as most of the big stuff had been cut out of
the "Gully." Yes, they did know of some, but to get it they would have
to crawl up close to their own lines. Things couldn't be better, we
thought; they were told to clear out and get some. Away they went, up
a deep nullah that bisected our lines—and returned a couple of hours
later loaded up with brushwood like walking Christmas Trees! At their
own request we led them back to the cookhouse, saw them started on a
fresh supply of jam and condensed milk, and gave the thing up as a bad
job. Catch them letting their mates into the secret of all those good
things!

Indeed, most of our prisoners were only too pleased to remain with us
once we'd caught them. We set them to various jobs, and, to do them
justice, they worked away quite cheerfully, never, so far as I know,
attempting to escape from a place where they were so well fed and got
free smokes. The Australians installed one as camp barber, and the
blue-jackets from the fleet used to grin at the spectacle of a big
husky Turk going round his enemy's throat with a keen-edged razor.

About this time most of us had grown full beards. I don't know who
originated the style, but it got to be the fashion to trim our beards
to a point _à la_ His Majesty. Then our slouch hats underwent the
trimming process, the result being a far-fetched jockey's cap. Then
nearly every chap cut his slacks or breeches off well above the knee,
and a great many discarded puttees. Others shore their shirt-sleeves
off shoulder high. Still others went without their shirts altogether in
the daytime, going naked from the waist up. So you can guess what the
Anzac Army looked like! No wonder the Turks did a bolt when our ragtime
mob of toughs rushed them with the bayonet! They looked like a crowd of
sundowners who had struck an out-back trail and got badly bushed in a
dry season.

_May 22._—Went up to "Quinn's" at 7 a.m. to go on with sticking up
overhead cover. Rather rainy morning. Mud—and such mud!—everywhere.
Work of art climbing hill owing to feet caking inches deep with the
sticky clay soil. Just got started to work when taken off to make
loopholes in a new front fire trench—enemy's trench being only
about fifteen yards away. Trench badly exposed to cross-fire from
machine-guns well placed on rising ground. All around were splashes of
blood. Australian officer informed us that a number of his men had been
shot while lying at the _bottom_ of this trench. Did what we could, but
as fast as we stuck the sandbags up they were cut to pieces and blown
down by Maxim fire. Bombed out many times. Had many narrow shaves.
Forced to give it best and wait till dark, when we'll have another try.
All these dirty jobs seem to fall to the engineers. Rain cleared off
in afternoon. Mail came in to-day. Got four letters—very satisfactory.
"Jack Johnsons" at work again. Snipers also busy; bagged quite a lot
of our chaps to-day. _Our_ snipers are beginning to thin them down,
however. Our trench mortars emptied bombs finely into enemy's trenches
lately. Fairly quiet night, with rifle fire going off in bursts now and
then.

_May 23._—Went on at "Quinn's" again, loopholing and strengthening
fire trenches. Curious state of affairs here: _we_ sapped out towards
enemy's lines some time ago—and met the Turks doing the same towards
us. Result: _a communicating trench from our lines into his_, which
is guarded night and day at either end by each party respectively,
the intervening distance being about ten yards! Didn't dare to expose
ourselves, as sharp-shooters were sniping all the time from two sides,
a cross-fire at a range of about forty yards. Got back to camp and
found issue of rum awaiting me, also ration of _fresh_ beef. Cooked
it on a grill made of twisted fencing wire and had an A1 blow-out.
More letters to-day. Wonder what the navy is doing at the Dardanelles?
Rumours; the air is full of them. Here are three: (_a_) Turkey has
demanded either £40,000,000 or £50,000,000 from Germany, otherwise she
will join the Allies; (_b_) we are going to be relieved and sent home
to England on the 25th instant, to refit; (_c_) submarines are cruising
about quite close.

To-day the warships bombarded the enemy's trenches just in front of our
own, first giving us warning to keep our heads well down. Didn't need
the warning, as shells simply skimmed our parapets. One plumped _into_
a trench full of Australians. Didn't do much damage luckily, but upset
the harmony of a nice little card-party playing poker. Result: the loss
of some money and several tempers. Got a blanket served out to-day.
Could have done with it a long time ago. Still waiting for trousers;
the pair I own now on their last legs.

