CHAPTER XXIISERGEANTS THREE

DEATH OF DIGGES LA TOUCHE—A GREAT SPIRITUAL LOSS—THE CROSS AND THE CRESCENT—A SPLENDID RECORD—ANDREW GILLISON'S DEATH—A GALLANT CHRISTIAN SOLDIER—DUTY'S SACRIFICE

La Touche is dead....

Digges La Touche, the brilliant scholar, the fervid evangelist, the militant divine, the fiery orator, the pugnacious debater, the uncompromising Unionist, the electric Irishman—Digges La Touche, the patriot, is dead: killed in his first battle, yea, in the first minute of his first battle.

It came as a shock to those of us who knew him in camp. It will come as a bigger shock to those who knew him in the Church, for it seems scarcely more than a month since they bade him God-speed in Sydney. He landed in Gallipolion August 5, the eve of the big battle. That night he went into the trenches. Next day he participated in the gallant charge of the First Brigade which found its culmination in the capture of Lone Pine Ridge. But La Touche never reached the Turkish trenches. Charging at the head of his platoon, he had barely got beyond our own trenches when a bullet struck him in the body. He fell. Later he managed to crawl back to our trenches—and died.

For ten months he had pleaded with Church and State to let him serve as a soldier of the king. For ten weeks he wore the uniform of an officer of the Australian Imperial Force. For ten hours he did duty in the trenches. For ten brief seconds he knew the wild exultation of the charge. Then there passed away a great-hearted Britisher, strong of soul and clear of vision, who counted it a great privilege to fight and die for his king and country. The Crescent had glorified the Cross.

The pity of it all was that none of his friends knew he had arrived. The Dean of Sydney—Chaplain-Colonel Talbot—was about to read the burial service over eighteen soldiers who hadperished in the charge. He heard the name, and looked and saw his friend. That was the first he knew of Lieutenant La Touche's arrival on Gallipoli—his arrival and departure.

When we of the Sixth Light Horse first went into camp at Rosebery Park, La Touche was there with the Thirteenth Battalion, under Colonel Burnage, one of the most popular, as he afterwards proved one of the most gallant, officers who ever donned a uniform. Dr. Digges La Touche desired first to go as a chaplain, but was not selected. Far be it from me to reflect on the judgment of the Archbishop of Perth who selected the Anglican chaplains, but I have seen chaplains with not one tithe of the qualifications that La Touche had for the job. Failing selection as a chaplain, he enlisted as a private in the First Contingent. But he was not over-robust and was transferred to the Second Contingent, and rose to be a colour-sergeant in the Thirteenth. The Primate objected to ministers serving as soldiers, and the friends of Digges La Touche time and again urged him to remain behind. But his determination was fixed, and though health considerations compelled his withdrawalfrom the Thirteenth Battalion he attended an officers' training school and gained a commission as second lieutenant; and he left Sydney in June with the Sixth Reinforcements of the Second Battalion. Then, after a brief spell in Egypt, he came to Gallipoli.

Before he got his commission La Touche was a great recruiting sergeant. He never left in the minds of his hearers any doubts as to his opinion of Prussian militarism and savagery. His addresses on the war were fiery orations, inspiring men to patriotic self-sacrifice and zeal for Empire. He summoned all the riches of his intellect to confound, refute and castigate the nation that had done such scathe to Belgium. And though no Turk or Hun died by his hand, Dr. La Touche inspired many young Australians to take their place in the firing-line. Some of these were with him in the fatal charge. He saw them dash on through the bursting shrapnel, and he heard the cheers of victory as they gained the parapets, bayoneted the defenders and captured the position. As one thinks of him cut off in the prime of life, when the unbalanced enthusiasm of his youth had hardly been tempered by experience,there comes a feeling of revolt against the decrees of the God of Battles.

But Everard Digges La Touche was only one of the many brilliant young men who have laid down their lives in this cruel war. Remembering the inspiration of his example, one feels that he did not die in vain.

Others will speak of his scholarship—he was a student in law, arts and theology, and a lecturer of Trinity College, Dublin, before he went to Australia. I have seen him in the pulpit, in Synod and on the public platform, but I leave it to others to appraise his churchmanship. I merely record, with heartfelt sorrow, how Lieutenant La Touche died a soldier's death on Gallipoli.

The Church Militant! Was it ever so militant as now, when all the powers of darkness, all the forces of the Devil, are arrayed against Christianity and all the manifold blessings of Civilization? Look at stricken Belgium and the battlefields of France, where hundreds of priests combine their holy offices as chaplains with the duties of the soldier, a Bible in one hand, a sword in the other! See, at the head of Russian armies, priests leadingthe soldiers into battle! And here, on Gallipoli ...

We have our chaplains, and we have ministers of the Gospel fighting as "happy warriors" in the ranks. Digges La Touche had the character of the happy warrior, who

While the mortal mist is gathering, drawsHis breath in confidence of Heaven's applause.

