CHAPTER XIII"ROBBO"

A RECAPITULATION—INTO THE FIRING-LINE—IN SIGHT OF HISTORIC TROY—A WELL-FED ARMY—A REAL GOOD COOK

George was the cook.

He blew into the Light Horse Camp at Holdsworthy when we were training. The staff captain gave him the job because he was a sea cook. Any man who can cook at sea ought to be able to cook on dry land. And all through the weary weeks of waiting and working, George kept on cooking.

George was small, not to say puny. His height was five feet, and his chest measurement nothing to cable home about. Had he gone to Victoria Barracks in the ordinary way to enlist he wouldn't have passed even the sentry at the gate, let alone the doctor. But George knew the ropes. Hehad "soldiered" before. That's why he took the short cut direct to camp.

We never saw much of him on theSuevic; when off duty he used to climb to some cosy corner on the uppermost deck and read dry textbooks on strategy and tactics. At odd times he would seek relaxation inLife of Napoleon,Marlborough, orOliver Cromwell, but this was distinctly "not a study, but a recreation." Passing through the Suez Canal we saw the Turks miles away on the rim of the desert. George got out his rifle, set the sight at 2,500 yards, and waited. But the invader kept well out of range, and George went back to his cooking.

It was mid-winter in Egypt and the nights were bitterly cold. Greatcoats were vitally necessary. How welcome were the mufflers and Balaclava caps and warm socks knitted by the girls we left behind us! Welcome also was the hot coffee George provided to fill in the shivering gap between réveillé and stables. And after the horses had all been fed and watered, we returned with zest to breakfast—porridge and meat and "eggs a-cook" and bread and marmalade. I've heard some grumblers complain ofthe "tucker" in Egypt, but I've seen a bit of war by this and I'm convinced that the Australians are the best-fed army in the world. And George by the same token was not a bad cook.

Summer swooped down on Egypt. In its wake came heat and dust and flies and locusts. Over the scorching sands of the desert we cantered till the sweat poured from us and our horses, and the choking dust enveloped all. "Gyppie" fruit-sellers scurried hither and yon yelling "Oringes—gooud beeg one." And as we regaled ourselves with the luscious thirst-quenchers we thought of camp and the dinner that George was preparing. We trekked along the Nile, and almost before we halted George was boiling the billy. We bivouacked at Aaron's Gorge, or the Petrified Forest, or in a desert waste, and always George was on the spot with his dixies and pans. The cook's cart was a pleasing silhouette against the pyramid-pierced skyline, when we turned our eyes westward in the long summer evenings.

When at last we started for the Dardanelles, we of the Light Horse Brigade had (as you know) to leave our horses behind, and the cook's cart stopped too. But George came along all right.Despite the activities of the submarines we reached Gallipoli in safety, and witnessed the allied warships pounding away at the Turkish defences. Historic Troy was on our right; before us the entrance to the Dardanelles; and on the left, firmly established on Helles, was the great Mediterranean Expeditionary Force, making its first halt on the road to Constantinople. But we had to go further north, a mile beyond Gaba Tepe, where the Australians—particularly the 3rd Infantry Brigade—had performed such deeds of valour that Dargai, Colenso, and Magersfontein were declared by old soldiers to have been a mere picnic in contrast.

We landed amid a hail of shrapnel. Transhipping from the transports, we crowded into launches and sweepers and barges. These little boats, heavily laden with khaki freight, made straight for Anzac Cove. Fair targets for Tommy Turk, of course; so the guns of the Olive Grove Battery sent us anything but peaceful messages. Plug-plong went the shells into the water. Zip-zip hissed the bullets all round us. But, marvellous to relate, not a man was hit. Next day some infantry reinforcements, landing in thesame place and manner, sustained forty casualties. That's the luck of the game—the fortune of war. We landed everything satisfactorily.

George brought up the rear, with his pots and dixies. It is because of George that I recapitulate.

In a long, straggling khaki line ("Column o' lumps," said the brigade major) we meandered past Casualty Point and Hell Spit, and up to our bivouac in Shrapnel Valley. Snipers on the hill up beyond Quinn's Post sent long-range shots at random down the track. Shells burst over our heads, and the leaden pellets spattered over the landscape. It would take too long to recount half the miraculous escapes some of our chaps had. Our artillery worked overtime, and the row was deafening. But our gunners could not silence the elusive cannon in the Olive Grove. After a time, wherein the minutes seemed like hours, we reached the camp site, and started to dig in feverishly. We burrowed like rabbits. Picks, shovels and bayonets made the earth fly till we had scratched a precarious shelter from the blast. Like troglodytes we snuggled into the dug-outs, waiting for the bombardment to cease.

But George went on with his cooking.

Major-General W. T. Bridges.Major-General W. T. Bridges.