Talking of legs, I bumped into one to-day sticking out into one of our
support trenches. You had to duck to pass it. Seems that our chaps when
building the cover found a dead Turk badly in their way, and as they
would have had some difficulty in removing him they decided to build
him up _in_ the roof; his leg slipped through, however, so they just
let it hang. Quiet night; hardly any firing at any part of the line.

_May 24._—Just finishing breakfast when rain started. The worst of it
is that even a slight fall turns this country into a kind of clay bog,
owing to the top soil clogging on one's boots and then slipping over
the subsoil. It is like climbing a greased egg to scale the hills—and
our position here is on top of a high ridge running round a deep gully.
Coming down one generally does a joy slide on one's hindquarters. Have
been ordered to stand by, pending a rumoured armistice supposed to take
place at 7.30 a.m. Heard that Italy has come in on Allies' side: this
time it seems to be credited. Hope it is true.

_Later._—Armistice did take place, lasting till 4.30 p.m., for
the purpose of burying the dead—or "planting stiffs," to give the
occupation its local name. It was about time this was done. I never saw
so many bodies crowded into the same space before; there were literally
thousands of them. And the condition they were in! I dare not describe
the sights I saw. We scraped out shallow holes, edged the things
gingerly in and covered them up as quickly as possible. It paid to
smoke hard all the time. I picked up a German officer's sword (broken
off at the hilt), a Turkish ditto, and dozens of other war curios. I
noticed a magnificent diamond ring on a Turkish officer's finger, but
he was in such a state of putrefaction that I allowed him to retain
it. One cannot be too careful when working with decomposed bodies; if a
cut finger happens to get into contact with putrid human flesh you'll
know all about it. We mixed together, the enemy "undertakers" and our
own. Some of the Turkish officers handed us cigarettes and spoke in
fluent English. They were a fine, jolly-looking lot of fellows dressed
in swagger uniforms. The Germans, however, stood at a distance and
scowled. Our fellows returned their scowls with interest. They also
favoured them with a salute (understood of all men) in which the thumb
and fingers of one hand act in conjunction with the nose. The Huns
didn't seem to appreciate the honour. A quiet night followed.

_May 25._—Working at same job as before—loopholing trenches and
generally strengthening position at "Quinn's Post." It wouldn't
be difficult to get laid out at this game, for there is an almost
continuous cross-fire playing a few inches above your head, and as fast
as you stick up sandbags the machine-guns cut them into shreds.

Saw the _Triumph_ torpedoed. She had been acting the part of dry nurse
to our crowd off Anzac Cove, and it was like a death in the family
when she went to the bottom. I was sitting in my dug-out at the time
it happened, eating the mid-day meal, and had a first-class view of
the whole thing at a distance of about two and a half miles. From the
height of our camp above sea-level we could even see the submarine,
like a shadowy fish, below the water. She was reported to have been
struck by two torpedoes; I saw only one, however—or its wake, rather.
The projectile seemed to hit the warship right amidships, going through
her nets as if they were made of paper. A tremendous cloud of dense
brown smoke mixed with steam sprang aloft like a geyser, and the big
ship listed over at once in the direction from which the torpedo had
come. At the same time she seemed to settle down in the water with a
jump. The submarine couldn't have been more than 200 yards away when
she launched the torpedo, which appeared to cut the water at a great
bat. A destroyer was cruising about close handy, and she at once backed
in against the battleship, the crew jumping and tumbling on board
like rats. Meantime she (the destroyer) opened fire every time the
submarine shoved her periscope above the surface. One shot was fired at
a distance of only about fifty yards. The sea was soon alive with all
kinds of small craft hastening to the work of rescue. In ten minutes
the _Triumph_ turned completely over, showing her bottom for all the
world like a big whale, finally disappearing in about twenty minutes
from the time of the explosion. She didn't dive—just slowly subsided.
Many of the crew jumped overboard; through glasses we could see them
struggling in the water. Almost immediately a whole flotilla of torpedo
boats and destroyers seemed to spring from nowhere, and started to
hunt down the submarine. As I write they are steaming round and round
in a big circle, an aeroplane hovering overhead and evidently directing
operations; at the same time the enemy is pumping shrapnel into the bay
from long range for all he is worth, evidently in the hope of bagging
those engaged in the work of rescue. I have since seen it stated in the
papers that the enemy's artillery was directed against the destroyers,
and that the drowning men and those assisting them had to take their
chance. Then why in the name of common sense did he use shrapnel? The
contention is absurd. The Turks on the whole were clean fighters, but
when the poor old _Triumph_ went down they put a dirty blot on their
record. I hope never to see another ship torpedoed; it was one of the
saddest sights I ever witnessed.

