"DEAR CURNEL,—Paddy Doolan an' I, with twenty boys, just captured enemy's position. Enemy running like blazes. The officer bloke refuses to be dead. I'm sending him to you. We're just goin' off to try an' capture a general.—Yours,"BILL BUSTER."
"P.S.—Did you get that mad fellow wot thinks we're playin' cricket? Pore chap!"
This letter and the prisoner were dispatched under escort to Colonel Killem in rear. Bill again proceeded to join the long line of scouts which now faced the outposts of the enemy. This was the second stage of the attack. The "screen" now came up and thickened the Australian line. Many officers came with it, so Bill, without protest, vacated the post of "general."
"Bang, bang, bang!" went the rifles. "Z-r-r-p-rip-rip!" went the machine-guns, while the sullen boom of the field artillery in rear indicated that matters were becoming interesting.
"Advance by rushes," ordered the senior Australian officer in the front line.
"Why don't you let us give 'em the bayonet?" muttered Bill, disagreeing with the tactics of his superior.
"Shut up," ordered an old sergeant.
"All right, funny-face."
"Consider yourself a prisoner," was the final word of the N.C.O. as they went forward on the rush. Bill wished for more than a round of blank.
Section after section took up a new line. Then the rushes started again. All the time the rifles were spitting out their fire. They reached within fifty yards of the outpost line. As this was simply a protective screen, and not the line of resistance, the enemy's outpost companies commenced to fade away systematically in the direction of their main body.
"Prepare to charge," ordered the officer.
"With bayonets?" queried Bill.
"No," he snapped.
"Wot's a bloomin' bayonet for?" asked Bill when the officer was out of hearing.
"For openin' jam tins, ye fathead," said Paddy.
"Charge!" The long line rose like one man. With a great cheer they swept away the remnants of the outpost companies and occupied the ridge. This gave the Australians a complete view of the main position. Both flanks rested on impassable obstacles. The front was secured by imaginary entanglements, backed up by a series of trenches and an array of Maxims and guns. This was the information required by the Australian G.O.C. The reconnaissance had served its purpose. The "Assembly" was sounded, and the field day seemed done.
But war is full of surprises, and it is the surprises which make or mar a general's name. While General Fearless and his force were rallying for lunch all were suddenly surprised by a fearful roll of musketry on the right.
"By gad, sir—we're trapped!" said the Chief of Staff, jumping up. "Shall I order the brigades to form to the right, and meet this attack?"
"No," said Fearless, coolly eating his sandwich. "Get me some information."
"But they may decimate us in the meantime, sir."
"Get me information, please," was the quiet and more firm command.
Two aides-de-camp were sent at the gallop towards the mysterious force which had suddenly appeared and was furiously firing blank. They found the New Zealanders pressing on in three separate lines towards them.
"It's a proper trap," said one of the gallopers. "And look to our rear. There's more there. This flank business is a feint. They're trying to smash us behind, and they're 'cute enough not to fire a shot from that direction. Say, Brown, gallop back and tell the general, and I'll try and bluff this front line here." Away went the messenger while the other young staff officer galloped into the front line of New Zealanders.
"The New Zealanders will cease fire," said the daring galloper. His staff cap commanded the respect of an innocent subaltern. He blew his whistle. More whistles were heard. In two minutes all was comparatively still.
"You will commence firing again in fifteen minutes. Pass it along." Down the line went the false order. Smiling inwardly, the shrewd aide-de-camp galloped away. Meantime the Australian G.O.C. had acted vigorously. Throwing out two regiments to hold the feinting force on his right, he then turned the other brigades about. These were deployed at the double, sent forward with a rush, and, in three minutes, dug shelter trenches in the sand. They were ordered to keep low until the main body of the New Zealanders pressed the attack well home. It was an exciting moment. And the Maorilanders expected an easy win. On they came in their long skirmishing lines. At last they were within fifty yards of the hidden Australians.
"Rapid fire!"
Bang! Zrrrp—Boom! Boom! Boom! crashed rifles, Maxims, and guns. The New Zealanders were startled. Before they had recovered from their surprise, Fearless ordered the "Charge!" Like deerhounds, his men rose up and dashed pell-mell into the panic-stricken host. There was a shock, a wavering, and then a pell-mell rush to the rear. The Australians had won. They hadnotbeen surprised.
"Cease fire! Sound the 'Officers' Call,'" ordered the chief umpire, galloping up. From far and near came the leaders to the pow-wow.
"Well, gentlemen," said the umpire (the Commander-in-Chief), "I've seen much to-day. There has been little to deplore and a great deal to commend. Throughout the whole show there has been shown skill, enthusiasm, and dash. Leadership was good, communication fair, and nothing very rash was done. Your eight months' training has improved you beyond recognition.
