LOCUSTS AND EGYPTIAN NIGHTS—THE GREAT BARRAGE—IRRIGATING THE DELTA—THE SCOT AGAIN—EGYPTIAN ROADS—ARABIAN NIGHTS—CAIRO BY NIGHT—A MAGIC OF COLOUR—"A SOUND OF REVELRY BY NIGHT"—THE "GRANDE FÊTE DU 75."
LOCUSTS AND EGYPTIAN NIGHTS—THE GREAT BARRAGE—IRRIGATING THE DELTA—THE SCOT AGAIN—EGYPTIAN ROADS—ARABIAN NIGHTS—CAIRO BY NIGHT—A MAGIC OF COLOUR—"A SOUND OF REVELRY BY NIGHT"—THE "GRANDE FÊTE DU 75."
Yes, we were biding our time in Cairo; and I am telling no secrets when I say that the Australians swore terribly in Cairo. We had left our happy homes in order to take part in the war, and here we were burning our heels on the Egyptian sand—day after day, week after week. No wonder many of us, as we tramped along on a route march to Helwan on the day preceding Good Friday, said we would prefer to be spending the day at the Royal Easter Show in Sydney.
On the right of our line of march lay the Nile with its green strip of verdure on either side, and a dozen pyramids out westward. The day was as hot as a furnace. The mirage seemed to shimmer on the rim of the earth, and horsemen,camels and Bedouins a few miles away seemed to be floating in the air. Like white wings gliding up and down the Nile were the triangular sails of the native dhows—wonderfully picturesque, with their tremendous spars that tower into the sky. At old Cairo there was a veritable forest of masts. The rudders of these river boats are huge things, and the noses are painted in gaudy colours, and are always turned up disdainfully, as if they had been bumped against a pier.
You had heard of the Plagues of Egypt; we have seen them, and are able to vouch for the authenticity of the Scriptures. Instead of hot cross buns, Easter brought us a plague of locusts. The entertainment started at about three o'clock in the afternoon and lasted till after sundown. Millions and billions and quadrillions of locusts danced and sang for us. The air was absolutely full of them, darkening the sun—big yellow and brown and black things, mostly about two inches long. They sounded like thousands of whirring wheels, and they dropped on the roofs with a noise like rain. Where they landed they left everything bare as a bone. All along the Nile the "gyppies" turned out and bangedtin cans to drive them off. Here was an invasion, if you like! The telegraph wires were black with them—like long beads. Some of the beautiful Ma'adi gardens were quite spoilt. These locusts of Egypt have absolutely no love for the beautiful—in fact, the more beautiful a thing is the more delight do they take in devouring it.
But even a plague of locusts does not last for ever—and Egypt does. Egypt the wonderful! Egypt the kaleidoscopic! No, gentle reader, do not waste your sympathies on us. It was tiresome work, marching, training—training for the front, which for months never seemed to get any nearer, and some of "the boys"—those of them who were "spoiling for a fight," as the saying is—used at times to kick over the traces and paint the town vermilion; but there are compensations in Egypt for all who would seek them. What did it matter that we had no hot cross buns for Easter, no hard-boiled eggs, no ling, no salmon? We had omelettes and quail on toast, and chicken and curry and strawberries (no cream) and oranges and custard and jelly and Turkish coffee and Nile fish and pancakes and fritters and iced butter and beautiful jam andmarmalade—and cigars. So we managed to get "a snack," you see. And I know that I, for one, had no desire just then to swap places with any man in Australia.
On Easter Sunday some of us went out to see the Barrage—one of the most wonderful works in Egypt. Mohammed Ali started it to irrigate the Delta, but his engineers made some mistakes and the works were looked upon as a white elephant—until Britain took charge. Wonderful the things that Britain does! A board of eminent engineers examined the whole scheme and decided that it would cost over £2,000,000 to complete it. But a Scotsman came along—Sir Colin Campbell Scott-Moncrieff—and he fixed the whole show up for £1,200,000. Right at the apex of the Delta triangle they have laid out beautiful gardens, with lovely flower-beds, canals and grassy lawns; and it was a treat to rest our tired eyes on the green grass after the everlasting sand, sand, sand of the desert.
It was night when we got back to camp. Oh, those Egyptian nights! The winter cold has gone, and spring is in the air. The nights are fine and fair, clear and cloudless, with the moonpure silver. The reflections in the Nile are just wonderful. The huge date palms stand out sharply from a star-spangled sky that somehow has a tint of green in its blue. One thinks of the Arabian Nights. The very street scenes make one think of them. Motors glide up and down the streets with rich Syrians, Greeks, Egyptians, Italians, Frenchmen and Englishmen, going to the Continental, or to Shepheard's, or to private entertainments. It is a gorgeous splash of colour. They had no motor-cars that I remember in those old Arabian Nights, but the magic of the thing and the colour of it all were surely much the same. And the roads of Egypt—how beautiful they are!—clean and smooth as a billiard table. Are there any finer roads in the whole world than the Mena road and that to Heliopolis? Fifty miles an hour is easy. I sometimes shudder now when I recall the races that we used to have along those roads at night, crying "Egre! Egre!"—Faster! Faster!