But it matters little whether they go forth as armed men in the Great Crusade, or to fight the good fight by ministering to the dying, or to read the burial service over the dead, they all must needs be brave men, ready to risk their lives. Death is very close to all of us in this war—chaplains, doctors, stretcher-bearers and all.

Brave men, yes. Fighting parsons, soldier saints, whether they be chaplains, or whether they have forsaken the study for the stricken field, the pulpit for the platoon, or whether they be in the Army Medical Corps, heroes of the Red Cross of Geneva. Some have been killed, some wounded.

Andrew Gillison is one of those who has gone to his rest—one of Gallipoli's heroes. Chaplain-Captain Andrew Gillison, of the Fourteenth Battalion, Fourth Infantry Brigade, was thefirst of the Australian army chaplains to be killed. Prior to the war—and that seems a long, long time ago—he was a minister of St. George's Presbyterian Church, East St. Kilda, and before that he was at St. Paul's, Brisbane. He was well known and greatly loved throughout the whole Presbyterian Church of Australia. He was no sour-visaged, long-faced Christian. His religion was cheerful, optimistic and joyous. I met him at St. Andrew's, Cairo, and then I knew why the Fourth Brigade almost worshipped him. On the transport he was a prime favourite. He sang a good comic song. He entered into the boxing tournament. He won his first bout in fine style. Then he got a hiding, and took his beating like a man.

It was meet that such a man should die giving his life for another. Greater love hath no man than this; and Andrew Gillison would not have willed it otherwise. It was while performing a work of necessity and mercy on Sunday morning, August 22, that he was shot, and he died a few hours afterwards.

The New Zealand and Australian Division had made a most gallant attack on the hills occupiedby the Turks. Pressing home the attack with the bayonet, they drove the enemy from trench to trench and from ridge to ridge. Deeds of valour were performed day after day and night after night. Heroes died on every side, with no historian to tell how gallantly they died. One of these young Australians was wounded in the charge, and lay some distance behind the advanced position. It was then that two fighting parsons came along a communication trench, which was comparatively safe from rifle fire, but offered little protection from shrapnel. From a slight hollow they saw the wounded man, in evident agony, raise his hand, and try to move. Captain Gillison and Corporal Pittenrigh—who is a Methodist minister when not a soldier—decided to try to effect a rescue, though they knew a machine-gun was trained on the trench, and had been warned to beware of snipers. Mounting the parapet, they crawled along some distance towards the wounded man. A couple of bullets zipped by, but they pushed on. More bullets flew, and both the rescuers were wounded.

Then they tried to regain the shelter of the trench, and Gillison was wounded again, but hiscompanion managed to scramble in. Mortally wounded in the chest and the side, the poor chaplain lay in the open, but was soon carried in and conveyed to the field hospital. He was conscious for a while and cheerful, though he knew his hours were numbered. He was able to greet Chaplains F. Colwell and G. T. Walden, who had just arrived with Colonel Holmes's Australian Brigade, and Chaplain J. M. Dale of Brisbane. Before two o'clock he was dead, dying as he had lived, a gallant Christian soldier.

That night, wrapped in a Union Jack, he was buried. It was bright moonlight. Out in the Ægean the warships and hospital ships lay passive. Back in the hills sounded the ceaseless rattle of musketry. Chaplain-Colonel E. N. Merrington conducted a brief service, at which were chaplains of all denominations and several officers and men of his brigade and battalion. The little shallow grave lies a couple of miles north of Anzac, on the edge of the five-mile beach that stretches on to Suvla Bay. As with the hero of Corunna, "we carved not a line, and we raised not a stone—but we left him alone with his glory." His comrades went back to the firing-line with the memoryof his self-sacrifice to cheer them on. And we thought then of Longfellow's beautiful lines—

Dust thou art, to dust returneth,Was not spoken of the soul.

Soon the battalion will erect a little wooden cross over his grave—one more of those little wooden crosses that are so numerous on Gallipoli. We who knew and loved him will never forget Andrew Gillison.

PARKES, TRESILIAN, ELLIS—POSITION OF THE NON-COMS.—THE "FIGHTING SIXTH"—THE GERMAN SPY AGAIN—EASILY BEATS THE CENSOR—WHAT THE NIGGERS KNEW ABOUT US—PADDY RYAN'S LUCK

Non-commissioned officers are the backbone of the British army!

This is high praise, of course, yet it is well merited; and I think the same tribute can be paid to the non-coms. of the Australian Imperial Force.

For our non-coms. hold their office by virtue of their merit. It is simply a case of the survival of the fittest. We all started off scratch. There was keen competition for stripes when our regiment was first formed. The best men were selected. There was no favouritism. Some old soldiers had an initial advantage, but all theappointments were provisional at first, and they were all tried in the crucible. Only the pure gold was retained; the baser metal was rejected.