"To-day I tested our Australian friends. I planned to trick them, to throw them into confusion, and to cause a general panic by a sudden onslaught while they were resting and apparently finished for the day. The trap failed because General Fearless was cool and appreciated the situation. That, to me, is an important point. The surprises of war are the things which make us or break us. Surprises in South Africa smashed more reputations than anything else. It is perfectly easy at manoeuvres to carry out a scheme laid down. It is not easy suddenly to meet a dramatic development or side issue.
"Now for another point. Our colonial friends still suffer from an abundance of vitality and the too daring use of the initiative. That is a good fault, and yet a bad one. In guerilla warfare it would be a tremendous asset. In a concerted scheme it might prove disastrous. No matter how daring and clever the individual soldier or officer, if he forgets that there are men, sections, regiments, and brigades to his right or left—if he fails to appreciate the full value of co-ordination and co-operation, he is a danger to himself and his force. Of course, gentlemen, I fully appreciate that this charming recklessness of our overseas cousins is due to temperament, not to intent or a desire to be big at the expense of their fellows. That is why we have trained you so hard. Without any desire to give offence, I say boldly that the Australians and New Zealanders are an infinitely better trained, better disciplined, and, therefore, a more useful body of men than was sent by these Dominions to South Africa.
"It has been a very long, weary road, gentlemen. Your men, I am sure, have cursed me often. But grousing is the privilege of the soldier. Indeed, I always suspect the man who doesn't grouse. He is either too meek, or else he is like a Quaker—far too respectable. And this great camp of ours would, indeed, be dull without the original adjectives of our Australasians.
"That is all, gentlemen, except this—and it is important—in a few weeks you will be in active service. We expect great things of the Australasians, the Twenty-ninth Division, and our Lancashire men; and I know that we shall receive of your best. Good-day, gentlemen." And off rode the handsome courtier and soldier with a rousing cheer ringing in his ears. There's nothing like brains; and there's a great deal in tact. Ask a colonial.
A great convoy of transports, guarded by destroyers, ploughed silently through the waters which lap the European side of the Gallipoli Peninsula. The ships had the Australian force on board, and the destroyers were there to assist them in one of the most daring missions in modern war.
All lights were out and strict silence was observed. Each man had, therefore, time to commune with the spirits of those nine thousand miles away. It was not a time for the buffoon; they were faced with all the dread perils of war.
Nearer and nearer the ships drew to their objective. At last they reached the point assigned them by the Staff. A quiet signal was given. Destroyers, pinnaces, and row boats were placed at the sides of the transports, rough gangways thrown out, and the command to move quietly was passed along. Noiselessly they stepped from the transports; but all the while there was an electric-like feeling around the heart—that peculiar something which only the soldier knows. However, there wasn't time to romance or moralise. War rules out sentiment and fears. There was a job to be done.
When each boat was packed with its human freight, the gangways were slipped, cables thrown off, and all were quietly towed to the shore. It was still dark—one hour, in fact, before the dawn. When close inshore, the hand of Providence proved kind. This took the form of a strong current—so strong, in fact, that it pressed the boats away from the point previously assigned for the landing and washed them into a safer part for the historic encounter.
That current saved thousands of Australian lives; indeed, it may have ensured the success of the mission. Had the Australians landed at the point decided on, it is doubtful whether the landing would have been so thoroughly effective as it proved on the other beach.
"Not much doing—eh?" said Colonel Killem to his adjutant as he peered through the darkness to the shore. Indeed, it seemed that the enemy had left this shore unguarded. But the Turks are wily soldiers. They allowed the boats to near the shore, then opened up a murderous rifle and machine-gun fire.
"Gad! Boys, I'm hit!" said a subaltern, falling, his blood spurting in a stream all over his clothes.
"So'm I!" said another youngster with a ping in his arm.
"Holy Father, preserve us!" muttered Doolan, crossing himself, as they grated on the shore.
"Jump, boys, jump!" shouted the colonel. There was no need to tell them, no need to show the lead. They leaped pluckily from their boats and dashed up the beach. There was a pause while a few collected.
Then, seeing the Turks firing furiously from a trench ahead, somebody yelled out, "Charge!" A cheer electrified the chilling dawn as they rushed on. Some were killed; some fell, wounded, on the way; the others pressed forward, their faces grim, their eyes alert, and the muscles of their arms all taut with the fierce gripping of the rifles in their hands. It was their first charge; but they did it like the veterans of Corunna and Waterloo.
"Allah! Allah!" shouted the Turks as they neared the trenches.
"Too late, old cock," said Bill, plunging his bayonet home.