One night stands out—a gorgeous night—a carnival in honour and aid of brave little Serbia. Kipling says that "East is east and west is west, and never the twain shall meet"; but he surelyhas not seen a Venetian carnival in Cairo, with its intermingling of the progressive Occident and the picturesque Orient. One will always remember that. When the tourists from the West overrun the land of the Pharaohs, as they do once a year, a Venetian fête is held at Shepheard's—the social event of the season. Sightseers from England, idle rich from the Continent, plutocrats from America, tourists from the four quarters of the world, all meet and make merry here. This year of grace witnessed a somewhat different spectacle, it is true. It was a polyglot gathering of all nations, to be sure, but the tourist element was wanting. In the place of the tourists, however, was the "Army of Occupation." Hundreds of officers, British, French, Egyptian, Australian and New Zealand, in smart uniforms, gave striking colour to the scene, which was made additionally picturesque by the vari-coloured silks and satins, scarfs and veils of the ladies. The garden was a blaze of splendour. There were the flags of the nations, there were flowers and palms and purling fountains, mirth and music, lights and laughter, and over all—confetti. All night the air was thick withconfetti, like snow falling off a rainbow. Revellers flew hither and thither, flinging it everywhere. Merry maidens threw handfuls of confetti and eyesful of bold glances at the sun-tanned colonials. There was no respite until the ground was ankle-deep with confetti.
Tired at last of the revelry, we adjourned to the Moorish Hall, and while the orchestra played the ravishing strains of the barcarolle we danced the red stars to their death.
Loud explosions in the courtyard sent us rushing forth once more. And then we saw the most wonderful pyrotechnic display in all the world. Without warning, odd corners of the garden burst into a blaze of light. Rockets, Roman candles, Catherine wheels, shooting stars and all the fireworks we loved as youngsters were there in full working order, but ever so many more and ever so much grander than at those "Queen's Birthday" exhibitions which ourselves when young did eagerly frequent. Shall we ever forget that final burst of coloured lights outlining the words "Hurrah for Serbia!" NotI. No more than I shall ever forget the deeds of glory of the Serbians.
And I remember another fête—the "Grande Fête du 75," held in the Cairo International Sporting Club's grounds, in honour of the 75 millimetre field gun of the French, and in aid of the sick and wounded soldiers of the "Army of the East," then at the Dardanelles. There was a great crowd present. In the viceregal stand was a distinguished gathering of generals, consuls, ministers and diplomats. Scores of beautiful French girls, escorted by British officers—by way of emphasizing the Entente Cordiale, no doubt—meandered amongst the crowd selling commemorative medals. There were military sports by day, and there was a torchlight procession round the arena and through the streets of Cairo by night.
Then we went back to our camp in the desert to wait for the word to "move on." But I will never forget those Egyptian nights ... and one girl of girls. Tall and stately, like a queen she moved amongst the revellers. The rest of the dancers were just the frame round her picture.... We danced. Her blue eyes laughed into mine.... And the world has never been the same world since.
WAITING FOR THE CALL—A RIOT IN CAIRO—MAORIS ON THEIR DIGNITY—GENERAL BIRDWOOD ARRIVES—WOUNDED AUSTRALIANS—A FRENCH OFFICER'S TRIBUTE—THE PROBLEM OF THE DARDANELLES—SPIES EVERYWHERE—A TRICK OF THE OLD GUARDS—LOSS OF GALLANT OFFICERS—BRAVE MEDICOS.
WAITING FOR THE CALL—A RIOT IN CAIRO—MAORIS ON THEIR DIGNITY—GENERAL BIRDWOOD ARRIVES—WOUNDED AUSTRALIANS—A FRENCH OFFICER'S TRIBUTE—THE PROBLEM OF THE DARDANELLES—SPIES EVERYWHERE—A TRICK OF THE OLD GUARDS—LOSS OF GALLANT OFFICERS—BRAVE MEDICOS.
Some of the Australians and New Zealanders had already got the call, but we of the Light Horse still waited—growing more and more impatient every day. I have vivid recollections of a captain swearing. I have still more vivid recollections of a certain private's reminiscences. It was generally thought that he had spent some time in hell, or Booligal, so familiarly did he speak of the infernal regions. I remember his saying—but no, I will not repeat it.
Chiefly do I remember the riot. It seemed thatsomething must be done to stir the authorities up; and some of the "hot heads" got up a riot in Cairo. They went into Cairo singing "There'll be a hot time in the old town to-night"; and sure enough there was. It was not meant to be quite so hot as it turned out. Things have a way of shaping themselves sometimes. Nobody could tell afterwards exactly how it all happened; but before the night was spent some houses had been burned down, some shots had been fired and some men had been wounded. There were some Australians, some New Zealanders, some Maoris and a few Territorials in it. And it all happened so simply. Some publicans and other sinners presumed to treat the Maoris as "niggers." This was too much for the New Zealanders, and they began to pull some of the furniture out of a public-house, and to make a bonfire of it in the street, the while the Maoris danced a war dance round it.