Next day we changed our quarters. The German artillerymen were too attentive. We had sustained a few casualties, so we sought a more retired spot under the lee of the hill. For the first time since we had landed we were able to look about us. There was a lull in the cannonade, though the musketry fusillade proceeded merrily. We saw the long line of Australian and New Zealand trenches whence the Turks had been driven in rout the night before, leaving 3,000 dead to mar the landscape. We heard too, definitely, for the first time of the good Australians who on this inhospitable shore had given their lives for King and Empire—General Bridges, Colonel MacLaurin, Lieutenant-Colonel Braund, Lieutenant-Colonel Onslow Thompson, Sergeant Larkin (who used to sit on the opposite side to Colonel Braund in the New South Wales Parliament, but found in war the leveller that makes us all one party), and hundreds of others. Looking up to the precipitous cliffs above, we marvelled anew at the reckless daring of our infantry comrades who had scaled those heights in the face of rifle, machine-gun and shrapnel.

But we had not long to saunter and wonder.Our brigade was sent straightway into the firing-line. We were initiated into the mysteries of trench warfare, sapping and mining, bombs and grenades, observing and sniping, posies and dug-outs, patrolling and listening, periscopes and peepholes, demonstrations and reconnaissance, supports and reserves, bully-beef and biscuits, mud and blood and slaughter, and all the humours and rumours, the hardships and horrors of war.

And all the time we were doing our little bit George went on with his cooking. He may have been thinking of Napoleon, or Marlborough, or Cromwell, but he did not seem to be thinking much about this war of ours—except that he had to do some cooking for it. The Turks were shooting many of our officers down, and many of our dear old pals, but George remained—and we hoped that they would spare him. Good cooks—real, good cooks like George—are scarce.

A GREAT TRANSPORT OFFICER—HOW HE HANDLED HORSES—AND HOW HE DIED—LIEUTENANT HENRY ROBSON—A NORTH COAST HERO

George and Bill, Tom and Dick and Harry—all a happy family, having a wonderful time. You never knew what was going to happen next. At any moment your turn might come. You could not tell. But you saw old pals in the morning, and you didn't see them in the evening. Sometimes the mate who had shared your tent and fought alongside you in the trench—the mate who was with you at Holdsworthy, who was with you in Egypt, and laughed and joked with you at Anzac—was suddenly snatched away from you, and then you realized what a thin line it is that separates life from death. Have you ever dreamed that you were standing on the edge of a precipice and that an enemy was racing alongbehind you to push you over? That was how we felt during these days on Gallipoli. A moment, and then you too might be falling headlong down the precipice. But we found it best not to let our minds dwell upon it.

So we went on burrowing into the side of the hill. We banked up the sides of our dug-outs with sandbags and tins and earth. Most of the fighting was being done in the trenches. In some places they were now 1,500 yards apart, in some only twenty-one feet apart; and in the latter case life was all excitement. It was sap and mine and bomb and fusillade all the time. My brigade had now been here for some time, and despite the "accidents" which were always occurring we all had, somehow or other, a feeling of absolute security. We laughed at the Turks, and we smiled at what Liman von Sanders said—that he would drive us into the sea. We were just waiting, content and confident, for the big move that was going to lead to Constantinople!

And as I have said, we were a fairly well-fed army. We had none of the luxuries that the British Expeditionary Force had in France and Flanders. But on the whole we did not do toobadly. The brigadier ate the same "tucker" as his batman.

We were given meat and vegetables and biscuits and cheese and jam. If only we could have had a lump of bread for a change! For the biscuits were so hard that they could be used to defend the trenches, if necessary—either as missiles or as overhead cover. Colonel —— broke one of his teeth on one. So we tried to soak them in our tea. Then we made them into porridge.

There was fighting on land and sea, in the air and under the water. Aeroplane reconnaissance was a daily spectacle. Our airmen would go aloft and have a good look at the enemy's position. The enemy's guns would boom out all the time, and shrapnel shells would burst all round the 'plane without ever seeming to hit it. We thought it was great sport watching the white puffs of smoke where the shells burst. Then the aeroplanes would drop bombs on the Turks for spite—"throw-downs" we called them. Sometimes the position was reversed, and the Germans dropped bombs on us. Two can play at the same game in war. Take the hand grenades. You should have seen Corporal Renwick take them!Before he became a soldier Renwick was well known on the cricket field—as indeed were hundreds of others—and on Gallipoli he used to catch the bombs and throw them back before they exploded. Nor was he the only one who did this. It was like tossing live coals back and forth—playing with fire. Some of our boys used to say it was the best "slip practice" they ever had! Sometimes a bomb would explode prematurely and a man's fingers would be blown off, and worse than that. But the others went on with the game.

And we went swimming down at the beach, just as if it had been Manly or Coogee. Only it was more exciting: Shells took the place of sharks. Instead of the sudden cry one would sometimes hear at Manly or Coogee of "'Ware shark," it was "'Ware shell!" The Turks are not the surfers that the Australians are. They had little sympathy with such healthy exercise, and they showed their disapproval of it by opening fire on the beach; and then there was a warning whistle, and we all rushed in to shelter. Afterwards we had the pleasure of initiating some Turkish prisoners into the joys of surf-bathing,but the majority of them did not take kindly to it.