"That's one for Paddy Doolan."
"Help, Paddy; this big deevil's got me," yelled Sandy, who had been struck by a Turk. Crash went the Irishman's butt on the Turk's skull, and he fell back dead. Sandy's wound was dressed, and he was sent to the rear. Meantime some supports had come up.
Seeing the Turks fleeing into another trench some fifty yards up the slope, the colonel ordered them to charge again. The Australians' blood was up. They had seen red and had felt success. They wanted more. Throwing off their cumbersome packs, they charged forward again.
"They've got me," shouted an officer, throwing up his arms and letting out the awful shriek of death. But this withering fire did not appal these young Australians. The sight of their comrades, dead and wounded, roused them more. Revenge set their faces hard, and with many a fierce and terrible oath they leaped into the second trench.
"The Australians will retire," said an officer, jumping in front of the attacking line.
"Who said so?" asked Colonel Killem, looking at the man.
"I say so. I'm one of zee Staff."
"You damned German!" shouted the colonel, shooting him dead. The game which had been so well played in France did not come off.
The remnants of the Turks were bayoneted and butted to death; but the main body were fleeing up the hill.
"Rapid fire!" roared the colonel; but the eager men were already after the enemy with the bayonet. Up the steep, steep sides of the cliff they clambered and stumbled. It was more like a race for a prize than a juggle with death. Occasionally the morning light showed the red blood on the bayonets and hands of the charging men.
These blood-stained, panting soldiers terrified the Turks at the top of the hill. Their tactics had surprised them. They had looked for the usual musketry assault; instead, they had received the chilling steel. And the bayonet on a cold morning is a sight that sickens the best. Furiously they pumped another dose of lead into the gallant Australians. More fell dead, others dropped wounded, blood spattered the grass, and above the din of musketry and guns could be heard the cries of:
"Bearers—stretcher bearers!"
"Water, for God's sake!"
"Send up the doctor."
"I'm done, boys—I'm d-o-n-e!"
The units, by this time, had become mixed. Many officers had been killed. There was that confusion which is found in all attacks. Still, all these men knew that "forward—forward" was the game. The roughest and most daring took charge of little groups, and, with these, they cheered, cursed, and leaped into the trench at the edge of the green plateau. Again, the main body had fled, leaving the more weary and stubborn to defend the hill.
"Kill the beggars!"
"Plug his bread-basket!"
These were some of the things that were shouted, for all soldiers, in a charge, curse like Marlborough's troops did in Flanders.
A charge seems a terrible thing when reading of it at one's fireside. Folks shiver and ask, "How can they do it? Don't they feel afraid?" They may at the outset; but the noise, the swing, the officers' inspiration, the sight of blood and a fleeing foe damp down the sensitiveness of culture and recreate the primitive lust to kill.
For the moment the man is a savage; Nature blinds him to the perils of wounds and death. Duty steels him harder still, and pride of race tells him that he must do as his fathers did—die like a gentleman and a soldier.
The success of the first troops inspired the following reserves. They all wanted to emulate the Kangaroo Marines and other dashing corps. Without waiting for their complete units, these little groups crawled, floundered, and wriggled their way up the gully on to the hill. It was now daylight. As they gained the summit the Turks greeted them with terrific bursts of shrapnel and common shell. The crack, the white puff of smoke, then the scattering balls of lead did not dismay these warriors.
It roused their curiosity, and, like schoolboys, some stopped to see the fun of the show. Cover they disdained. They were too proud to duck and hide in a hole or trench. This was the recklessness for which they had to pay. Yet it was useful. It taught them that to take advantage of all cover was the modern soldier's game.
"Extend, boys, extend!" roared an officer as the reserves came up. They ran out and tried to make a long, rough line. They could see the fleeing Turks, and behind them the Kangaroo Marines and other members of the first landing force. Ahead was a little valley and then a slope. This was commanded by the Turks.
"Come on, boys," shouted an officer.
Little groups, under subalterns, N.C.O.'s, or privates with the leader's instinct, dashed towards this hill. More were killed, more wounded on the way; but, undaunted, they pushed on. Up the slopes crawled, clambered, and cursed the dashing infantry. They reached their objective, and, again, the Turks had gone.
"My God—what a sight!" said Claud, looking behind. The ground was dotted with dead and dying. Wounded men crawled and limped to the rear, their clothes soaked in blood. Men with limbs shattered to pulp lay moaning and pleading for death. Others, slightly wounded, poured water down the parched throats of the suffering. It was a shambles. It was war.
Yet the touch of mercy and humanity was not absent. Doctors and bearers, disdaining death, tended the wounded and dying. Under a ruthless fire orderlies carried the sufferers down to the beach below. Many were killed at the job. Nobly they stuck to it. The heroism of these Red Cross men is one of the finest things in the Gaba Tepe show.