One or two other bonfires were started. The native police rolled up and kept the crowd back, one of the police inspectors remarking that it would be a good thing for Cairo if a few more of the "dens" were burned down. "I've beenwishing for a fire among these rotten tenements for a long time," he said, "and now the fire-engines are coming, and it looks as if they'll be saved again!"
The fire-engine came clattering up the street. The soldiers raided it. In self-defence the firemen repelled the attack with the fire-hose. The soldiers renewed the attack and, reinforcements having arrived, captured the hose and turned it on the firemen, completely routing them. Then they cut the hose up—and the Maoris went on with their "haka."
But in the end, of course, law and order had to prevail. Other engines came upon the scene, escorted by a squadron of Territorial Dragoons. The soldiers cooled down. The fires were put out. There's a lot more about this battle of the Wazir, but I cannot tell it.
Not creditable, of course. Not quite the sort of thing they had been sent there for. But human nature is human nature, and a crowd of soldiers is a crowd of soldiers, and bad grog will make the best of soldiers bad, especially in Cairo; and the evil that's in men must come out of them as well as the good. Hence to callthe Maoris "niggers"—well, who can blame the New Zealanders for resenting it, and who can blame the Australians for siding with the New Zealanders, or the Territorials for assisting their Oversea brethren, when we have Mr. Asquith's own word for it that "Who touches them touches us"? Not creditable!—but human nature—British brotherhood! And high spirits, and the chafing under the monotony of camp life in Egypt! Trooper Bluegum, at all events, long ago forgave them. The same men were among those who were to create for themselves and their country, in the words of General Ian Hamilton, "An imperishable record of military virtue." Many of them are no more. Maoris and all have given their lives cheerfully for their Empire and the sacred cause of Right. Let us remember their virtues and forget their faults.
There came a day when there was sudden movement in the camp. General Birdwood had arrived—one of Kitchener's "hard riding" generals, with a wonderful string of medals and decorations—and there were other "signs of the zodiac" pointing to our early departure. When at last, at the "Stadium," Colonel Ryrie announcedto us of the 2nd Light Horse that we were to make ready, you could have heard the cheering miles away. The residents of Ma'adi, when they heard it, thought peace had been declared!
It was the arrival of our Australian wounded back from the Dardanelles that settled it. It was a wrench to leave our horses behind—the dear old horses that we petted and loved, the horses that were a very part of us—but it had to be done. When we saw our fellows coming back with their wounds upon them—when we heard of what they had been through—when we listened to their story of that wonderful landing on Gallipoli on April 25, and of the wild charge they made up the frowning hill—all of us, to a man, begged to be sent to the front as infantry! We were Light Horsemen, and we hadn't been trained as infantry, but it didn't matter—we were soldiers of the King!
I saw the Red Crescent train as it steamed in loaded with the wounded, and I went to the base hospital to see and chat with the men who knew now what war was—the men who had clamoured so impatiently for so many weeks to be sent where "the fighting" was, and thencame back again to be nursed in an Egyptian hospital! Yet they were happy. They had "done their bit." They smoked cigarettes and yarned about their experiences. I watched the slightly wounded ones marching from the train to the hospital—an unforgettable sight. Most of them were shot about the arms or scalp. Their uniforms had dried blood all over them, and were torn about where the field doctors had ripped off sleeves or other parts to get at the wounds. As they marched irregularly along, one young fellow with his arm in a sling and a flesh wound in the leg limped behind and shouted out: "Hey, you chaps, don't make it a welter!"
Our men were just splendid in the fight. An Imperial officer who has been all over France and Flanders said that Colonel Maclagan's Australian Brigade was the finest brigade of infantry in the whole of the Allied armies. That was praise indeed. And I remember another fine tribute that was paid to them. "No troops in the whole world could possibly have done better than those magnificent Australian infantry. They performed the impossible. In the face of exploding mines and withering fire from machine guns, shrapneland rifles, they stormed the hills and, with bloody bayonets, routed the Turks and Germans." That was a tribute the more valuable because it was not an Australian who spoke, neither was it an Englishman, but a Frenchman. It was the remark of a French naval officer who watched the landing of the Australian Division on Gallipoli. And when the whole tale was told the world saw how rightly our boys deserved all that was said of them.
What a terribly expensive business it was all to be! How many brave Australians and New Zealanders—yes, and Englishmen, Frenchmen and Indians—were yet to be sacrificed! It is well that the Great Ruler over all, Who holds us in the hollow of His hands, does not permit poor mortals to see into the future. The "forcing of the Dardanelles"—the words were on the lips of all of us and were printed in newspapers all over the world—it seemed only a matter of a little while, and then——
Great is the British Navy, magnificent are its officers and men, but hellish was the work of "forcing the Dardanelles." You remember how theGoliathand theIrresistiblewent down.You remember how a great French ship—theBouvet—was sunk. You remember the mines that came down the waters, and the shore torpedoes, and the strength of the Turkish forts, the power of the Turkish guns, erected and manned by German officers. The Navy could not force the Dardanelles alone! It was necessary to have the co-operation of land forces. Perhaps the operations should never have been begun until the Army was ready to co-operate. I do not know; it is not for me to judge.