And all the time the fighting went on. One night we had a great set-to. The Turks mined one of our trenches and rushed in and captured it. This was the affair at "Quinn's Post." We counter-attacked and re-took the trench, killed and captured some of the Turks, and then took one of their trenches. Then the hand grenades began to come, and the cricket commenced. It was an exciting match. The Turks made a determined attempt to recapture the position. They charged in strong force, but our chaps all along the line "hit them to leg." We enfiladed them with rifle and machine-gun fire, and they were eventually repulsed with a loss of about 2,000.

Wiggins, of the Field Ambulance, was sitting in his dug-out, and two of his mates went out and called to him. He leaned out and said: "Not yet; the shrapnel hasn't stopped." Then a shrapnel shell passed between the other two and struck him on the head and killed him.

Life and death! A very thin line.... One never knows. "In the morning the grass growethup, in the evening it is cut down and withered."

One day the word went round that "Robbo" had been killed. We would not believe it at first. It seemed a silly lie, one of those baseless camp rumours that some fool starts for a joke. Some of the officers went round to see for themselves. Colonel Cox stood by the dug-out, looking old and stricken. "Robbo's killed," he said. Then we knew it was true. Alas, alas, here was a loss! For "Robbo" was great.

The Turks had been subjecting us to a heavy bombardment for some days, and our artillery had been responding vigorously. Mostly their shells buried themselves in the sides of the hills, or exploded somewhat harmlessly in the air. Then one unlucky shrapnel shell burst right over the headquarters of the 6th Light Horse Regiment—and "Robbo" was there.

Lieutenant Henry Robson lay on the floor of the dug-out, a shrapnel bullet in his breast. And we who had lived with him in camp and on the march for eight strenuous months, sorrowed as keenly as will his North Coast friends. To Colonel Cox it was not only the loss of an officer; it was also the loss of an old friend who years beforehad shared the dangers of battles and the stress of war.

All of us liked Lieutenant Robson. His bark was far worse than his bite. He'd give a shirking soldier the full force of his tongue, but his heart—"right there" as "Tipperary" has it—was in the right place. Kind of heart, genial of temper, and always willing to help others along, we mourn a man that can ill be spared. He was reckoned the best transport officer in Egypt. He knew horses as few men did. Australians are reputed to be good horsemen, but poor horse-masters. But Lieutenant Robson was good all round with horses. He would get more work out of a team than any one I know. He could get a full measure of work from his men also. But he never overdrove man or beast. That's why we liked him.

Harry Robson was forty-eight years of age when he died a soldier's death on Gallipoli Heights. He was one of the original Northern River Lancers, and went to England with the New South Wales Lancers in 1893. Later on he went home with the Lancers under Colonel Cox in 1899. Standing six feet two in his socks, hewas as straight as the lance he carried. He was an expert swordsman, and won several prizes at the tournaments in Scotland and at Islington. At tent-pegging he was an acknowledged champion. On the transport and in Egypt we had many bouts with the sword and singlesticks, but none of the younger officers could worst Robson, although he was old enough to be their father.

When the South African war broke out, he was sergeant-major in the New South Wales Lancers under Colonel Cox, they being the first Colonial troops to land at the Cape. He went right through the war, and participated in the battles of Modder River, Magersfontein, Grasspan, Paardeberg, Driefontein, and the Relief of Kimberley. He was with French's column during the main advance. When the 3rd Imperial Mounted Rifles were formed, Lieutenant Robson became transport officer under Colonel Cox, and saw a lot of service in Natal, the Orange Free State, and Eastern Transvaal. He participated in Kitchener's big drives, wherein his resourcefulness was of great help to the column. On one occasion Remington's column was held up by an impassable,boggy morass. The Inniskillens and Canadians were bogged. The Australians halted. Lieutenant Robson improvised a crossing with bales of hay and reeds, and got his transport over while the others were wondering how far round they would have to go. On another occasion in the Transvaal, by a simple device, he crossed the Wilge River with all his mules and wagons at a place reckoned absolutely hopeless for wheeled transport.

After the South African war he settled down on the Northern Rivers, and prospered. But when this great cataclysm convulsed the world, he heard the call of Empire, and responded like a patriot. He wired to Colonel Cox, offering his services, and left the comforts of home for the discomforts of war. On board the transport he was most painstaking and zealous in the performance of his duties. At Ma'adi he had his transport running as smoothly as a machine. When we found we were going without our horses, we thought that Lieutenant Robson would be left behind. But at the last moment the regimental quartermaster fell ill, and Robson filled the breach. And so for nine weary weeksof fighting he looked after the needs of the regiment, and not one trooper ever went to bed hungry. (I say "bed," but none of us has seen a bed for many months.)

As quartermaster, there was no need for him to be poking about the trenches and up in the firing-line as he did. But it was not in the firing-line he was killed. That is the fortune of war. He was standing just near headquarters watching the warships gliding over the Ægean Sea. Then came the fatal shell, and "Robbo" passed out to the Beyond.