The attack had now developed into a galloping pursuit. Turks were demoralised, and after them went the Australians like whippets on the course. There was no regular line. Little units were here and there. It was the day for the born leader. Having no precise information as to where the pursuit should end and a defensive line made, many pushed right on with a courage that was amazing.
One group was caught in a gully and decimated; others, who pushed almost across the Peninsula, were either killed, wounded, or captured. The remainder, realising the need of consolidating into a general line, came back to the main body. With their entrenching tools they dug holes in the ground, and from behind these little mounds of earth they kept up a steady fire. Without rations, without water—and, at times, without ammunition—they patiently hung on.
All this, too, in a sweltering heat and in the centre of a terrific bombardment. It was the greatest trial any force could have experienced. The Australians exceeded all expectations.
"They're coming back again," said an officer late that afternoon.
Sure enough, there was the Turkish host. Rapid fire wiped many out; still on they came right up to the line. The Australians charged. And all day it was charge and counter-charge. Officers have seldom displayed the tenacity and courage of these Australians' leaders. They played the game as well as the scions of Eton and other historic schools. And then God, in His mercy, sent down the fall of night. This hid the shambles, gave ease to the wounded and dying, and allowed the living to snatch a drink and bite.
But none were idle. On their knees, on their backs, on their sides, they had to dig in, for the fire was still deadly and many were being killed and wounded. The sailors worked like Trojans, bringing rations, ammunition, and reserves ashore. Thanks to them, the gunners, and the untiring zeal of the Staff, the line next day was fairly well established.
The landing was complete; they had achieved what the Germans had advertised as the impossible. Australians have, therefore, every right to feel proud. And all Britishers ought to feel proud of them too.
"Well, boys—how's things?" asked Colonel Killem, one day, when visiting his men in the trenches.
"A1 at Lloyd's, colonel. But I reckon we ought to pull old Johnny Turk's leg."
"How?"
"Play tricks on him. Give a cheer an' kid we're going to charge. They'll fire every bally round they've got."
"Good idea, Buster—good idea! We'll do that to-night."
About 8 P.M. that night the whole front line fixed bayonets and showed them above the parapet. At a given signal all let out a ringing cheer. The poor old Turks got into an awful stew. Machine-guns, field-guns, and rifles opened up a terrific fire. They kept it up for over half an hour, firing thousands of rounds.
"Another cheer, boys," ordered the colonel.
"Bang! Bang! Bang!" went the Turks again. The ruse was a splendid one. But the wily Turk tumbled to the game at last.
"We'll need to get something new, boys; that game's played out," said the colonel next day.
After consulting his men they hit on another scheme. About twenty men were ordered to fix bayonets and continually pass along the line, allowing their bayonets to show above the parapet as they marched along.
On reaching the end they pulled their rifles down and crept back to where they had started from. Again they marched along, showing their bayonets, as before. The old Turks simply saw this constant stream of bayonets. They concluded that the Australians were massing for the attack. The Turks lined their trenches and opened up another furious fusillade, supported by machine-guns and shrapnel. Thousands of rounds were expended before they realised that they had been fooled once more.
There was a lull next day, so Bill and his friends shaved off their whiskers and had a bath in a cupful of water. Claud cleaned his eyeglass, and Paddy went in search of a glass of rum from some of the sailors. Sandy, then on light duty, opened up a business as a curio agent. He swapped Turkish rifles, bullet clips, and other things for pieces of bread, a tin of jam, a tasty Maconochie, and some tea. This was a godsend to his famished pals in the trenches. Bill also wrote a letter home to Mrs. McGinnes, his old Sydney landlady and financier:
"DEAR OLD SPORT,—Hope's your well. I'm well, but the Turks ain't well. Reckon we've killed millions of 'em. Ain't got the V.C. yet. There's a shipload comin' next week for The Kangaroo Boys. You can 'ave mine for a brooch. Likin' the life fine here—except the bullets. They generally kills a feller wot ain't careful. There ain't no undertakers out here. When we wants a new kit we generally borrows the clothes an' boots of a dead feller. We live in little 'oles jist like rabbits, an' the old Turks keep throwin' nasty things called bombs. They ain't nice—one blew a feller's head off last night. Pore chap, an' he had such a nice pair of trousers—I've got 'em on now. The snipers are nasty fellers, 'demned annoyin',' as my ole friend Claud says. One keeps hittin' my loop-'ole, but I'm going to 'ave the dirty ole rascal's blood to-night. Now, ta ta, old girl. Love to the children.—Your ole friend,"BILL BUSTER.