_Later._—Reported that the submarine was bagged after a long chase.
Heavy rain this afternoon, and the whole place a bog. Hot sun
afterwards which turned the bog into a glue deposit. Things fairly
quiet, as they have been for the last two or three days. Enemy doesn't
seem to like our bombs thrown from trench mortars. They are a Japanese
invention, and when they pitch into the Turkish trenches they fairly
raise hell—and human remains! Heard that over 400 were lost in the
_Triumph_: hope it isn't true. Finding enemy was mining towards our
trenches we put in a counter mine. Enemy exploded his—and ours at the
same time. _W-o-o-o-o-uf!_ she went. So did the writer—bringing up
waist deep in a heap of soft sticky clay, hard jam tins, and discarded
accoutrements at the foot of the ridge. Felt a bit "rocky" after being
dug out. Left ear gone. Head queer. Hope it will come all right again.
Had another issue of fresh beef this evening, the second, I fancy,
since we landed. Cooked it on my own home-made grill and found it
_kapai_. More rain.

_Still Later._—Heard that losses on _Triumph_ were very slight:
about twenty or thirty. Rain cleared off and ground now drying fast.
Fairly quiet night, except for some bombing. You get queer things in
bombs sometimes, especially Turkish bombs. For instance: I was working
in one of the advanced saps. There was a good deal of bombing going
on a bit to my right. In the traverse next to where I was sapping
a captured Turkish gramophone was being made to work overtime in
_The Turkish Patrol_, for the edification of an Australian audience.
Presently—_Bang!_ It was a bomb, thrown slap into the concert
party. The music ceased. Followed the customary volley of blasphemy
in back-blocks Australian. Then, to my surprise, a roar of laughter
echoed round the traverse. Naturally I waltzed along to see what had
happened—and found a very profane Australian seated in the bottom of
the trench nursing his wounds. He looked for all the world as if he
had been scrapping with a whole colony of porcupines, and was bleeding
from a score or two of wounds.

"It's needles from the bomb," laughed one of his mates, in answer to my
astonished look. "The poor devil's that full up of gramophone needles,
if we only had a _something_ record we could play a _something_ tune on
him!"

But we weren't a bit slow at faking up bombs ourselves. I have known
rusty nails, bits of shells, flints, cartridge cases, fragments of
broken periscopes—anything, in fact, that came along shoved into a
home-made jam-tin bomb. Once some of the chaps heaved over a 7-lb.
jam-can filled with ham and bacon bones. You ought to have heard the
jamboree in the Turkish trench when the unclean animal's mortal remains
blew round their ears! They didn't half like being shot by pig. On
another occasion some Australians informed me that they wanted "a
hell of a knock-out bomb," as they had located a Turkish listening
post close up to our front line trenches. I manufactured one of the
"hair-brush" variety, using _two 15-oz. slabs of guncotton_, and
packing round the explosive about three pounds of assorted projectiles;
the whole thing I wrapped up in a whole sandbag and wound it round and
round with barbed wire. When completed it looked a pretty little toy
about the size of a respectable ham. I own I had some misgivings about
being able to throw it the required length. However, the distance was
only a matter of a few yards, and I got it fair into the desired spot.
When she went off bang there wasn't much of that listening post left,
while as for the Turks who manned it—well, I guess they're going still!