The result was that when the 6th Light Horse Regiment left Sydney it had a body of non-commissioned officers who would compare favourably with any in the world. It was a great pity that the people of Sydney never saw the "Fighting Sixth" ride through the metropolis. In Egypt they were reckoned the best mounted regiment that ever left Australia. The limelight has been turned right on to subsequent volunteers. Other contingents—months and months and months after we left—bathed in the smiles of the multitude. Special trains were run in order that the country folk should see them. But our brigade, the 2nd Light Horse Brigade, comprising the 5th, 6th and 7th L.H. Regiments, were hunted off like thieves in the night. In deadly secrecy we struck camp. In the dawn hush we stealthily slunk through the city streets. We were all on board the transports before Sydney was well awake. The papers were not allowed to publish a line about our departure. So the country folk came to see their sons and brothers off—toolate. The whole city knew it—too late. Every German spy in Australia knew it—early. When we arrived at Aden a nigger on the gangway of the transport told us to a man the constitution of the force, the number of ships, and our destination. So cleverly had our censors concealed our movements!

So it is a pity the brigade never rode with clinking snaffles and clanking stirrups through the city—more for the sake of the city than the soldiers themselves. Also because many of our soldiers will never again see George Street, or Pitt Street, or Martin Place, or Macquarie Street. The wastage of war has had its effect. We have been under fire day and night. Snipers have taken their toll. Machine-guns have added to the casualties. Shrapnel shells and high explosives have torn gaps in our ranks. In killed and wounded we have lost over half our original strength.

There were three sergeants of the 6th Light Horse Regiment, who now are resting in little shallow graves in Gallipoli. Never again will they watch the sun go down in splendour into the Ægean Sea. When we go marching into Berlinthey will be with us—but only in spirit; and when the war is over and the boys from the bush ride home again, there will be three sergeants missing. But their names will be emblazoned on Australia's roll of honour. And we of the Sixth won't forget Sergeant Sid Parkes, Sergeant F. R. Tresilian, and Sergeant Fred Ellis.

Sid Parkes was small and slight, so small that he was almost rejected by the medical examiner. He had to show his South African record, and remind the doctor that giants were not wanted in the Light Horse, but light, active, wiry horsemen. So he just scraped through and went into camp. I remember him at Rosebery Park. Not much over five feet three, only about nine stone, but active and strong. He knew his mounted drill like a book, and he knew how to handle men; so he soon got his three stripes—and stuck to them. The men liked him. The officers appreciated him. We saw several other sergeants made and unmade, but Parkes of B Squadron was a fixture.

Already he had seen four years' peace service, and eighteen months' active service in South Africa with the New South Wales MountedRifles. So he brought the lessons of his previous experience to bear on his new job. On parade he did his duty well. Off duty he was a humorist, and as care-free as a schoolboy. On the transport he entered into all the fun going. In Egypt he played the game. Somehow, I always thought Parkes would come safely through the war. We joked together the night we first went into the trenches, never anticipating ill. Yet he was the first man of the regiment killed in the trenches. A sniper's bullet came through a loophole and killed him on the spot.

Frederick George Ellis, sergeant in C Squadron, was an Englishman from Hants. He had spent five years in the Royal Navy, some of the time on the China station. He was one of the few survivors of H.M.S.Tiger, which was rammed and sunk during the naval manœuvres off Spithead. Three years ago he came to Australia to get colonial experience, prior to settling on the land. A few years in the nor'-west, at Bogamildi and Terala stations, transformed the sailor into a bushman. So he came to Sydney when war broke out, and joined the 6th Light Horse.He rose to be lance-sergeant. On July 12 he was killed by a shrapnel shell on Holly Ridge. Several of our fellows were killed and wounded that day, for the Turks dropped 200 shells on the Light Horse lines, and for an hour or two it was terrific.

A strong, dominant personality was Tresilian, one of the very best troop sergeants that ever joined the Light Horse. He seemed to love the firing-line like home. He was quite fearless. Somehow he seemed to revel in the roar of battle. On one occasion the Turks sent a dozen shells at our little section of the trenches, smashing down the parapets, making the place a wreck, wounding two men, and half blinding, half deafening, half choking, half burying six of us. When I could see and hear and breathe again I saw Tresilian laughing merrily. "Hello, Bluegum," he said, "not killed yet?"

He came from Humula, near Wagga, where his people were well-known farmers. Till a young man he remained on the farm, and was known throughout the district as a good "sport"—a good cricketer and footballer, and a fine riderand shot, just the typical Australian Light Horseman, though more sturdily built than the average. He tired, however, of the farm, and yearned for the freer life of the Western plains. So he tackled station life, became a station manager, rode over the whole of the north-west, went to the Northern Territory in search of pastoral lands, and when the war broke out was managing a station in the Boggabri district. He had seen service in South Africa, and he once more volunteered to serve the King.