"P.S.—Lend me a quid. What a thirst I've got. We can generally buy rum from the sailors. Make it two quid an' I'll send you a lot of kurios.
"P.P.S.—I needs tobacco—couple of pounds 'll do. An' throw in some cigarettes. Wot a life!
"P.P.P.S.—x x x x x x x x. These are for you—don't tell yer hubby. Bye-bye."
That night Claud spotted Bill crawling out of the trenches.
"Where are you going, you silly ass?"
"Who's silly?" said Bill, looking back at his friend in the trench.
Ping! went a bullet from the sniper. It went right through his trousers, but missed his leg.
"It's that feller I'm after."
Before Claud could detain him he disappeared. Dropping on to his knees, he crawled for some distance, then lay flat.
Ping went the sniper's bullet again. He saw the flash. This incidentally revealed the position of the Turk. Fixing his bayonet, Bill made a wide detour, At last he arrived in rear of his object.
Ping! went the rifle again. So intent was the sniper on his job that he did not hear the crawling man behind. Like a snake, Bill wriggled along. He finished up ten yards behind his man. This sniper had killed and wounded thirty men in two days. He did not deserve a quick dispatch, and Bill had no intention of giving him that. With a bound, he jumped on him, and pinned him right through the shoulders with his bayonet.
"Allah! Allah!" shrieked the man, in the most dreadful pain.
"Old Allah ain't no good to you now. Get up!" And he was lifted up with the bayonet.
When he rose from the ground Bill found he had a green bush tied all round him. His face and hands were afterwards found to be painted green. All this the Turks had acquired from their German masters.
"Now, old cock, run!" said Bill, pushing the man in front.
Screaming with pain the sniper was pushed at the double right up to the Australian trench.
"What's all that row there?" roared the Colonel.
"Jest been catchin' a sniper, Colonel," answered Bill, throwing his man off the bayonet into the trench. He dropped dead at the Colonel's feet.
"A good death for him, too," said Sam, thinking of the fine fellows this man had killed and wounded. A sniper, let it be known, does not play the clean game of war, and any punishment is justifiable.
Bill had given him his deserts.
"Bullets here, bullets there,Bullets, bullets everywhere."
Such is trench life. Death at every corner, death at every moment of the day. Bullets plunk against the parapet with a monotonous regularity; others crack in the air like a whip, while some whiz past the ear like a great queen bee. At odd intervals a dose of shrapnel heightens the nerves, and now and again a high-explosive comes down with a shuddering boom!
A trench isn't the place for a lady, it isn't the place for a mild-mannered curate. It's the place for blunt, hard and active men. In fact, the nearer man is to the brute creation the better he is at this game. The highly strung, carefully fed, hot-house plant, such as a mamma's darling, hasn't a look in. He finds it a beastly bore, and longs for the drawing-room cushions and afternoon tea. Trench life reveals the best and shows the worst. A man's nature stands out like a statue. For trench life a man needs the stomach of a horse, the strength of a lion, and the nerves of a navvy. Any man can do a bayonet charge; any man can shoot down the charging host; but it takes a braver man to live in a trench month after month. His nostrils are filled with the stench of the fallen, for his parapet is frequently built up with the dead. His tea is made with water polluted with germs, the bully beef stew is generally soaked in dust and sand.
And the flies! They're worse than all, the pestilential breed! Flies kill more men than bullets. Flies were surely invented by some ancient Hun.
Trench life in France is a picnic compared with the Dardanelles. In France, onecanget soft bread, fresh coffee and yesterday'sTimes. But, in the Dardanelles it is biscuits and bully, bully and biscuits—without the news of Pollokshields and Mayfair. Yet, despite the severity of things, the Australasians were ever serene. To them it was a sporting game. They had been used to boiling their own billy cans; used to looking for firewood; used to making a shanty wherein to lay their heads. Where the Cockney might die from heat and thirst, the Australasian can thrive like a Zulu or aborigine. City bred troops demand an organisation of things; Australasian troops organise things for themselves. And where our friends of The Kangaroo Marines were certainly demanded all their cunning and courage. It was called "Hell-Fire Post." This was on the left of the Australian line, within thirty yards of the Turks. The post had developed from a thin line of holes into a strong redoubt. Many had died, more had been wounded in defending this place, but it was worth it. This was the key of the whole line. That was why The Kangaroo Marines were there. When they took it over, they found the parapets thin and bullets coming in all round.
"Hot shop, by Jove!" said Claud, adjusting his monocle to look through an aperture.
Crack! came a bullet, just missing his head.
"Better take that window out of yer face," said Bill.
"Why?"
"Them ole snipers thinks yer a general."