"Quinn's Post" was always a rotten shop for bombs. At first the Turks
had things pretty much their own way in that line. Time after time
they cleared our front trenches by bomb-throwing, and then rushed the
position; and I can tell you it called for some hard hand-to-hand
fighting on our part to get them out again. But we always did it; good
soldiers as they are they couldn't live in the same township with our
chaps when cold steel was the order of the day. There isn't much fun
left in life once you've had eighteen inches of rusty bayonet shoved
through your gizzard. The Turks don't fear death; if killed in action
they believe they go straight to Paradise and have a high old time with
the girls. But you can't blame a man if he wished to have a little more
practice on earth—nor for being a bit particular about the manner in
which he started on the long trail. I reckon that's how it was with
them. I don't blame them, either; it's a sloppy kind of death, the
bayonet one.

After a time we got top-dog in the bombing line. Our system was a
simple one: for every bomb the enemy threw into us we gave him at least
_two_ in return. He didn't like it a little bit. At first we used to
throw the bombs back again as fast as they came in, the fuses being
timed a bit too long; afterwards, however, that game didn't pay, quite
a lot of poor chaps getting laid out through the things exploding in
their hands. Dropping a sandbag or an overcoat on them took most of the
sting out of the beggars, and it wasn't long till every third man's
greatcoat looked as if it had been in a railway accident—or a cyclone.

One night I shan't forget in a hurry. It simply rained bombs. Man after
man went down. The trench was a shambles. On came the Turks, carrying
our fire trench with ease; there was really nothing to stop them.
They got right into our support trench. Then our chaps got to work.
We bombed them back. They came again. Again we cleared them out. The
position was carried and re-carried four separate times, eventually
remaining in our hands. Reader, I wish you had seen those trenches
when the picnic was finished. It took us a long time cleaning them up.
There were all kinds of queer things sticking to the sides and to the
overhead cover. One of our chaps put the thing in a nutshell. "I don't
give a _something_ what the padre says," he observed, "there'll be an
all-fired mix-up when they go aloft!"

"Quinn's" was in truth the limit. I reckon you could get killed there
a dashed sight easier than anywhere in the whole line. It was just
fair hell with all the doors open. It was the place where V.C.'s were
earned—but not given! Come to think of it, it would have taken a
sackful to go round. Yes, that must have been the reason.




CHAPTER X

THE ORDER OF THE PUSH


_Several Months Later._—I have just been discharged from my second
English hospital, and am at present on "leave pending discharge from
the Service, '_Permanently Unfit_.'" I feel pretty well that way, too.
My soldiering days are over: henceforth I am a man of peace. Well,
I've had a goodish innings and can't complain, even in spite of the
fact that I'll never be quite the same man again. And, after all,
things might be a deal worse: I might be one of those grotesque-looking
bundles of khaki and rat-picked bones now lying unburied and forgotten
in the scrub of Gaba Tepe, for instance. And I'd go through it all
again—aye, a hundred times—sooner than have the women call me
"slacker"! I say "_women_" advisedly: the "_men_" are all wearing
khaki now; those "_she_-men" who aren't don't count—_they_ are just
white-livered, cold-footed, rubber-spined swine! That's straight Anzac.
I'd cheerfully forfeit a month's back pay to watch one of the slacker
brigade read these lines, and to know that away down in the little
dried-up kernel he calls his heart there still exists enough red blood
to pump a flush of shame into his white girl's cheeks. "Girl," did
I say? Then I ask the "gentler" sex to forgive me, for well I know
that nine out of every ten women in the British Empire have far more
true pluck and sand in their little fingers than the whole slacker
brigade have in their useless tender-footed bodies. What right have
these damned cowards to go to theatres, dances, football matches, and
concerts; to lie warm in bed at night and eat soft tucker by day—to
live their soft, easy-going useless lives, while I and the like of
me have to go out and live, fight—aye, and die—like beasts? True,
we volunteered; we just had to—being _men_! What right (I put it
straight to any slacker whose eye now rests on this page—if he hasn't
already chucked this little volume into the fire)—what right have
you, you little white-livered cur, you slimy maggot—what right have
you to wear the dress and ape the bearing of a _man_? What will you
say to the _men_ when they return from doing their bit—when they ask
why _you_ didn't roll up and help them in their need? That you were
a conscientious objector? That you didn't believe in shedding human
blood? That you had to stay at home—and make money—while _they_ were
fighting and sweating that the old home might not be polluted by the
shadow of the German beasts, the ravishers of poor little Belgium?
Well, you can say what you like. But I know what they will call you—a
name that no man worth calling a man ever takes unchallenged from his
fellows—what I call you right now: COWARD!