General Sir Ian Hamilton first visited the Dardanelles and carried out a reconnaissance on one of the warships and then came to Egypt—a lightning visit—and our forces began to move. Australia, for the first time, was right up against the Hun! South Africa was a picnic to it.
There were spies everywhere. There were spies in the transports, spies amongst the interpreters, spies in the supply depots. The Turks, or rather their German officers, were kept informed of every move the Allies made. They knew exactly the hour of disembarkation and the places of landing. They learned all the Australian bugle calls and used them with tellingeffect. The French landed and formed up as if on parade, and then, with beautiful precision, marched on and drove the enemy before them. The British, despite the fusillade which greeted them on landing, were steady as veterans and there was no hope of withstanding their landing.
But there was an electric quality about the charge of the Australians that inspired panic in the Turkish trenches. Fiercely angry at the loss of several of their officers, they charged with fixed bayonets, not waiting for supports.
One charge was led by a doctor; another by a priest. Several times they charged so fiercely that they looked like getting out of hand. Scorning cover, they also scorned rifle fire. They scaled the steel-lined heights like demons. It was the bayonet all the time. One huge farmer actually bayoneted a Turk through the chest and pitchforked him over his shoulder. The man who performed this feat was a huge Queenslander—Sergeant Burne, of the 9th Battalion, who was afterwards wounded and returned to his Australian home—a man whose modesty is as great as his size. We smiled at first when we heard the story, and people in England andAustralia read of it with amazement. But Sergeant Burne, standing over six feet high, and massively proportioned, looks quite capable of the feat. He himself tells the story in these words: "It is not a case for me to take any credit at all," he said. "I was in the platoon that landed first on the right. Our lieutenant was the first man to get ashore—and as game a man as ever faced fire. I followed him. I was ordered to take in hand a line of Turkish sharpshooters who were causing a lot of trouble. There was also a machine-gun on the hill. Somebody had to stop it. Myself and two lads went up, and we stopped it. That's all. There were ten Turks there. We got the Turks and we got the machine-gun, but I lost my two lads. They were only boys, but let me tell you the Australians are the best fighters in the world. One of the lads 'fixed' the German officer who was working the machine-gun. The Turks were higher up than we were, and I suppose that is how I was able to throw one of them over my shoulder. It's an old trick that is taught in the Guards."
Sergeant Burne once served in the Irish Guards, and he carries a scar on his forehead, the resultof a blow from the butt-end of a rifle at Rhenosterkop, during the South African war. He had been living in Australia for about six years when the Great War broke out, and he was one of the first to answer the Empire's call. His stay on Gallipoli was short, for on the same day as that on which he performed the feat of which I have written he received a bullet in the shoulder.
"It was a very short experience," he said, "but I'll be back there again."
And that was, and is, the spirit of them all.
It is sad to think that so many senior officers lost their lives right at the outset of the fighting in the Dardanelles. Australia could ill afford to lose men like Colonel Onslow Thompson, Colonel MacLaurin, Major F. D. Irvine and Colonel Braund. Colonel MacLaurin was in the act of warning soldiers to be certain to keep behind cover when he was shot in the head. He was hurriedly conveyed to the rear, but only lingered half an hour. Curiously enough, he had a presentiment that he would be killed, and mentioned it to one of our Light Horse officers just before leaving for the Dardanelles.
Portraits1. Col.McCay, Brigadier 2nd Australian Infantry Brigade. Wounded.2. Lt.-Col. C. F.Cox, C.B., Commanding 6th Light Horse Regt.3. Lt.-Col.Hubert Harris, 5th Light Horse Regt. Killed.4. Col.M. Laurin, Brigadier 1st Australian Infantry Brigade. Killed.5. Lt.-Col.Braund, V.D., O.C., 2nd Batt. 1st Infantry Brigade. Killed.6. Lt.-Col.Onslow-Thompson. Killed.
1. Col.McCay, Brigadier 2nd Australian Infantry Brigade. Wounded.2. Lt.-Col. C. F.Cox, C.B., Commanding 6th Light Horse Regt.3. Lt.-Col.Hubert Harris, 5th Light Horse Regt. Killed.4. Col.M. Laurin, Brigadier 1st Australian Infantry Brigade. Killed.5. Lt.-Col.Braund, V.D., O.C., 2nd Batt. 1st Infantry Brigade. Killed.6. Lt.-Col.Onslow-Thompson. Killed.