"My dear fellow, you're a positive bore—now, lend me a hand." And Claud, despite the whizzing bullets, filled more sandbags and shoved them up with a shovel. Bill helped him to make a V-shaped aperture. This work was continued all along the line. But all the sandbags and crack shots could not keep the rifle fire down. To move a hand or head above the level of the ground meant a wound.
"This won't do," said the Colonel, as he made his morning visit on his hands and knees.
"It's like a penny shooting show, Colonel," said Bill.
"Why?"
"Me an' the boys are doin' running man for them fellers over there. They chip bits on yer head, an' bits on yer chest. It ain't comfortable. It ain't war."
"It's sudden daith," chipped in Sandy Brown.
"All right, boys, I'll send up something to-day. Cheer up, you'll soon be at Manly amongst the girls," and off went Killem on his rounds. That afternoon a dozen big iron plates came up. These were square with a hole in the centre. This hole was covered by a little iron door, which could be lifted at will. Bill and his pals seized one and commenced to fix it in position. Under a hail of lead they worked sweating, grousing and cursing all the time. At last it was fixed and ready for business.
"This is my shot," said Bill, taking hold of his rifle. Slowly he opened the door, then peeped through.
"I see one, boys!"
"Where?" they whispered.
"Behind some bags. Gosh, ain't he ugly. He's got a face like a black puddin', and the eyes of a snake. He ain't a bit of Turkish delight, anyhow, I wouldn't like to lick his old face. Wheesht, boys, he's goin' to shoot."
"At you?"
"No! Some fathead down the line. But I'll get the one-eyed Moslem blighter," muttered Bill, taking careful aim.
"Mind yis don't hit the ould fellow up in the moon," said Paddy just as Bill let go.
"Ye spud-faced Paddy. Ye—ye—ye——" blurted out Bill, throwing down his gun in anger.
"Missed, be Jasus—yis couldn't hit the town of Sydney at a hundred yards. Paddy Doolan's the man for that job." He seized the rifle, but just as he was going to open the little iron door there was a rattle of bullets all over the plate.
"Down, boys, down," he shouted.
"It's a beastly Maxim," said Claud, looking up. And a Maxim it was. In ten minutes the so-called armoured plate was riddled. This was the experience with nearly all the other plates—one of the many annoying problems of war. However, the new plates were doubled and bolted. Then they were covered with sandbags and erected so as not to be too obvious on the parapet. This scheme defied the sniper and the Maxim, and, in this way, the Turks' fire was subdued. This was important. In trench warfare the enemy must be terrorised. Not a head must be allowed to bob up, not a rifle and eye seen. Snipers must be hunted to death and given such a hefty and quick dispatch as to intimidate their successors. Water parties and ration parties have to be set on the run; reinforcements spotted and scattered; officers, too, must be kept in their place—below the parapet, if not below the sod. All of this means that the enemy gets demoralised and sickened. And when he has had a month or two of this gentle treatment he is easily dealt with when the time comes for an offensive and bayonet charge.
Of course, the Turks did not let the Australasians have it entirely their own way. When sniping and rifle fire became too dangerous, they resorted to the bomb. The bomb isn't a respectable thing. It sometimes takes your head off, and frequently punctures the system in rather an ugly manner. When a bomb hits, you know it. It is something like a railway engine striking a match-box. These Turkish bomb-throwers had some idea of making a sort of Irish slew out of their opponents' bodies. They bombedandbombedandbombed. Now, this wasn't at all polite, and it was most uncomfortable, especially when sitting down to a stolen Maconochie—an appetising dish. These bombs burst the parapets, ripped up the sandbags, and knocked men's brains into other men's eyes. Most annoying! One morning a bomb just missed Bill's head.
"What the—who the—why the—— These blamed ole Turks think my head's a coconut," said Bill.
"I hope they'll never hit your head," remarked Claud.
"Why?"
"It's too full——"
"Of water," interjected Paddy.
"Yes, therewouldbe a flood," concluded Claud, as he lit his pipe. Just then an order was sent down to pass all empty jam tins to the rear.
"Wot's the jam tins for?"
"Fly traps," said Paddy.
"'Spect we'll have to dig the lead out of the dead men's bodies next," groused Bill, as he went down the trenches to collect the fly-covered jam tins. These were sent down to the beach in bags, causing many a grouse on the way. Rumour had it that some Jew had made a contract for the empty tins, another yarn was that they were for growing flowers round the General's dug-out. But mysterious and resourceful are the ways of the General Staff! These jam tins were redelivered to The Kangaroo Marines next day in the shape of bombs.
"Well I'm jiggered!" said Bill. "First they puts jam in tins, next they puts bombs in them."
"And then they'll shove you in them," interjected Claud.
"What for?"