TRENCH LIFE—THE SNIPER IS BORN—HOLIDAY ON A HOSPITAL SHIP—"WAR IS HELL"—SHIFTING SCENES—NOTHING IMPOSSIBLE—HEAVY FIGHTING—DEATH AND BURIAL OF A GALLANT OFFICER

We were told at the outset that the trenches were the safest place to be in, and this is quite true. Shrapnel now and then knocks down the parapets and does a little damage, but in Shrapnel Valley and Suicide Walk it bursts at all times. And even in the dug-outs one is not wholly safe. Many a brave spark has gone out in the dug-outs. The Turks have their snipers, and we have ours, as the sea hath its pearls. A good sniper is indeed a pearl—unless he is fighting on the "other side," and in that case he is "a cow." Most of us try our hand at sniping, with more or less success—climbing up and down these hills in search of what we call "big game"—but although I am a tolerable shot myself, Ihave come to the conclusion that your true sniper, like your true poet, is born, not made. I have heard it said that a good tennis-player makes a good sniper (providing he can shoot) because he has the knack of anticipating his opponent's movements. It is not enough to see your man and have a "pot" at him, for the chances are that just as you let go, he stoops down to pick a pretty flower, or he stumbles over a scrub-root. Now, the successful sniper is he who anticipates that stumble, or with an uncanny sort of second sight sees that pretty flower which the enemy gentleman is going wantonly to pluck, and aims low accordingly. Only by some such sort of intelligent anticipation could some of our men have put up the astonishing records that stand to their credit. But of that more anon.

Just at the moment I am out of the firing-line, and it is time enough to write of snipers and shot and shell when I get back to it—lots of time. For the present I am otherwise engaged. I have seen a girl—several of them—real girls—beautiful girls. To one who has not seen a girl for nearly six weeks girls seem wonderful. It is a red-letter day. For the first time for five weeks Ifeel absolutely safe from snipers and shells. I'm on the hospital shipGascon, a couple of miles off Anzac. No, I'm not sick, neither am I wounded; it is just a little matter of duty that has brought me over, and I'm having a glorious holiday—two hours of real holiday. Presently I shall go back to my little grey home in the trench; and so I am enjoying every minute of my time on the ship. After weeks of bully-beef and bacon and biscuits I have had aDINNER. Can you who live at home at ease realize what that means? I had soup, fish, grilled chop, sausage, potatoes, rhubarb tart, cheese, bread and butter, coffee—fit for a king! Before dinner I hungrily watched the stewards as they walked in and out of the saloon. And after dinner I bought two cigars for two shillings and smoked the smoke of absolute peace and contentment.

I quite forgot the war. I could scarcely hear the sound of the fusillade and bombardment of Anzac, and I kept on the other side of the ship so that I should not see the place. The only thing to remind me of the war was the occasional booming of the guns of our warships. After the trenches it was just like heaven. The view wasdelightful. Imbros, Samothrace and Tenedos were near by. The sea was smooth; the weather perfect, the blue of the sky rivalling the blue of the Mediterranean.

And the girls! There were nurses on board. I shook hands with them all and talked to half a dozen of them. One was a very sweet little thing—an angel! I longed for a broken arm or leg, so that I might stay there.... Come, shade of brave old Sir Walter, and help me here.

O, woman! In our hours of ease,Uncertain, coy, and hard to please,And variable as the shadeBy the light quivering aspen made;When pain and anguish wring the brow,A ministering angel thou!

But they are all angels, ministering angels, tending the sick and wounded, whispering sweet words into the ears of brave men who lie there, suffering tortures of mind and body, but never uttering a complaint.

There were several doctors on board, and quite a lot of officers and men, some wounded, others sick and broken down with the stress of the last few weeks. Several of our brigade were among them. Heroes all.

Yes, I felt that if anything happened to me I should like to be taken aboard that hospital ship. But nothing had happened to me worth recording—only a few narrow escapes such as we all have in war time. I never felt better in my life. My appetite was of the best. My tongue had no coat of fur upon it. I had no excuse for remaining. I commandeered a few sheets of paper and some envelopes (precious things!). I went in and had aBATH—none of your ordinary swims, with one eye on the shrapnel and the other on the shore, but a real bath with soap and fresh water—and then I said good-bye to the nurses, good-bye to the doctors and the men, and went back from this heaven on the water to that hell upon the earth.

ItWAShell! All war is hell, as General Sherman said. And there never was one that better deserved the name than this one. Oh, God! I have stood on Braund's Hill admiring the sunset views, when the islands of the Ægean Sea seem to be floating on the edge of a gorgeous canvas of shimmering gold, and I have stood on other hills and watched the dawn-blush and the rising sun, and I have said to myself, What a blot upon God'sbeauties is war!... And then I have taken up my rifle and gone forth to kill men! Every prospect pleases and only the enemy is vile. Oh, these shifting scenes and changing moods!

