BEACHY
Outside was a cold, dark, windy and cheerless night, and the world seemed cowering under the black, threatening rain-pall above, which could be felt rather than seen. Inside my host’s diggings we were lounging back in the warmth and light, smoking and yarning of other times and places, while the partner of his home brewed the warm, fragrant, comforting decoction which seemed to contribute so much to the mood and proper appreciation of such friendly comfort in the midst of the audible turmoil of unfriendly outer circumstances.
Once again from outside there came a whir and rattle past the door, and I smiled significantly and glanced in that direction.
“Oh, don’t go until after the next one,” urged my host’s companion, seeing my attention diverted to things outside of our present cheery circle.
With this my friend seemed to concur, and drew himself closer to the fire. “Yes, there’s plenty of time yet,” he said. “There’ll be a lot more of ’em. So you might as well sit tight in, safely and comfy, and try another cup.”
I didn’t need much coaxing, and thrusting the thought of the long, unpleasant journey home out of my mind, I settled down to further cheery chat and the enjoyment of stimulating internal comforts.
The conversation seemed to have progressed but a little further when above the wind outside could be heard again the warning roar and rumble, fading away and terminating in a muffled clang and clatter in the distance. “That settles it, Billo, old chap,” I said, half rising. “Pass over my coat. If I hurry off now I’ll be just in time.”
But my friend didn’t move to oblige. “Now, what’s the use of hurrying?” he urged once more. “They’ll be passing every minute now for a long time yet. So why not settle down and enjoy yourself a bit longer? ’Taint very often you come this way.”
By the time I had finished my reply to his persuasions I found, again, that my chance had gone—and I would have to wait now, anyhow.
And so the time passed. We talked and talked, while a useful youth who lived near by, and had attached himself to my friend Billo, made three reappearances with hot water for the cups that cheered as the night went on.
“I wonder where ‘Razzy’ is?”presently remarked my host; “the jug wants refilling.”
Just then the disturbing rumble passed the door again, and I rose to my feet. “Don’t bother to disturb him,” I said. “I suppose he’s retired to his digs. Besides, now’s my chance to scoot too; I’ve a long way to walk. Throw me that coat.”
Finding that all protestations were useless, my friends reluctantly allowed me to go, but not without wilily expressed forebodings as to what unpleasantness might await me outside now that I had refused to enjoy their society and comforts any longer.
They accompanied me to the door, and a cold blast of wind met us. There were ominous thunder rumbles in the murky distance.
“A boshter[8]night for a walk,” I remarked, buttoning my coat about me.
“Yes,” grinned my friend, peering out into the darkness. “And they’re running to a peculiar sort of time-table to-night—passing about every seven minutes. You’d better get a wriggle on. There’s a short cut that way,” he added, pointing to the right, “just past the corner of the cemetery. That’s where they stop. So for God’s sake shake it up; if you don’t, they won’t see you home at all. It’s an unhealthy night to be out.”
I asked them to say good night to the youth “Razzy” for me, and to thank him for his comforting ministration, then bade them farewell and moved off.
I blundered along the sloppy, unpaved footway, peering tensely into the uncanny blackness about me, and hurried uneasily in the direction of a patch of faint pale blotches that I hoped and took to be the monuments in the little burying-ground down beyond. I found that my direction was right, and presently I was hurrying past it as fast as I could manage in the wind and darkness. From somewhere behind me—it sounded miles and miles away through the noise of the wind—a faint low moaning sound reached my ear. I stepped forward uneasily, but before I had advanced a yard it had become more prolonged, and growing ever louder and closer until I seemed to feel it coming—coming with tremendous and ever-increasing speed: a horrible, nerve-shattering, deafening, wailing shriek. I stood dazed and paralysed—rooted to the spot. With a scream of hellish intensity—it was all within a second, really—it was on me. There was a flash of blinding light, then everything ended so far as I was concerned.
My next interest in life was a feeling that I had just been hurled up at the moon, over it, and had descended slowly, ever so slowly, like a feather, to earth again. In fact, I wasn’t quite sure that I was not a feather; and I opened my eyes carefully and tried to feel myself. “’Ssh-sh-sh! Don’t disturb yourself—remain quiet and comfy,” said a persuasive voice beside me. I looked around as far as I could move, and knew that I was in a hospital, but where or of what kind I could not think for the moment. I lay awhile gazing blankly and unthinkingly at a low white ceiling above me. Presently I fell to wondering.
ACHI BABA, SEEN FROM ANZAC(The dug-outs and paths of Anzac are seen in the foreground. Above them on the sky line is the massive Kilid Bahr plateau, the near promontory in the centre is Gaba Tepe, and above is the peak of Achi Baba. The British position at Helles comprised the distant coast up to a point a little astern of the destroyer.)Drawn by G. T. M. ROACH
ACHI BABA, SEEN FROM ANZAC(The dug-outs and paths of Anzac are seen in the foreground. Above them on the sky line is the massive Kilid Bahr plateau, the near promontory in the centre is Gaba Tepe, and above is the peak of Achi Baba. The British position at Helles comprised the distant coast up to a point a little astern of the destroyer.)Drawn by G. T. M. ROACH
ACHI BABA, SEEN FROM ANZAC
(The dug-outs and paths of Anzac are seen in the foreground. Above them on the sky line is the massive Kilid Bahr plateau, the near promontory in the centre is Gaba Tepe, and above is the peak of Achi Baba. The British position at Helles comprised the distant coast up to a point a little astern of the destroyer.)