"Prime Australian beef, fresh tinned, straight from the Dardanelles. That would look well on a label."
"Yis couldn't do that with Bill," said Paddy.
"Why?"
"He's a bit high——"
Bang! came a Turkish bomb at that moment, scattering the group into their shelters below the parapets.
"Ye dirty, mouldy-faced sons of dog-eatin', blue-nosed spalpeens—Oi'll bomb yis," roared Paddy, gripping a jam tin and lighting the fuse.
Bang! it went. Bang! Bang! Bang! went more.
"Somejam," said Bill, as he watched through the periscope. And then they heard moaning, shrieks, and shouts of "Allah, Allah."
"More jam," ordered Bill. And more jam they received. It wasn't sweet, and certainly unpalatable. And it didn't stick. Tins labelled "Apricot," "Marmalade," "Black Currant," and "Raspberry," went hurtling through the air, then burst in a very nasty way above the poor old Turks' trenches. This battle of jam bombs made the Turks much more respectful for a time. Indeed, one of the officers, who must have been a sportsman, flung over a note, on which was written:
"DEAR AUSTRALIANS,—We like jam—in fact, we could do with a tin of it, but not that dam—jam—jammy stuff you were putting over last night.—Yours fraternally,"YUSSEF BEY."
"By Jove! He's a sport—let's chuck him a tin," said Claud. And over it went. The Turks scattered and waited, but there was no explosion. With a smile the Turkish officer picked up the tin. Unfastening a note tied round it, he read:
"DEAR YUSSEF,—This is therealstuff. By the way, you were at Rugby with me. Shall be sorry to kill you.—Yours, etc.,"CLAUD DUFAIR."
Plunk! came a stone into the Australian lines; round it was fixed a note:
"DEAR CLAUD,—Many thanks—it was a god-send. Fancy you being here. I thought you would have been guarding the Marys and Mauds of London from the Zepps. Congrats! Of course, I shall be sorry to killyou.—Yours, etc.,"YUSSEF BEY.
"P.S.—There will be no firing to-day—go to bed."
And there was no firing. This Turkish officer, like every other Turkish soldier, was a gentleman.
It is remarkable how circumstances produce the inventor. At Hell-Fire Post the men found that the ordinary square periscope was almost useless. Every time one went up, bang went a Turk's rifle, and the periscope was blown to smithereens. Indeed, The Kangaroos lost nearly all their periscopes in the first few days. Now this was awkward. Periscopes are life-savers, for the periscope prevents a man pushing his head above the parapet to see if Johnny Turk is coming over to say "Good morning." Something had to be done, so the famous quartette began to cudgel their brains.
"I've got it," said Claud, picking up a walking-stick.
"Got what," inquired Bill.
"An idea—you watch." Taking a penknife out of his pocket, he deftly and quickly cut away the inner portion of the stick. This kept him busy for a couple of hours. When finished, he took a little pocket mirror out of his haversack.
"Too big," said Bill.
"No, it isn't," answered Claud, slipping a diamond ring off his finger. He scratched the mirror, then cut two pieces out of it. These he fixed into the walking-stick. "There you are now—a brand new periscope." And it proved just the thing. The field of vision was quite good. Being small it did not attract attention. The result of this discovery was that every officer's stick was immediately commandeered, and with the aid of Claud's ring and other people's mirrors, a good supply of periscopes were made.
"You think you're smart fellers, I suppose," said Bill, his envy roused by this success. "But I'll show you fellers something in a day or two."
"What is it?"
"'Wait and see,' as old Asquith says." For the next few days Bill was seen in close communion with a fellow Australian. They went about the trenches picking up bits of wood, nails, mirrors, and other odds and ends. These were carried into the little hole of the inventive genius, and there all gradually saw the growth of a wonderful invention. It wasn't Bill's idea exactly. He was simply the managing director, who stimulated curiosity, and fetched the mysterious genius the necessary supplies of material. Anyone who ventured too near the sacred sanctum was told to "hop it."
"What's that ould rascal doin'?" Paddy remarked one day.
"A bomb-thrower," said Sandy.
"Barbed wire burster," suggested Claud.
"No, it ain't," interjected Bill, who happened to come along at the time.
"What is it, then?"
"It's a man-killer. You can sit down in yer bed and kill all the ole Turks in front. They can't see who's killin' them."
"When do you try it?"
"To-day." And he did. That afternoon the inventor allowed Bill to have the trial shot. The instrument, in brief, was a periscope rifle. With the aid of an ordinary rifle, mirrors and wood fixed up in a rough, but ingenious way, there had been produced a killing instrument, which allowed the user to see and to kill without being seen. This was a godsend, for many of the casualties at this post were due to men aiming through the loopholes or over the parapet.