On the other side were forty thousand Turks (we are told) watching for the opportunity to kill us. Our mission was to get to Constantinople; theirs to drive us into the sea. We were "dug in"; they were "dug in." If we found it a long, long way to Constantinople, they were finding it's a long way to the sea, which is much nearer as the crow flies. They shivered at the sound of our land guns; they heard the broadsides of our ships; they watched theQueen Elizabethfire her 15-inch gun; the shells landing on the sides of the hills, tossing hundreds of tons of earth and rock high into the air, so that when the smoke cleared away they would not know those hills; and they trembled, as all men who have seen have trembled at the fury of the monstrous gun!

But they fought on. Every yard of ground won cost us dear. I have seen our boys fall like ninepins before a hail of bullets. I have heard the cry "Lie low" in an advance, and every manhas fallen flat upon the ground to escape certain destruction; and I have heard that other pitiful cry, time and time again, of "Stretcher-bearers wanted!" Once the men lay prone for four hours in the midst of the scrub, with the air full of bursting shells and rifle and machine-gun fire passing just over them. I do not wonder that some men lost their nerve during those terrible hours.

But never yet did Australian officer call upon his men to take a position, no matter how impossible the feat, and find them wanting. "Impossible!" There was no such word in their vocabulary. Nothing was impossible to them—until they died. Colonel McCay, Brigadier in Command of the Second Infantry Brigade, spoke the truth when he said: "The way, the cheerful, splendid way, they face death and pain is simply glorious, and if no Australian ever fought again, April 25, April 26 and May 8 specially mark them as warriors. On the eighth of May I said in effect to them (my own brigade), 'Come and die,' and they came with a cheer and a laugh. They are simply magnificent."

The men were led by brave officers—officerswho would not ask their men to go where they themselves were afraid to go. It was thus, leading their men to the fight, that General Sir William Throsby Bridges, commanding the Australian Imperial Force when it made its historic landing, Colonel MacLaurin, Colonel Onslow Thompson, Lieutenant-Colonel Braund, and other gallant officers fell. And it was thus that, later, Colonel McCay received the wounds that put him out of action. Australian officers, like any other officers, are human and have erred at times, but they have never asked their men to take risks they would not share themselves. There is a letter written by Colonel McCay in which he says: "When my men have to go into a veritable hell, as they did on April 25, April 26 and May 8, I must lead them, not send them. I won their confidence because I shared the risks with them." And that is the spirit of all the Australian officers—gallant leaders of gallant men.

Such was the spirit of Lieutenant-Colonel Hubert Harris, V.D., commanding the 5th Light Horse Regiment, who was killed in action on Gallipoli on the night of July 31. Curious it was that the only man hit in the regiment thatnight was its commander. They were firing from the trenches and occupying the attention of the Turks while the infantry on our left blew up the enemy's trench, dashed out, bayoneted the defenders, and captured the position. There was a wild fusillade by the enemy's riflemen, and a heavy bombardment of our lines. One unlucky bullet came through a loophole, struck Colonel Harris in the neck, and he died in a few minutes.

There was heavy fighting along the whole league-long line that night. But the main work was left to MacLagan's famous 3rd Infantry Brigade. The Turks had sapped in and dug trenches opposite Tasmania Post. They looked dangerous, and it was thought they would try to undermine our trenches and blow us up. So we mined in under them, and blew up their advanced trench. On our left the New Zealanders made a lively demonstration to keep the enemy opposite engaged, and the big guns blazed away at the main Turkish position. From the sea a warship fired high explosives in the same direction. Then Captain Lean with a storming party of the 11th Infantry Battalion, dashed out with great gallantry and seized the objective. They used boardsto surmount the barbed wire entanglements, swept down on the Turks, bayoneted and shot about fifty of them, and entered into possession. Engineers immediately bolted out under a heavy fire, and hurriedly built up sandbag defences. And having got it, the Eleventh held on.

Meanwhile the 2nd Light Horse Brigade on the right poured a heavy fire into the Turkish trenches on the immediate left of the captured position. All attempts at reinforcing the Turkish advanced line were thus frustrated, and no counter-attack had any chance of getting home. Thinking a further attack was intended from Ryrie's Post, the Turkish artillery concentrated their field guns on the Light Horse, and the bombardment was terrific; yet—and here is the luck of the game—not one man in the firing-line of the 6th Light Horse was wounded. I was up with B Squadron, and the hail of shrapnel was something to remember. That was about half-past ten at night; and the moon having just risen, we concentrated our rifle fire on the enemy's trenches, leaving our artillery to deal with their reserves. Then it was that the fatal bullet killed Colonel Harris.

In a special order issued by General Birdwood next day reference was made to the excellent qualities of Colonel Harris, and to the conspicuous ability he had shown during the few months he had led his regiment on Gallipoli. We of the Sixth knew his value, and liked him; the Queenslanders loved him, and would have followed him anywhere.

