THE ANZAC HOME—AND A CONTRAST
I am sitting, at the moment of writing, in a dug-out, one of those dismal, dark, damp holes cut into the clay of the Dardanelles, serving us as a haven of refuge by day and by night from the ubiquitous Turkish bullet.
The proportions of this extemporised dwelling resemble those of an exceedingly small family tomb—one which might belong to a family too proud not to possess a family tomb at all, but too poor to possess one of adequate size and comfort (if one can speak of comfort in such a connection). Its dimensions should be about ten feet by four, but I am not enthusiastic enough at the moment to ascertain them precisely. Its three walls are of crumbling clay. Where the fourth wall strictly should be is an exit which lets in the draught. Over my head are stretched waterproof sheets which let in the water. On the floor, in fine weather, is an inch of dust, and in bad weather a proportionate amount of slimy mud. A few sandbags ranged round the parapet threaten to tumble in and annihilate my existence. I am sitting on a roll of bedding. My haversack, water-bottle, field-glasses, webbing, pistol, gas helmet, and india-rubber basin are arranged round my feet like so many pet dogs begging for biscuit; and in such an entourage I think of my room at home—and that is where this matter of contrast comes in.
It was the same at dinner. We—that is to say, my brother officers and I—sat in another variety of dug-out; this time an open one—open to all that blows and falls. Our repast consisted of an exceedingly stringy rabbit, extracted from a tin of an ominous purple hue—an evil-looking dish eked out with somebody or other’s baked beans, which are all very well in their way, but when used as an unvarying vegetable at all meals begin to pall; bread, with the crust like a cinder, to which fondly cling bits of sacking and mules’ whisker; the corpse of a cheese; and the whole washed down with tea made in the stew dixie, and tasting more of dixie and stew than of tea.
As I lean back against the clay wall of my dug-out, and innumerable particles of dust cascade down my neck, a soft reverie steals over my senses. It seems to me to be about six or seven o’clock on a murky November afternoon in London. I have splashed home from my work in the wind- and rain-swept streets—the motor-buses have covered me with black mud—my umbrella has afforded me the most inadequate shelter. But these things seem of little account to me here in Gallipoli. I see myself reaching my home in the best of spirits, enteringthe hall, and shutting off the outer darkness. My sense of contrast gives me a lively notion of dry clothes, of a comfortable room, of a genial fire, and of an absorbing book. In future I shall be grateful for the rain and the mud and the murky streets for making these good things seem by contrast so much more valuable.
Think of it! To sink into a great arm-chair in front of my library fire, after a hard and anxious day’s work, and contemplate the near approach of an excellent evening meal. How comfortable and warm and hospitable my room appears as I lean back and listen to the rather depressing, smothered rumble of the traffic in the street below. Thick curtains hide away the melancholy November London atmosphere. Sweet-smelling logs crackle cheerily on the hearth; a reading-lamp by my side sheds subdued lustre on the immediate vicinity of my chair. My servant glides into the room noiselessly over the soft carpet, and places the evening paper by my side. I choose a cigar from my case, light it, and then I am perfectly content—and my contentment is due to contrast between my content with the existing situation and my past discontent with other situations at other times and in other places.
After a refreshing siesta I go upstairs, exchange my workaday clothes for a smoking-suit. Two or three bachelor friends are due to dine with me, and by the time I have dressed and descended again to the sitting-room they are there ready for my greeting.
And what a pleasant evening it is with their company. We talk of old times, old acquaintances, and old places. We talk of our big-game shoots, of our campaigns, and of our travels, the recollection of which seem so delightful now that distance lends enchantment to the view. Dinner is over; a glass of brandy and old port, some smokes, and we are just adjourning to the next room——
“Wake up, old chap—three o’clock. Your turn for the trenches. It is snowing hard and the Turks are very active.”
Contrasts indeed!
E. Cadogan,1/1 Suffolk Yeomanry.
its not whatyou were.—but whatyou areto-day—
its not whatyou were.—
its not whatyou were.—
but whatyou areto-day—
but whatyou areto-day—