On Gallipoli his scouting and patrol work were excellent. He seemed to have a charmed life, for he had many narrow escapes in the open and in the trenches. On the day he was killed a bullet whizzed past his head, just wounding his cheek slightly. Later on he and Sergeant Paddy Ryan were putting barbed wire entanglements in front of our trenches. A sniper's rifle cracked. Ryan escaped. Tresilian fell dead.

RUM AND MAILS—"BATTLE OF MAIL RUM"—LETTERS FROM HOME—MARRIAGE NO FAILURE—AN UNFORGIVABLE LOSS—THE CLERGYMAN'S "LANGUAGE"—PAPER SCARCE—FAMINE IN ENVELOPES—"NO STAMPS"—FOOLING THE TURKS—"WELL OUT OF IT"

"Serves 'em right, for sinking our mails and spilling our rum!"

This remark broke from the angry lips of one of our Light Horsemen as our artillery inflicted a terrific bombardment on the enemy. The Turks replied vigorously, and the result was an inferno; shells bursting everywhere, gaping holes torn in the inoffensive earth, trench parapets levelled, soldiers slaughtered. Then, as our warships steamed up and added their quota to the conflict, the trooper reiterated, "Serve 'em right!"

For a moment we wondered what he was driving at. Then we remembered that a few days ago some unlucky Turkish shells had landed on a barge coming from one of the supply ships to Anzac, and had sunk it. This caused us but slight concern till we found out that several casks of rum were spilled, and 250 bags of mails from Australia were sent to the bottom of the sea. Then, as our ships' guns sent another salvo, we too exclaimed, "Serve 'em right."

We did not mind the rum so much, for the Army Service Corps had quite enough on hand for our ration when the issue was due. But every Australian on Gallipoli bitterly resented the loss of the mails. It made us really angry. Some of our chaps reckoned that the loss of the mails and rum was the prime cause of the big battle which ensued during the early days of August. So they have called it the Battle of Mail Rum. Historians, however, will probably call this sanguinary struggle the Battle of Suvla Bay.

Good folk at home, and even of the out-back country, receive mails pretty regularly. We get ours once a fortnight, or once a month, orat even longer intervals. I do not join in the general chorus of condemnation of our postal service, for since the time I enlisted nearly twelve months ago all my letters and parcels have come duly to hand, while, so far as I know, none of my letters to Australia have gone astray. When we came to Gallipoli we naturally expected some break in the continuity of the service—and we got it. One reason is that, while the New Zealanders provided an up-to-date, well-equipped postal service, the Australians had only a skeleton postal corps—shockingly undermanned. Hence the congestion at Alexandria and Lemnos and the belated arrival of letters at Anzac.

There is nothing that cheers the soldiers up so much as letters from home. You see their eyes light up with pleasure as the postal orderlies toil up the hill with the mail bags. The postal corporal is the most popular man in the army. But he always seems so slow with his sorting. Those of us not in the trenches crowd round him and pounce eagerly on our precious missives. I have seen a great, hulking, swearing, unshaven trooper grab his letter, sneak into his dug-out, and kiss reverently some love-letter from a sweetheartback in sunny New South Wales; or perhaps it was from his mother or sister away in the great West land. And I've seen anxious troopers, with yearning eyes, hang round till the last letter and postcard were sorted—then wander away silently, and gaze dry-eyed over the blue Mediterranean.

Some of our fellows are married men, and some of these married men used jokingly to say that they had enlisted to get away from ... never mind; but I know that there was not one of them but spent half his time thinking of the old and the middle-aged and the young folks at home—not one of them but would have given the world to be able to take a peep at the wife who scanned the casualty lists so eagerly as they appeared in the papers, and the kiddies who strutted round proudly, saying, "Daddy's gone to the war."

It's cruel to be forgotten by the home folk when fighting the battles of one's country; but most of our chaps are loyal, and they always blamed the post office. One time our 6th L.H. Regiment mail had not arrived, and I stood by miserably watching other lucky devils gettingtheir letters. Suddenly my eye caught the address on a newspaper, "To any lonely soldier in the Australian army." I immediately grabbed it. There was a protest from the postal official, who said the paper was not addressed to me, and that unclaimed papers are considered as "baksheesh" for the postal corporal. I pointed out that it was not unclaimed, since I had claimed it; and that as I at that moment was a lonely soldier it was clearly addressed to me. There was a fine row, but I won my case—and the paper.

Always at the end of the sorting there are many, many letters unclaimed. And the Regimental Sergeant-Major goes through the list, and with heavy red pencil writes "killed," "wounded," or "missing" on the envelope. What a tragedy lies hidden in these little heaps of letters to dead soldiers who can never read them!