Colonel Harris was a comparatively young man, not yet forty-five years of age. He started his soldiering in the Brisbane Grammar School cadets, and then became a bugler in the Queensland Rifles. Later on he joined the Mounted Infantry, volunteered for the South African War, going with the second Queensland contingent as a lieutenant, and returned a captain. He maintained his interest in the military forces after his return, became adjutant, and later on succeeded to the command of the 13th Australian Light Horse Regiment. Curiously enough, Colonel Spencer Brown, whom he succeeded in that command, and Lieutenant-Colonel Stoddart, who succeeded him, have also come to the war. For five years, Lieutenant-Colonel Harris commanded the 13th Regiment, and then was placed on theunattached list. When the war broke out he offered his services, and in November, 1914, took command of the 5th Light Horse Regiment in Colonel (now Brigadier-General) Ryrie's 2nd Brigade. He wore the Victoria Decoration and the Queen's South African ribbon with five clasps.

So here in the hills of Gallipoli there passes to the Great Beyond another good Australian, a brave and gallant officer, a kindly and courteous gentleman. The Americans used to sing "John Brown's body lies a-mouldering in the grave; his soul goes marching on." So the 5th Regiment may well feel that the spirit of Hubert Harris will go with them on to victory.

We buried him next night. The Dean of Sydney, Chaplain-Colonel Talbot, officiated, assisted by Chaplain-Captain Gordon Robertson. Officers and men of the regiment—all who could be spared from the trenches—attended with Major Wilson, who assumed command of the Fifth. Brigadier-General Ryrie and staff, and Lieutenant-Colonel Arnott, of the Seventh, were also present. As the earth was heaped upon him, the brigadier remarked sadly: "The brigade has lost a gallant officer, and Australia a patriot."

A WAR OF ANOMALIES—BACK TO PRIMITIVE WEAPONS—BOWS AND ARROWS—HAND GRENADES AND BRICKBATS—AN INDIGNANT DOCTOR—"ARE YOU THERE, ABDUL?"—MASSIVE MASSIE THE CRICKETER—A RESOURCEFUL COOK—A VERY GRIM STORY

Some talk of Alexander,And some of Hercules,Of Hector and Lysander,And such great men as these:But of all the world's great heroesThere's none that can compareWith the tow-row-row-row-ri-ro,The British Grenadiers!

A year or more ago, when we sang this old song, we thought that the days of the grenadiers were numbered, that future warfare would know them no more.

Yet here we were on Gallipoli, reverting to the grenades of the Peninsular War, and the oldRoman catapult, and even the bows and arrows. The enemy was so close to us that we could not use some of our guns to demolish his trenches. We even had to take some of our howitzers back a mile in order to hit the enemy in front of us. What a conglomeration of anomalies this war presents! In an age when our big guns can hurl huge projectiles many miles, we are compelled to fight with bows and bayonets and bombs and brickbats.

Bricks were not often used. But when the Turkish snipers "sneaked" close up to our lines through the scrub, we threw stones at the likely places. Thinking these missiles were bombs, the Turk would often run, or else disclose his position. Then we gave him a few rounds rapid.

One day a German aeroplane flew along the coast, and in plain view of the army dropped a huge bomb at our hospital ship, only missing the target by about fifty yards. There were no other ships near, so there was no excuse. This cowardly act so incensed our medical officer that he went straight out to our firing-line and threw a brick at the Turks, forty yards off. "I wear the Red Cross," he apologized, "so I cannot fireat them, and they are not supposed to fire on me. But I must show my indignation somehow."

As to the bows and arrows: this was Major Midgley's idea. At night the Turkish patrols crawled up close to our lines, and sniped away without being seen. Our flares could not be thrown far enough to show them up. So we made bows out of pine saplings and wire and sent fiery arrows into the scrub. This made the unwelcome visitors keep a respectful distance.

But if bows and bricks were only incidentals, the bombs were the real thing. In the wild bayonet charges our footballers were simply irresistible. But with the bombs our cricketers excelled. One of them exclaimed: "We've got the cows bluffed." Another boasted: "We've got 'em beaten to a frazzle"—shade of Roosevelt! Anyhow, our chaps could beat the Turks at the bomb business. Have I not already told how some of our cricketers caught the enemy's bombs and hurled them back again?

There was a picture—inPunchI think—of the incident of the Irishman who yelled out to the Germans, "How many of yez are there?" and on getting the answer "T'ousands," heheaved a bomb, saying, "Well, share that amongst ye!" The Australians have quite the same humorous appreciation of the situation. With the trenches anything between 10 and 1,000 yards apart, there was ample scope for the passing of compliments as well as bombs between the contending forces. It was quite common for a trooper to cry out: "Are you there, Abdul? Well, here's baksheesh." Or may be, "Here you are, Mohammed, here's a Christmas box"; and a hand grenade would accompany the sally. When a Turkish bomb arrived the Australian merely observed: "Maleesch," or "Ver' good, ver' nice," in imitation of the "gyppie" dragoman. If a bomb exploded right in the trench or on the parapet the real Australian "Slanguage" was sure to be heard. One Light Horseman was heard to observe as a bomb exploded over his head: "These Turks are clumsy cows; they'll be killing some of us if they ain't more careful!" Once the voice of a Hun sounded from a Turkish trench: "Come on you—kangaroo-shooters!" But prisoners told us that the German officers were rarely seen in the firing-line. They felt safer further back.