Drawn by G. T. M. ROACH
RACING BEACHY BILLDrawn by H. C. WIMBUSH
RACING BEACHY BILLDrawn by H. C. WIMBUSH
RACING BEACHY BILL
Drawn by H. C. WIMBUSH
In what suburb, in what town (it seemed to have been hundreds of years ago that it had happened), and what part of Australasia could it be that a peaceful citizen, walking a darkened street, homeward bound, could be violently assailed, near the resting-place of its harmless sleeping dead, by an awful uncanny horror descending from the black unknown? Was I cursed, haunted, bewitched—or what? Then there came to me the vague memory of a friend, one whom I familiarly knew as “Billo,” and in some way associated with my terrible, mysterious experience. But somehow it didn’t seem to fit in with the slowly gathering evidence of my returning senses, for it seemed to me that “Billo” had long before quitted suburban civilisation for some great adventure—perhaps—yes, it was a war somewhere—in which I, too, had later resolved to follow his example and do my share. Then how came it that this terrible experience had befallen me in the midst of the enjoyment and comforts of civilisation?
I had a positive though hazy memory of a comfortable, warm room, pleasant drinks, cheery conversation; “Billo” and his companion, the latter a rough, kindly sort of being—no, it could not have been a woman; besides, “Billo” was a bachelor. I remembered that distinctly.
Suddenly it became clear to me, and I remembered a silent, rugged man facetiously dubbed “’Enery” by my friend—a kindly chap, of very few words, with whom I had not been long acquainted. Where had “Billo” picked him up? There also came before me the memory of a small, dilapidated man or youth, dark complexioned; somehow also attached to “Billo.” His name was—yes, that was it.... Who the deuce was “Razzy”? My mind here became dazed, and speculation drifted off into a confusion of reflections: that “Razzy” was a foreigner of some sort, living with us under the same conditions, yet in some way very different and in a degree inferior; that the hour at which I left my friend “Billo’s” home and his inexplicable associates was quite early in the night—perhaps only nine-thirty. This latter fact seemed to linger in my mind, for presently—with a hazy conviction that there were sure to be other pedestrians abroad on a suburban street at that hour—I heard my own voice asking no one in particular: “Was there anyone else there?”
It came as no surprise to hear a man’s rough voice reply:
“Only a Maltese—at least, we think he was. He was blown to smithereens. But don’t let ’em see you talking too much, mate.”
The room seemed to rock. I opened my eyes, and with difficulty caught sight of the speaker. He was in khaki and wore an A.M.C. badge on his arm. I was on a hospital ship.
“Then thatmusthave been poor ‘Razzy,’” I muttered at last. Before my mind’s eye there seemed to unfold a dissolving scene. The cosy rooms of my friend “Billo” became a dug-out in a hillside, lit by a slush lamp made from bacon fat. “Billo” and his rugged, silent companion were wearing the familiar time-tattered uniform that I knew so well ages and ages ago (actually it was five days back); the door through which I had passed into the unpleasant night was an oilsheet tied down to keep the weather out; and the frequent rumbling roar was not that of a passing suburban train which I was timing myself to catch. On thecontrary, it was theintervalsbetween that sound which interested me. For each of those rushes past the door of my friend’s dug-out was a hurtling Turkish shell, and I wanted to make my escape at a reasonably safe moment. Also, the place where “they” chiefly lobbed was the cemetery at the foot of the rugged track (I had dreamed of it as the unpaved footpath of a new suburb), where rest a score or more game Australian lads who had taken part in the landing on Gallipoli. The unfortunate “Razzy,” by the way, was but one of a gang of Maltese labourers brought by the authorities, at a later and safer period, to help in the landing of stores from the transports in the bay at Anzac. He had become friendly with my luxury-loving friend “Billo,” and, in gratitude for various kindly considerations, was willing to provide the hot water to make our hot-rum drinks on that memorable night at “Billo’s” station on our right wing. (I was quartered miles away on the extreme left.)
So it was near the cemetery that the unexpected shell got me; and apparently “Razzy” also, who was returning to his camp a hundred yards away. There seemed something so droll about the whole strange illusion that, although in a state of dazed depression, I might have laughed but for an indescribable pain in my left side. I saw that my left arm was supported on something and lay above the bedclothes and seemed very heavy.
“Feel comfortable?” said the A.M.C. man.
“Yes, except for the pain in my left hand,” I answered.
He looked down, and I followed his gaze.
“You haven’t got no left hand,” he said quietly.
I saw that he was right, and this new illusion struck me as being about the last straw.
With a dazed sort of conviction I muttered: “Well, it’s a rummy world”—and promptly lay back and drifted out of it for the time being.
Ted Colles,3rd L.H. Field Ambulance.
C.E.W.B.
Portrait of anAustraliansoldier returningfrom the field ofglory at Helles.May 11th 1915
FOOTNOTES:[8]Bosker, boshter, bonzer—Australian slang for splendid.
[8]Bosker, boshter, bonzer—Australian slang for splendid.
[8]Bosker, boshter, bonzer—Australian slang for splendid.