1. Col.McCay, Brigadier 2nd Australian Infantry Brigade. Wounded.
2. Lt.-Col. C. F.Cox, C.B., Commanding 6th Light Horse Regt.
3. Lt.-Col.Hubert Harris, 5th Light Horse Regt. Killed.
4. Col.M. Laurin, Brigadier 1st Australian Infantry Brigade. Killed.
5. Lt.-Col.Braund, V.D., O.C., 2nd Batt. 1st Infantry Brigade. Killed.
6. Lt.-Col.Onslow-Thompson. Killed.
It was a wicked trick that resulted in the slaughter of so many gallant men of the 1st (N.S.W.) Battalion. They had been holding the line splendidly, despite shrapnel and maxim fire and rifles, and had repulsed several attacks by the enemy. Then a message was passed down the line for the battalion to attack and capture the guns in front. Not doubting the genuineness of the order, the battalion charged, only to be met with a withering fire, which immediately told them that a trap had been set.
Their leader, Colonel Onslow Thompson, was killed instantaneously by a cannon shot which struck him in the head. He was one of the first to volunteer in Sydney when war broke out. Colonel Arnott knew that Colonel Onslow Thompson was a splendid Light Horse officer, and begged of him to wait for a mounted regiment. "No," he replied, "I'm going, and I'll take the first chance that offers."
The casualties among the officers were tremendous—brave men who led Australia's soldiers in that awful charge! And among the bravest of them were the young officers from the Duntroon Military College that stands amid delightful country surroundings near the capital of FederatedAustralia that is now in the making in the Mother State of New South Wales. These young fellows fought in a way that showed their native courage and the excellence of their training. Only the year before, when Sir Ian Hamilton, as Inspector-General of the Oversea Forces, visited Australia and inspected these lads who were training for the army at Duntroon, as the representative of theSydney Morning HeraldI remember seeing them laugh and cheer when Sir Ian Hamilton, on leaving Duntroon, jokingly wished them "plenty of wars and rapid promotion." And it seems only a few days since we were dancing and flirting in a Cairo ballroom. Now many of them lie sorely wounded at the base hospital, and several will never again hear the réveillé. But the College will not forget its firstfruits offered up so gladly for empire. Officers and men, it was all the same—they went to their death with a cheer for King and Country. I heard an Imperial officer, newly returned from Flanders, say that the 3rd Australian Infantry Brigade was the finest brigade of infantry in the whole of the allied armies. In physique they were far superior to any of the British, French, or Belgiantroops. Whether this be true or not, there is no doubt that the sturdy Thirds under Colonel Maclagan fought like Trojans on the Gallipoli Peninsula, and covered themselves with glory. Incidentally, I might mention, some of them never fired a shot during the fierce fighting of April 25. They simply trusted to the cold steel, and flung themselves at the Turkish trenches. The 1st Brigade (Colonel MacLaurin), the 2nd (Colonel McCay), and the rest of the Australians and New Zealanders fought with equal valour, but the brunt of the attack was borne by the Thirds. So many hundred gallant lives was a heavy price to pay for a footing in Gallipoli, but those impetuous charges, absolutely irresistible in their fury, would, we knew, bear rich fruit, for the Turks could never again withstand a bayonet charge by the Australians.
It was noteworthy that only a few thousand prisoners were taken. I asked one of the 1st Battalion boys (Lieutenant-Colonel Dobbin's command) why that was. He replied: "How could 12,000 of us take prisoners when we were up against 35,000?"
And through it all our Army Medical Corpsdid yeoman service. Several stretcher-bearers were shot, for they dashed forward too soon to succour the wounded. The doctors were right up in the firing-line all the while. Colonel Ryan and some other doctors were attending to serious cases on the beach, where the landing was effected, and snipers shot two orderlies who were assisting, one on each side of the colonel.
I doubt if there was a single branch of the service that did not suffer and share in the glory of that charge.
General Bridges handled his gallant Australians with consummate skill. He seemed to anticipate the Turkish attacks. His dispositions for defence were brilliant. Then General Godley and his New Zealanders landed and threw themselves into the fray. General Birdwood came and took charge of the Australian, New Zealand Army Corps ... A.N.Z.A.C.! From that fateful day, April 25, Anzac has been a name to conjure with.
THE TURK GERMANIZED—ATTACKS AND COUNTER-ATTACKS—SNIPERS ABOUT—"BIG LIZZIE" AT WORK—SOLDIERS' HOME LETTERS—TIRED OF WAITING—OFF AT LAST.
THE TURK GERMANIZED—ATTACKS AND COUNTER-ATTACKS—SNIPERS ABOUT—"BIG LIZZIE" AT WORK—SOLDIERS' HOME LETTERS—TIRED OF WAITING—OFF AT LAST.
"Bah!" he exclaimed as he lit his cigarette. "The Turks can't shoot for nuts! But the German machine-guns are the devil, and the shrapnel is no picnic!"
His arm was in a sling, and his leg was bandaged from hip to ankle. But he was cheerful as could be, as proud as Punch, and as chirpy as a gamecock. For he was one of the band of Australian heroes, wounded and back from the front. And we who listened to the deathless story of the wild charge they made could not help wishing we had shared in the glories of that fight.