A curious incident happened in the infantry lines. A kangaroo-shooter from the Kimberley country threw a bomb at a Turkish trench only fifteen yards away, and the cries of "Allah," "Allah," told him that his aim was true. He turned to his mates and remarked casually, "That's the first man I've killed without getting into a heap of trouble." A much more unsophisticated youth—one of the recent reinforcements—had been a week in the trenches without actually seeing one of the enemy. Then a Turk jumped on the parapet, threw a bomb, and jumped down again. And the guileless one exclaimed, "That's the first Turk I've seen in his wild state!"

Lieutenant Massie, the giant Varsity cricketer, son of the General Manager of the Commercial Banking Company of Sydney—known in the 1st Brigade as "Massive"—was throwing bombs one night (he can throw bombs farther than any man on Gallipoli), and after landing a few in the Turkish trenches, he accidentally struck his hand on the back of the trench. The bomb he was about to throw rolled along the bottom of the trench and then exploded. Everybody in thevicinity bolted to the nearest traverse, so no one was hurt badly. But Massie was kept busy for a week picking bomb splinters out of himself.

Massie had several miraculous escapes since landing on Gallipoli. The closest shave occurred when he was out in front of the firing-line fixing some barbed wire. He was clambering back over the parapet when one of his own men mistook him for a Turk and lunged at him with his bayonet. Massie ducked just as if he were dodging a "straight left," but the point of the bayonet caught him in the neck, inflicting, fortunately, only a slight wound. Later he was seriously wounded, and was taken off to hospital.

There was one senior officer in the Light Horse who occasionally enjoyed fresh fish for breakfast. This was very rare on Gallipoli. The cook would never tell whence the fish came, but it was noted that the regimental supply of bombs was always one or two short. Nobody ever connected the absence of bombs with the presence of fish. But one morning very early the officer noticed the cook making stealthily in the direction of the cove. He followed. Then he saw the bombs explode in the water, and he saw the cook swimout and gather in half a dozen fine big mullet. An hour later he had delicious fresh fish for breakfast, while most of the officers had bully-beef and bacon. The officer was in a quandary. He did not know whether to court-martial the cook or promote him!

One other bomb incident I hesitate to give, as I did not see it, and cannot vouch for it. But up at Quinn's Post they swore it was true. I give it in the words of the callous-hearted soldier who told me the story. "We were giving Abdul a 'bit of hurry-up up' at Quinn's," he said. "Jim always was slow, and it settled him. He had a 5-seconds bomb, made out of a 'baccy' tin, and he was told to count one, two, three, and on the 'three' chuck the blame thing into the Turkish trenches. Well, he lit it, and it never burned too good, so he starts blowing at the fuse. He looked awful comical, and we yelled at him to 'shot.' But he kept on blowing till the dash thing exploded, and blew half his head off. He was a humorous bloke."

THE ANGEL OF DEATH ABROAD—THREE MATES—LAUGHING IN THE FACE OF DEATH—HARD SWEARERS, HARD FIGHTERS—A CURATE'S "LANGUAGE"—GERMAN AEROPLANE DROPS BOMBS ON TURKS—SAFETY IN AIR FLIGHT—"SAVE US FROM OUR FRIENDS"

"My turn at cooking comes round every third day," wrote a gunner of the 6th Battery, Victorian Division of Artillery, Anzac, at a time when victuals were not too plentiful. "I give them bully-beef and biscuits one day, and biscuits and bully-beef the next for a change. How I think with envy of the wonderful messes of pottage the mater used to make for the hens at Sandringham!... It is a most peculiar sensation at first to have 'Weary Willies' bursting over you and to see the pellets dropping on the dusty road like rain after a dry spell."

Anzacs in Reserve.Anzacs in Reserve.An Australian Brigade in dug-outs in Rest Gully

And another wrote: "The trenches are certainly the safest place to be in. One 8-inchshell took the roof (blankets) off our officers' heads, just missing Major Hunt, O.C., Lieutenant Smith and Lieutenant Perry, of our Company, by inches—not the whole shell, but a piece of it. The shell killed a couple of our men when it burst.... We were continuously at it for five solid weeks, and then we were taken to Rest Gully for a rest, which consisted of fatigues, sapping, trenching under fire and working parties on the famous beach, where 'Beachy Bill' and 'Lonely Liz' used to scatter men by the score, with also an 11-inch shell dropping now and then from the Straits. Splendid rest, this!"

Change! What change could one have there? Rest! What rest? "The Angel of Death is abroad throughout the land," said John Bright in one of his most memorable orations. "You can almost hear the beating of his wings!" But on Gallipoli you could hear the beating of his wings day and night, knowing not what the next moment might bring forth.