It was no small loss, that barge with 250 mail bags from Australia. When I saw the barge sink I repeated the prayer of the popular English preacher, who exclaimed, "God damn the Sultan!" Why should that love-laden barge be the mark for the Turkish gunners? And why,after the hundreds of boats they have missed, should they get a bull's-eye there? It is sad to think of the thousands of soldiers who will never know the loving thoughts penned in those precious missives. Many will wonder why friends and relations have never written. And folks at home will be wondering why they got no answer.

For a time we simply could not write home. There was an envelope famine onGallipoli.Not a single envelope could be had for love or money. We readdressed our old envelopes, or turned them inside out. We made post cards out of cardboard and cigarette boxes. Some of us even wrote home on the biscuits, which were warranted not to break. We waylaid sailors on the beach and offered fabulous prices for paper and envelopes. We wrote to our friends in Ma'adi and to the stores in Alexandria. But it's a long, long way to Egypt, and it seemed a long, long time before the envelope famine was relieved. That's one reason why some of our chaps never wrote home. Another reason was that we were all so tired after our turn in the trenches and the eternal "dig on, dig ever." As for stamps, everybody in Australia knows thelegend on the soldier's envelope: "No stamps available."

Some of the letters home were delightfully ingenuous. Nearly all were brimful of cheerfulness. Now and then there was a growl; but we knew it wouldn't help the home folk if we complained, so I might paraphrase the Psalmist and say that all our men were liars—cheerful liars. I told you of the trooper who wrote home, "Dear aunt, this war is a fair cow." But that was exceptional. Most of the soldiers told cheerful lies about the good time they were having, the romance of war, the excitement of battle, and the exhilaration of victory. They told of the tricks they played on the Turks, the dummies they held above the parapets for Abdul to snipe at, the "stunts" for drawing the fire from the enemy's trenches, the risky excitement of bomb duels, the joy of swimming while "Beachy Bill" was showering shrapnel over them, and the extortionate rates charged by the sailor on the beach for condensed milk and chocolates.

But a real "grouse"—never. Well, hardly ever. And when there was one, depend upon it there was some good reason for it. I rememberone. It was when a man in Australia wrote to a friend at Anzac: "We're having a rather bad drought in this district; you're well out of it." The man at Anzac fairly lost his temper. He wrote back: "Come over here." And after painting a picture of a battle or two—a real growl, if ever there was one—he concluded: "It's nearly as bad as your drought, and you're 'well out of it'."

Later, I was told, these two men met on the bloodstained fields of Gallipoli.

BATTLE-WORN VETERANS—"FOR THIS RELIEF MUCH THANKS"—THE "SOUTHLAND"—ONE OF THE GRAND THINGS OF THE WAR—WAR'S TERRIBLE WASTAGE—CIVILIZATION ONLY SKIN-DEEP—AUSTRALIA WILL ALWAYS BE PROUD

At last the Second Australian Division arrived in Gallipoli, and their advent meant that we of the First Australian Division would get a well-earned relief—and "for this relief much thanks."

We had been waiting for some time for our comrades to come and take over the trenches, and it was good for our tired eyes when we saw General Holmes and his 5th Infantry Brigade landing on Gallipoli.

We note that nearly all the new-comers had the name of their home town printed in indelible ink on the front of their hats. So it felt just like arailway journey all over New South Wales to see the brigade marching by. There we saw Bathurst, Maitland, Goulburn, Glen Innes, Wellington, Dubbo, Kiama, Kempsey, Moree, Cootamundra, Albury, Hay, Dungog, Tamworth, Nowra, Narrandera, Yass, and scores of other towns and villages scattered over the length and breadth of New South Wales. The next thing we noted was that all the new-comers looked big and strong and fit. They looked just like our First Australian Division when it marched out of Mena.

General Legge and the Headquarters Staff of the Second Division had a lot of luck getting to Gallipoli at all, for theSouthlandwas torpedoed with them on board. It is believed that an Austrian submarine did it. Our casualties were about twenty killed and fifteen drowned, Brigadier-General Linton dying after he was rescued from the water. It happened at about ten o'clock on the morning of September 2. The S.O.S. wireless signal was immediately sent off, and seven boats eventually steamed up to the rescue. The troops behaved magnificently, and were all put into the boats without much trouble. Thefiremen and stewards, however, got panicky, and three were shot before they sobered down.

But theSouthlanddid not sink. So the skipper called for volunteers to take the ship back to Lemnos, and fifty Australians took on the job. General Legge and Staff stayed on board also. One soldier had a stroke of luck. He was blown unhurt into the air, and by the time he came down the water was in the hold, and he landed softly and safely.

The behaviour of our troops upon theSouthlandis to be numbered among the grand things of this war—one of the grandest. It has been likened to theBirkenhead.