"It's the Germans we're up against," he went on. "You see they have taught the Turksall sorts of nasty tricks. One of the tricks is to surrender just at the last minute. One Turk in a trench shot my pal on my right and a chap on my left; then when we got right into the trench he suddenly dropped his rifle and put up his hands. I reckoned that wasn't fair, so I jammed my bayonet into him. Time and again the Turks would shoot till we were right on top of them, and then drop guns and surrender. Call that fair fighting?"
Another chap with his tunic all clotted with blood and his head in a bandage here interpolated: "Say, you needn't fear the Turks' shooting. It's safer to be in the firing-line than in the reserves. But look out for those machine-guns; they spit death at you at the rate of ten a second. Also, keep your eyes open for the snipers. We drove them back for miles behind Sari Bair, but there were snipers everywhere. They never minded being killed so long as they could pick off a few officers. One black devil shot our captain at only fifty yards. Five of us got to him, and gave him just what Brutus, Cassius, Casca and the rest gave Julius Cæsar."
"We fought them for three days after landing,"said a big bushman in the 2nd Brigade, "and they made about a dozen counter-attacks. But when we had a chance of sitting down and letting them charge us it was dead easy—just like money from home. They never got near enough to sample the bayonets again. But on the 27th they tried to get all over us. They let the artillery work overtime, and we suffered a bit from the shrapnel. The noise was deafening. Suddenly it ceased, and a new Turkish division was launched at us. This was just before breakfast. There is no doubt about the bravery of the Turks. But we were comfortably entrenched, and it was their turn to advance in the open. We pumped lead into them till our rifles were too hot to hold. Time and again they came on, and each time we sent them about their business. At three o'clock we got tired of slaughtering them that way, so we left our little home in the trench and went after them again with the bayonet."
"Say, what do you think of 'Big Lizzie'?" asked another blood-bespattered Cornstalk. "Ain't she the dizzy limit?"
Is it necessary to explain that this was the affectionate way our fellows alluded to the super-DreadnoughtQueen Elizabeth? The soldier continued: "All the while our transports were landing, 'Big Lizzie' just glided up and down like an old hen watching her chickens. Every now and then the Turkish destroyers from Nagara tried to cut in and smash up the transports. But the moment 'Lizzie' got a move on they skedaddled. One ship was just a bit slow. Didn't know that 'Big Liz' could hit ten miles off. Shell landed fair amidships, and it was good night, nurse."
One of the 9th Battalion (Queenslanders, under Colonel Lee) chipped in here: "Ever tried wading through barbed wire and water with maxims zipping all round you?"
This pertinent question explained the severe losses of the 3rd Brigade. The landing was effected simultaneously at several points on the peninsula, but one spot was a hornet's nest and they started to sting when the Australians reached the beach. A couple of boats were upset and several sailors and soldiers killed. Others dashing into the shallow water were caught in the barbed wire.
"My legs are tattooed prettier than a picture,"added the Queenslander, "and I've a bit of shrapnel shell here for a keepsake, somewhere under my shoulder."
"Fancy ten thousand miles and eight months' training all for nix," said a disgusted corporal. "Landed at 4 a.m. Shot at three seconds past four. Back on the boat at 5 a.m."
And so on.
To have gone through all they had gone through, and then to treat it all so lightly, seemed an extraordinary thing. All the doctors and nurses commented on the amazing fortitude and cheerfulness of the Australian wounded. I used to think the desire to be in the thick of things, that I had so often heard expressed, was make-believe, but I know better now. I used to say myself that I "wanted to be there" (andsotto voceI used to add "I don't think"); and now, in my heart-searchings, I began to wonder if I didn't really mean it, after all. I used to strike an attitude and quote, "One crowded hour of glorious life is worth an age without a name," whilst all the time I felt in my heart that I would prefer a crowded age of glorious life to an hour of fame. Now I began to wonderwhether in my heart's core, in my very heart of hearts, I did not agree with the poet. The proper study of mankind is Oneself. And what was I doing there, anyway?
Yes, it was extraordinary—not a doubt of it. Doctors and nurses said they never saw anything like it in the world. Those soldiers back from the Dardanelles, many of them sorely wounded, were laughing and joking all day, chatting cheerfully about their terrible experiences, and itching to get back again and "do for the dirty Turks"!
"Nurse," said one of them, with a shattered leg, as he raised himself with difficulty, "will you write a little note for me?"
She came over and sat at the side of the bed, paper and pencil in hand.
"'My dear mother and father, I hope this letter finds you as well as it leaves me at present.'... How's that for a beginning, nurse?" he said with a smile.
I heard of another man who sent a letter from the Dardanelles. It ran: "Dear Aunt, this war is a fair cow. Your affectionate nephew." Just that, and nothing more. The Censor, Ihave no doubt, would think it a pity to cut anything out of it.