There were three mates in Junee, a western town of New South Wales, who used to play cricket and football together. When their country asked for soldiers they answered the call.The three enlisted together, shared the same tent in camp, and fought side by side in each successive engagement, from the landing to the fight for Lonesome Pine. One of them—Reg. Humphreys—fell with a bullet in his brain, and died in the arms of his comrade, Joe Charlton. Later in the day, Charlton fell, and the third man, Paul White, carried him back to the ship, where he died of his wounds. Out of 120 men of A Company only White and one other man remained. The rest were all killed or wounded or sick.

Such is War. And yet our boys went cheerfully on with their work. Hard work—hot work, so hot that we followed the example of the Indian Army and cut our trousers short. Very comfortable were these "shorts" when climbing about the hills. We looked like Boy Scouts. You should have seen the gunners on a hot day, stripped to the waist, and stripped from the knee to the feet—wearing their "shorts" and nothing but their "shorts"! Infantry and Light Horsemen, you could scarce tell one from the other. "Shorts" put us all on the same level. And we were all as jolly as sandboys, having our fun and cracking our jokes, reading the officialPeninsula Pressand enjoying the unofficial humour of our own trench organs, such as theDinkum Oil NewsandThe Dardanelles Driveller. We knew that Death was near, but we laughed in his face.

One day a bread ration was issued, instead of the inevitable biscuit ration. "Well, they might have given us butter with it!" exclaimed one trooper, with a smile. "Butter!" cried his mate—"you'll be wanting flowers on your grave next!"

They had many names for the Australians on Gallipoli, and one of them was "The Linguists." Some of the British Tommies used to stand in awe when they heard an Australian bullock driver giving vent to his feelings. I have even heard it said that a reputable Australian curate who went to the front in the ranks used the most disreputable language in charging a Turkish trench. One morning a German aeroplane dropped two huge bombs behind our lines. They exploded with a terrific blast, but did no damage. As the glistening bombs shot earthward, one of the men exclaimed, "'Ere comes 'er 'ymn of 'ate from 'ell!"

Another day we thought we would see an aerial duel. Already we had seen about everythingelse that twentieth-century war could show us. But the duel never came off. One of our 'planes took wing and flew north from Helles, over Anzac, towards Enos. Shortly afterwards, a German aeroplane took the air, and hovered over our lines. Evidently our airman could not see the Taube, for he circled aimlessly about over the Ægean Sea. Meanwhile, the German got quite venturesome. He sailed low—barely 2,000 feet above us—and though we blazed away with rifles and guns, he managed to have a good look at our position. Also, he dropped a couple of bombs at the right of our line before he bolted. But they fell harmlessly into the sea.

We got several good laughs every day. It made life worth living to note the wonderful good humour of our soldiers. Sometimes we laughed at the Turks, sometimes at each other. We had one great laugh at a German airman. He went up with a big bomb, evidently intent on some frightfulness. A British aeroplane immediately sighted him, and started in pursuit. Then a couple of French airmen took the air, and joined in the chase. With three of them hot on his trail, the German fled over theTurkish lines. The Allies gained on him, so to lighten his load he dropped his bomb overboard. But it landed on the Turkish trenches. They thought he must have been an enemy, for they at once opened fire with rifles, machine-guns, and anti-aircraft artillery, and the poor Taube had a very sultry time.

The Germans erected a new aerodrome, "somewhere on Gallipoli." The French airmen sighted it, dropped a few bombs, set fire to the petrol store, and did considerable damage. We had an aerial night attack on the Turkish camps at the Soghan Dere. Our aeroplanes first fired with their machine-guns at the flashes of the enemy's rifles. Then they dropped a couple of 20-lb. bombs, which burst in the centre of the Turkish camp. Finally they dropped 300 arrows amongst the bewildered enemy.

After watching the airmen operating over the Suez Canal and the Mediterranean, and in Gallipoli, we came to the conclusion that flying is easily the safest job in war time. We used to think otherwise. To the onlooker it appeared so hazardous, that the marvel was that those dare-devils were not all blown to smithereens. Butfor about three months, we watched them at work, and not a hair of one of their heads was harmed. Time and again the airman sailed across the enemy's lines, while their anti-aircraft guns worked overtime. The blue of the sky was flecked with white puffs of smoke where the shells burst, yet the aeroplane flew on serenely. I counted forty-one shells one day, which burst all round one of our airmen on reconnaissance. Many seemed to go very close indeed; others flew wide of the mark. The Turkish trenches would spring to life as our 'planes passed over, and thousands of rounds would be poured into the atmosphere. Their machine-guns would sound the rataplan as the belts were emptied. But the wild fusillade never disconcerted the airmen. All of which proves what an exceedingly difficult target the aeroplane must be.

We did not have any Zeppelins buzzing round the Dardanelles. Perhaps they were too busily engaged on their baby-killing enterprises on the east coast of old England. The nearest thing we had was an observation balloon, looking for all the world like a huge German sausage suspended in mid-air. But it was very helpful to our warships for observation purposes.

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