When the Second Australian Division arrived how few of the old hands were left from the heroic band that landed on April 25! Just to show something of the wastage of war, here are some authentic figures. Of the 1,200 men in the 3rd Battalion who marched out of Kensington Racecourse, 100 were left. Eleven hundred were among the killed, wounded, missing and sick. Of the original sergeant's mess of the same battalion fifty-six left Kensington; five remained, and of these four were officers. The original G Company had 121 men—eight are left. Of the original 2nd Battalion, sixty remain out of 1,200. Of course, the majority of these are sick and wounded, and will rejoin their battalions. It is the immediate wastage that affects the army. That's why we want a continual stream of reinforcements.

Of the First Australian Division there remained on Anzac only the 2nd Light Horse Brigade, and the 3rd Infantry Brigade—plus, of course, the artillery and engineers. We were daily expecting to get our well-earned spell, and retire to the islands of the blessed in the Ægean Sea.

General Ryrie's brigade of Light Horsemen had their fair share of casualties. Of the original three regiments, Lieutenant-Colonel Cox's 6th, Lieutenant-Colonel Harris's 5th, and Lieutenant-Colonel Arnott's 7th, had 110 killed, 550 wounded and 1,050 sick with dysentery and enteric and other ills, or a total of 1,710 casualties. But the reinforcements kept us fairly up to strength.

Brigadier-General Ryrie, the brigade-major, Major Foster, and the staff captain, Captain Pollok, were all wounded. Of the fifty New South Wales officers of the brigade who landed onGallipoli, the orderly-officer, Lieutenant Hogue, and the adjutant of the 6th Light Horse, Captain Somerville, were the only two who had not been killed, wounded or sick. A great many officers who had been sick and wounded, after a month or two in hospital returned to duty.

The landing of the 3rd Brigade, and the subsequent terrific three days' fighting on the heights of Gallipoli by the 1st, 2nd and 3rd Brigades made Wolfe's exploit on the Heights of Abraham sound like a picnic. The thrilling capture of Lone Pine by the 1st Brigade was one of the finest exploits of the war, while the splendid defence of that stronghold by the 2nd Infantry Brigade and the 2nd Light Horse Brigade against the repeated counter-attacks of the Turks was worthy of all praise. The magnificent charge of the 2nd Infantry Brigade down at Helles made the British and French troops thrill with pride. The charge of the 1st Light Horse Brigade at Walker's Ridge was a glorious sacrifice. Australians have every reason always to be proud of the first fights of her First Division.

THE NEW WARFARE—ALTOGETHER UTILITARIAN—ITS HUMOUR AND PATHOS—THE LUCK OF THE GAME—GOD'S ACRE—AERIAL WARFARE—GALLANT DEEDS—GENERAL RYRIE

My dug-out overlooked Shell Green.

From the comparative safety of this retreat I could sit and watch the pomp and circumstance of war, its pageantry and pathos.

To be sure there was little that was picturesque in war as we saw it in Gallipoli. There was no martial music. The "thin red line" had given place to drab khaki. There were no fiery war-horses with tossing manes and champing bits, no dashing cavalrymen with flashing sabres. There were no gun teams, spanking bays and blacks, for we had to man-handle the guns up and down the hills into action. The nearest approach to a pageant was when the British fleet flew alongthe Ægean waterway, and fired some reverberating salvos at the Turkish batteries.

Ashore all was strictly utilitarian; no ceremony, no display. It was midsummer, so we curtailed our trousers and wore shorts. Our shirts were sleeveless. Putties and leggings were mostly discarded. When out of the trenches shirts were usually considered superfluous. Our backs and arms and legs were so sun-tanned that the brownest of the beach surfers at Bondi would envy our complexions. So when on fatigues or off duty it was a tatterdemalion army that marched to and fro over Shell Green.

Humour and pathos were strangely intermingled. We saw after a skirmish a score of fine young Australians laid out for burial, wounds gaping and clothes blood-clotted. Our hearts were wrung with anguish for mothers and sisters and wives back in the great South Land, ignorant as yet of their bereavement. A minute later the antics of some humorist would set the camp roaring with laughter. Anon some of our chaps would be wounded, and carried in on stretchers; then some bolting mules or a wrecked dug-out, or an explosion in the commissariat would set uslaughing again. It is this saving grace of humour, as I have written before, that made life worth living in Gallipoli; but it also made the Gurkhas and the Tommies wonder what manner of men we were. The Englishmen regarded the Gallipoli campaign with great seriousness. The Indians appeared stoically indifferent. The Australians regard the whole show as a great adventure.