I heard of another, and at the risk of an intrusion into the private affairs of any of our soldiers, I make bold to give it. It was just this: "My darling Helen, I would rather be spending the evening with you than with two dead Turks in this trench. Still it might be worse, I suppose."
Those cheerful Australians!
Can you wonder that the Light Horse wanted to get a move on and make a start for the front? Can you wonder that when we heard of the terrible list of casualties which were the price of victory, and when we saw our men coming back, many of them old friends, with their battle-scars upon them, we fretted and fumed impatiently? We had a church parade, and the chaplain, Captain Keith Miller, preached from the text, "Let us run with patience the race that is set before us," and it only made us angry. There was only one text that appealed to us, and that was "How long, O Lord, how long?"
We could stand it no longer. Our boys needed reinforcements, and that was all we cared about. They must have reinforcements. It would besome days before men could arrive from England and France. Sir Ian Hamilton wanted men to push home the attack and ensure the victory. We knew that no cavalry could go for a couple of weeks, and our fellows were just "spoiling for a fight." They were sick and tired of the endless waiting, with wild rumours of moving every second day. Men from all the troops and squadrons went to their officers and volunteered to go as infantry, if only they could go at once. B Squadron, 6th Regiment, volunteereden masse.
Colonel Ryrie, accurately gauging the temper of the men, summoned the regimental commanders, Lieutenant-Colonel Cox, Lieutenant-Colonel Harris and Lieutenant-Colonel Arnott. What happened at this little Council of War we don't know. But we guess. Word was sent on to the general that the whole brigade would leave for the front within an hour, on foot if necessary.
A similar offer had just been made by the 1st Light Horse Brigade (Colonel Chauvel) and the 1st Brigade of New Zealand Mounted Rifles.
What it cost these gallant horsemen to volunteer and leave their horses behind only horsemencan guess. Colonel Ryrie's brigade was said to be the best-horsed brigade in Egypt. Scores of men had brought their own horses. After eight months of soldiering we were deeply attached to our chargers. Fighting on foot was not our forte. We were far more at home in the saddle. But Colonel Ryrie expressed the dominant thought of the men when he said: "My brigade are mostly bushmen, and they never expected to go gravel-crushing, but if necessary the whole brigade will start to-morrow on foot, even if we have to tramp the whole way from Constantinople to Berlin."
There was cheering all along the line when the news filtered through. Men who had of late been swearing at the heat and dust and the flies and the desert suddenly became jovial again. At dinner they passed the joke along, sang songs, and cheered everybody, from Kitchener to Andy Fisher, and the brigadier down to the cooks and the trumpeters.
So we are off at last, after weary months of waiting—on foot. Blistered heels and trenches ahead; but it's better than sticking here in the desert doing nothing.
ON THE MOVE—SEND-OFF FROM MA'ADI—THE BLUE MEDITERRANEAN—OFFICERS AND MEN OF THE A.L.H.—A COLLISION—AN AIR RECONNAISSANCE—OUR COLONEL ADDRESSES HIS MEN
ON THE MOVE—SEND-OFF FROM MA'ADI—THE BLUE MEDITERRANEAN—OFFICERS AND MEN OF THE A.L.H.—A COLLISION—AN AIR RECONNAISSANCE—OUR COLONEL ADDRESSES HIS MEN
As I sit and gaze over the limpid waters of Aboukir Bay I think of the old-time rivalry of France and Britain, and the struggle for the possession of Egypt.
In 'ninety-eight we chased the foeRight into Bouky Bay!
In 'ninety-eight we chased the foeRight into Bouky Bay!
These are the opening lines of the old sea ditty which describes how Nelson won the Battle of the Nile. Right here it was that theOrient—flagship of the French admiral—was blown up.
And now, a hundred years after, we see French and British warships again off Alexandria. But this time the Union Jack and the Tricolourare intertwined, and in the streets of Alexandria French and British soldiers and sailors walk arm in arm, while the ancient city is gay with flags and bunting. For big things are brewing in the Levant. Before the eyes of the citizens during the past week was a unique international naval and military pageant—Zouaves, with their blue jackets and red trousers, French infantry in their blue-grey uniform, cavalry with gay tunics, British Jack Tars in blue and white, Australians in sombre khaki, swarthy-skinned Maoris from the Wonderland of the Southern Seas, and dusky warriors from the Punjab. British troops—and especially those young giants from Australia—had the better of the Frenchman in the matter of physique; but there was clear evidence of "grit" in the intelligent, humorous faces of the French, which helped one to understand why, for instance, they are said to be the finest marchers in Europe, and why the Germans never got to Paris!