I was going to add: What will you say to your children when they ask
you what _you_ did in The Great War? But surely no woman will ever call
you husband and bear your children! If such women are to be found, and
I only had the power, I'd emasculate you all rather than see your dirty
breed perpetuated.

That's some more straight Australasian. But to come back to the matter
in hand, as the public tub-thumpers say——

I got in the way of some bullets. I didn't want to, but they were
flying round pretty lively and I bagged a few—one through the arm,
another through the shoulder (it's still sticking somewhere down under
the blade), two pieces of explosive bullet in my right hand (still
there and letting me know it when I write), plus an assortment of small
splinters distributed round about my figure-head. My left ear is gone;
I don't sleep too well; there is a fitter's shop doing great work day
and night in my head, and when I walk out to take the air things are
apt to spin round some, and I fancy the dear old ladies imagine I
suffer from chronic alcoholism. Altogether I don't feel quiet as good
as I did before I went on tour with the Anzacs. Neither did the medical
board, so they're giving me the tin-ware. Funny thing: my appetite is
quite good, and I look as strong as a horse. Hence the aforesaid old
ladies are always telling how well I look, and hoping I am _quite_
recovered from my wounds. At first this sort of thing used to bore
me; now, however, it only amuses me. It's a boncer gift is the saving
grace of humour, and keeps a fellow from getting into the blues when he
compares the man he was once with the man he is now. However, that's by
the way.

I have been in six hospitals altogether. I don't want any more, not
being greedy. I am fed up with hospitals, fed up with doctors, fed up
with nurses ("sisters" we called them), and, above all, fed up and
surfeited with the old blue suit! Not that we weren't well treated in
hospital. I have nothing much to complain of (although they did in some
cases treat us like kids): I have much to praise. The doctors were on
the whole a decent crowd; the sisters were just angels! I take my hat
off to them wishing them a long and jolly life on this old planet and a
featherbed in Heaven when they hit the long trail. _Kia Ora!_

After being hit I was taken in a fleet sweeper to Lemnos Island,
about forty-five miles from Anzac. I was in two hospitals there. From
Lemnos Island I went in a hospital ship to Alexandria, and on by
hospital train to Cairo. I put in a spell there, and was then shipped
(by train!) to Port Said. From Port Said I was consigned to England,
where I brought up in Cardiff. Finally I did a spell in a South Coast
hospital. Then they got sick of me. The feeling was mutual. So I'm
getting the order of the push.

Taking it all in all I've had a kind of a Cook's Personally Conducted
Tour. I've had good times and bad times, the good fairly well balancing
the bad. On the whole it has been a most interesting trip. It has also
been to a certain extent an exciting trip. I reckon it's up to me to
remember the good times and forget the bad. And I wouldn't have missed
it, good or bad, for worlds.

For, dear reader (please don't think I'm bragging), I'd rather be lying
this moment in an unknown grave in the Gallipoli Peninsula than be
branded for life as a God damned slacker!

That isn't swearing. It's a pious expression. And, take it either way,
it's pardonable.


  THE END


  PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY RICHARD CLAY & SONS, LIMITED,
  BRUNSWICK ST., STAMFORD ST., S.E., AND BUNGAY, SUFFOLK.




TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES.

1. Silently corrected simple spelling, grammar, and typographical
   errors.
2. Retained anachronistic and non-standard spellings as printed.



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