It's not hard to guess how Shell Green got its name. No gift for nomenclature is needed to find names for Hell Spit, Casualty Corner, The Bloody Angle, or Shell Green. The whole green is pitted with holes made by the enemy's shells. Some months ago these shells played havoc with our men. Some were killed as they lay in their dug-outs, others slaughtered on their way to and from the beach, some while in swimming. But we learned our lesson. We got to know the safety spots and the danger zones. Day after day the shells fell harmlessly, pock-marking the face of the earth, but doing us no ill. The Turks thought we had guns on Shell Green. So when our artillery got busy, the Turks blazed away, "searching" the area. But after four months' searching they failed to silence our guns. The remarks of ourtroopers as the shells landed were many and varied, but all were inspired by a quaint, unquenchable humour. When the quartermaster's store of the 4th Light Horse was wrecked, and four soldiers crawled uninjured from the débris, their mates called out, "Your luck's in. Get a ticket in Tatt.'s."

There are many graves on Shell Green—graves of Australian heroes. There's a little God's acre near the crest of the hill, overlooking the blue Ægean Sea. Sometimes towards evening the Turks tired of their fierce fusillade, and all seemed peaceful and quiet. The report of an odd sniper's rifle sounded more like the crack of a stock-whip. The sun sank in splendour on Samothrace, and the gloaming hour was sweet with meditation and thoughts of home. It darkened, and only the searchlights of the destroyers and the green streak of the hospital ship reminded us of war. We had our burials mostly in the evening. The padre came along, and a few of the dead soldier's friends straggled down from the trenches. The services were short but impressive. The shallow grave was filled in, and a rude cross marked the spot. Here's where we buried Colonel Harris, the lovedleader of the 5th; Lieutenant Robson, the genial quartermaster of the 6th; Lieutenant Thorne, the brilliant Duntroon footballer, of the 7th; giant Gordon Flanagan, who was shot through the heart while asleep in his dug-out; Tresilian, the dare-devil sergeant, who revelled in battle; and many more gallant horsemen of the 2nd Brigade, who will never more hear the réveillé.

Shells and bullets were not the only things that flew over Shell Green. Aeroplanes were frequent visitors. Mostly they were French or British, but now and then a German Taube streaked overhead, dropped a bomb or two, or a shower of darts, and then bolted for safety back to Turkish territory. So far we had not witnessed a duel in the heavens. It's about the one thing we missed. Several times we saw our airmen give chase to the Germans, but the latter never waited for a bout. One day we thought we were going to see an aerial scrap, and like rabbits from their burrows, the whole troglodyte population of Shell Green emerged from their dug-outs to witness the spectacle. A Taube appeared over Suvla Bay, and a British airman took the air at Helles, and started in pursuit. The anti-aircraft guns of the Turksopened on our plane, and flecked the blue with a dozen shells, but scored no hit. Our gunners opened on the Taube, and made far better practice than the enemy, but could not bring the machine to earth. The two planes streaked across the sky like huge eagles, with outstretched wings. The Taube manœuvred over the German guns, and our airman followed, despite the unfriendly greeting of the landlubbers below. We on Anzac focussed our binoculars and strained our eyes till the fliers passed beyond the hills. Finally we heard the Taube had justified the maxim, "Discretion is the better part of valour." Just as the aerial exhibition was over a couple of high explosives burst on Shell Green, and the "rabbits" bolted once more to their burrows.

It is the little incidents that relieve the monotony of war. I have seen some gallant deeds done here on Shell Green. One day a shell cut a telephone line between our observation post and a battery. It happened to be right on the most dangerous spot on the Green. But without a moment's hesitation a signaller sauntered out established the connexion, and sauntered back, despite the shrapnel. I saw Captain Evans, thelittle medical officer of the 7th, time and again streaking across the danger zone and tending men under fire. I have heard the cry, "Stretcher-bearers," and on the instant the devoted A.M.C. men have grabbed stretchers, and bolted to the rescue; this not once, but a hundred times. Some day I'll get a virgin vellum roll, a pen richly chased and jewelled, and in letters of gold I'll try to tell the people of Australia something of the heroism of these stretcher-bearers.

Brigadier-General G. Ryrie.Brigadier-General G. Ryrie.

It was on Shell Green that the genial General Ryrie was injured. If he had been more careful of his own skin he would have got off scot-free. But a shell had just landed amongst the "rabbits," and the cry of "Stretcher-bearers" told us that some of the boys had stopped a bit of shrapnel. Without a second's thought General Ryrie walked out on to the Green from headquarters with his brigade major and orderly officer.... "You know, Foster," he said to the former, "they could get us here too."

No sooner were the words out of his mouth than there was a crash. Shrapnel splinters and pellets zipped all round us. The cook's camp was a wreck. Pots and pans were perforatedprettily. For a second I thought that no one was hit, for cook crawled out of the débris grinning. Then I heard the General in his cheery voice exclaim: "Holy Moses, they've got me where the chicken got the axe."

It was a close shave. The bullet entered the right side of the neck, penetrated a few inches, and stopped right on the sheath of the carotid artery. A fraction of an inch further and it would have been "Good night, nurse." ... That night the old brigadier was taken off to the hospital ship and on to Alexandria. Colonel Cox of our 6th Light Horse Regiment took temporary command of our brigade.