At last the Australian Division is on the move. After weary weeks of waiting the order has come. There were wild cheers at Mena when the news buzzed round; lusty cheering at Zeitoun whenthe New Zealanders heard it; more wild cheering at Heliopolis and Abassia as the message flashed further afield. Out at Mena camp there was great excitement as battalion after battalion marched away, encouraged by the cheers of their comrades behind. Trams brimming over with jubilant human freight moved off from Mena House, and glided along the well-known road to Cairo, where trains were waiting to convey the men to Alexandria. At Alexandria the transports were waiting to take us to the Dardanelles. Turkey, forgetting the traditional friendship of Great Britain, had allowed Germany to bluff her into invading Egypt. Now, in return, Britain was knocking at the front door—the impregnable front door of Constantinople.
We had a final concert in the cinema tent, and it was a huge success. The good folk of Ma'adi rolled up in full force. Charles Knowles, the famous baritone, came out and sang "The Trumpeter" and "My old Shako" and "The Old Brigade" and "Land of Hope and Glory," and we all joined in the choruses. The brigadier made a farewell speech, and thanked the residents for all their kindness to the men of the2nd Brigade. He said we were sorry to part with such good friends, but were glad at last to have a chance of striking a blow for freedom and justice and the grand old flag of the Empire. Of course, we cheered all the time, and we laughed when genial Mr. Hopkins, President of the Citizen's Committee, farewelled us with the words, "God bless you" and "God help the Turks if you get at them with the bayonet."
We marched away at last. British folk at Ma'adi and Cairo were enthusiastic, and gave us a great farewell. Some of the "gyppies" and Arabs along the roadway were sullenly passive and apathetic. At the main station, Cairo, crowds of soldiers assembled to cheer the horseless horsemen. "We went to South Africa as infantry, and they mounted us," said a philosophic Riverina grazier. "Now, we come to North Africa as Light Horsemen, and they bundle us off as infantry."
We profited by the experience of the infantry. Our officers dressed exactly like the men. They carried rifles and wore bandoliers. All their pretty uniforms that they "swanked" in at the continental dances and dinners went by theboard, and they roughed it in service jackets and hobnailed boots.
Seen from aloft, the 2nd Light Horse embarking resembled nothing so much as a swarm of khaki ants covering the quays at Alexandria. They scurried hither and thither, and to the onlooker it seemed all confusion worse confounded by the arrival of additional trains from Cairo.
But the confusion was more apparent than real. One noticed soon that all the soldiers going to the transports were loaded with arms and ammunition and stores. Those coming from the ships were empty-handed. And soon the trains rattled off, the wharves were cleared and all the troops were aboard. But there were no fond farewells this time. All the folk who were near and dear to us were far, far away. A coffee stall on the quay "manned" by the Y.W.C.A. worked overtime from four o'clock in the morning, and our fellows were very grateful to the ladies of Alexandria who did us this kindness. They wished us "Good luck," and we glided out. There were no cheers or sirens to hearten us. That was all past. We werestarting off in grim earnest this time. A few embarkation officers and transport officials on the wharf called out "Good luck, boys"; and that was all.
Half an hour later we were out on the Mediterranean—the blue Mediterranean—and we thought of all the fleets that in the centuries gone by had sailed these waters—Greeks, Romans, Carthaginians, Spaniards, Turks, French and British. Our ship was numbered A25—theLutzow, one of the many German liners that had fallen to the mighty British Navy. And on board were crowded 2,000 men. No horses! Our gallant steeds had all been left behind at Ma'adi, ready to follow the moment we drove the Turks from the hills and reached "cavalry country." Our boys had had the chance of coming without horses or stopping behind; they never hesitated for a moment.
"Submarine," whispered some one the first day out. And all eyes searched the waters round us. But no submarine had been seen. We had simply been warned that there was a Turkish submarine somewhere outside the Dardanelles. So the brigadier, Colonel Ryrie, tooksteps to give it a warm reception in case it poked its nose—its periscope—above the surface of the sea.
The whole brigade was remarkably happy. Despite the fact that within a couple of days these men would be fighting for their lives, despite the fact that their comrades of the Australian Infantry had just suffered 4,000 casualties in four days, they went as cheerily forward as their relations in Sydney went to the Easter Show. And that reminds me that right here near the Dardanelles I came across a copy of the Easter number of theSydney Mail. What a joy it was to escape the war pictures for a brief while and see, instead, the photographs of prize pumpkins, of milking shorthorns, and the great stock parade, and the high jump, and all the other attractions of one of the greatest shows on earth! It was just like a message of good cheer from sunny New South Wales.
We had left Alexandria under sealed orders. We had to meet a certain warship in a certain place and get certain instructions. We travelled at night with all lights out, and threaded our way with care through the Archipelago. PassingRhodes and Crete and Tenedos, we reached the scene of what has been described as the most picturesque phase of the Great World War—the attack on the Dardanelles.
There had been many changes in the brigade, since the men first went into camp at Rosebery Park, Sydney, nine months before. Nearly a thousand men passed through Colonel Cox's regiment before it finally started out to smash the Turk and thrash the Hun. There had been changes also amongst the officers, and as the exact list has never been published and many of these officers were soon to lay down their lives in the service of their country, let me give their names here—a permanent record which will be cherished by those officers and men who remain and by the families of all the brave dead.