"Here goes," said Bill, fixing the rifle in position.
"See anything?"
"Yes, a big feller. I'll get him in his ole fat head." Slowly and steadily he took aim, then bang went his rifle.
"Got him! Got him! Right in his coconut," shouted Bill with a grim delight.
The invention was hailed as a great success, and the inventor complimented all round. His orders were many, and his instrument soon became general throughout the whole line. Indeed, it was owing to this wonderful invention that the rifle fire of the Turks was again subdued to a remarkable extent.
Other remarkable things were invented by these resourceful fellows. The General Staff also supplied them with new machines of war. One of the finest was the Japanese bomb-thrower, an instrument which threw a great, big bomb like a well-filled melon. This went tumbling over and over, like an acrobat doing a somersault, then burst in the most startling way. The explosion was terrific and destruction amazing. Parapets, trenches, men and Maxims were all destroyed if near the point of contact. "Somebomb!" as the boys said.
In this sort of warfare it is always the progressive and alert man who wins. It is useless sitting down and grousing. Every means, every trick is justifiable so long as the methods are fair and according to the rules of war. When the history of this war is written special attention ought to be devoted to the many devices which have been employed by the soldier. For example, the Turks opposite to The Kangaroos were always sapping towards the Australasian lines. This was a nuisance. The constant pick! pick! pick! upset everybody. Night after night these Turkish moles had to be bombed away. One evening a sapping party recommenced operations quite near to Claud and his friends.
"At it again," Bill remarked.
"Yes, they're a beastly nuisance, I'll have to worry them a bit," said Claud, picking up a little paper bag. He fixed a piece of thin white string round it, then jumped over the parapet. It was quite dark, so he was perfectly safe. Crawling on his hands and knees, he at last reached within ten yards of the sapping Turks. For a few minutes he lay still. His eyes got used to the darkness, enabling him to get a glimpse of the diggers. Pulling out the paper bag, he threw it smartly towards the hole. It burst on the edge of the parapet and the contents scattered all round. Claud waited.
Aitchoo! went one.
Aitchoo! went another.
Aitchoo! went a third.
Aitchoo! Aitchoo! Aitchoo! sneezed all the Turks between their oriental grunts and curses.
Claud burst out laughing and so gave himself away. A head popped out of the hole. Claud was seen. Down it went, and up came a rifle, but before the Turk could fire, Claud, who had a couple of bombs prepared, flung them into the hole. There was a loud bang! bang! followed by a series of shouts, shrieks and moans. The sapping party fled for their lives. This was as Claud desired, so he quietly crawled back to his trench.
"Got 'em that time, Dufair," said an officer as he tumbled in.
"Yes, sir."
"By the way, what was all the sneezing about?"
"A little trick, sir," laughed Claud.
"Was it snuff you chucked at them?"
"No, common or garden pepper, issued with the rations."
"Good," said the officer pursuing his rounds.
Now it was on this same evening that Paddy Doolan roused the whole regiment to a state of alarm. He was on sentry go on the extreme left of his regiment's line. Being dark, Paddy began to feel the effects of things supernatural. Every sound, every moving leaf or blade was a Turk. He had fired at a few nothings, and during a spell of silence he was amazed to hear on his left a chattering in a strange tongue.
"Turks, be Jasus, they're in our trenches. Mother of Mary, preserve us," said Paddy, crossing himself. He listened again. They were chanting a weird dirge. It was something between a Highland lament and a Hindoo snake song. Paddy was amazed. Life seemed to be a shorter affair, and he pictured himself lying dead on the parapet with his throat cut. His teeth were chattering, and his nerves on the run. At last he managed to bellow out, "Stand to!" The half-sleeping men jumped to their rifles and waited below the parapet.
"What's up, Doolan?" said the officer on reaching them.
"Turks in our trenches, sor. Heaven preserve us."
"Where?"
"There, sor! There, sor! Listen to them."
The officer listened. He heard the weird chanting. It wasn't English, it didn't seem Turkish. What on earth was it, he wondered. At last he made up his mind.
"Here, six of you fix bayonets, follow me," and down the communication trench he crouched and crawled towards the left. They now neared the weird chanting noise. The officer cocked his revolver and whispered back, "Get ready, boys." Then, dashing round a bend, he burst on to a dark-skinned group.
"Hands up!" he shouted.
"What's up, boss?" said a smiling dusky gent in khaki, with a New Zealand badge on his shoulder.
"Who the deuce are you?"
"Maoris, boss, Maoris."
"Hang it all, I thought you were Turks. Good night."
"Good night, boss," shouted the laughing Maoris—the finest dark-skinned gentlemen in the world.