THE LUCK OF THE GAME—UNKNOWN HEROES—YOUNG JACKA—CAPTAIN SHOUT—LONE PINE—WILD COUNTER-ATTACKS—THE HEROIC SEVENTH—LIGHT HORSE THROSSELL—KEYZOR AND HAMILTON—MEN WHO NEVER WERE SEEN

As there passes before my mind's eye a kaleidoscopic picture of the wildly hilarious fighting of the early days of Anzac, and the rough and tumble jumble of Lone Pine, I can't help thinking of the luck of the game. "Were honour to bestow her crowns on those who had a right to them, the skull up on the battlefield would often wear a diadem."

So many unknown heroes lie buried on Anzac. So many passed the crucial test of supreme trial and with strong arm and true heart performed prodigies of valour—but no one saw them. As arule there was hardly time to take stock of everything. Time and again did individual Australians do great deeds, but the historians will never know of it. They are mostly too modest to talk of it. And the officers who might have reported and recommended are dead.

Take that wonderful landing on the fateful day, April 25, when Australia made such a gloriously picturesque début. How many men of Maclagan's gallant 3rd Brigade in that never-to-be-forgotten charge up the heights won the greatest military honour that the King can bestow. But so many officers were picked off; so many men really deserved the V.C. The only solution seemed to be the conferring of the coveted medal on the whole brigade. But there was no precedent for this. So none of them got it.

Our first Australian V.C. was young Jacka of the 4th Brigade. He was young and not of the splendid physique of most of the Australians, but he was greased lightning with the bayonet. It all happened on Courtney's Post. The Turks had been sapping in towards the front trench, and after a shower of bombs they swarmed in and captured the trench. But Lance-corporal Jacka,posted behind the traverse in the fire trench, blocked their advance. An officer and a few men hurried up and volunteers were immediately ready to eject the intruders. Then while the officer and three men engaged in a bombing exchange with Abdul, Albert Jacka jumped from the front trench into the communication trench behind, ran round and took the Turks in the rear. He shot five of them and bayoneted two. The officer's party then charged and shot the four remaining Turks who tried to escape. They found Jacka leaning up against the side of the trench with flushed face, a bloody bayonet in the end of his rifle and an unlighted cigarette in his mouth.

The boys that took Lone Pine, who did that fine charge amid a shower of lead and shrapnel such as the war had not previously seen, got no V.C. for their valour. But the lads who held the hard-won post against all the subsequent counter-attacks did manage to secure a few. One of these was Captain Shout. But he never lived to wear the cross. For three long days and longer nights he participated in the furious hand-to-hand fighting in Lone Pine. Captain Sass and Lieutenant Howell Price both did great deeds in that thrillingtime and each had several scalps to their credit. But Captain Shout with his bombing gang was ubiquitous. Laughing and cheering them on he time and again drove the Turks back, and then when he reached a point where the final sandbag barrier was to be erected, he tried to light three bombs at once and throw them amongst the crowding Turks. To throw a single bomb is a risky job. To throw three bombs simultaneously was a desperate expedient. One exploded prematurely, shattered both his hands, laid open his cheek and destroyed an eye, besides minor injuries. Conscious and still cheerful he was carried away. But he died shortly afterwards.

The heroic Seventh Battalion—victorious Victorians—participated in the great charge of the 2nd Australian Infantry Brigade down at Helles; the charge that made the French and English marvel at the dash of the young colonials. Then the Seventh managed to bag four V.C.'s in Lone Pine. The 2nd Light Horse Brigade and 2nd Infantry Brigade were holding the line against repeated counter-attacks, and it was then that Captain Fred Tubb, Lieutenant Symons, Corporal Dunstan and Corporal Burton won the V.C.On the night of August 8, while the British troops in the Suvla area were struggling to wrest the hills from the Turks, the Turks round Lone Pine were vainly endeavouring to recapture this stronghold from the Australians. On the right of the 7th Battalion things were particularly sultry, and early on the morning of the 9th some determined attacks by Abdul resulted in six of our officers and several men being killed and wounded. A bit of the front sap was lost, but Lieutenant Symons headed a charge, retook the sap, shot two of the Turks with his revolver and finally erected a barricade which defied all the attacks of the enemy. It was a bitter struggle and Abdul set fire to the overhead cover in the hope of driving back the Seventh. But the fire was extinguished and the position held for good.

It was give and take, attack and counter-attack all through August 9, that showed the qualities of pluck and determination which won the V.C. for Captain F. H. Tubb, Corporal Dunstan and Corporal Burton. Three times the enemy attacked with bombs, blew up our barricades, and swarmed into the trench, but each time Tubb and his companions returned to the assault, repulsedthe invaders, rebuilt the barricades, and in spite of a shower of bombs held the post. Captain Tubb was wounded in the head and arm, but stuck to his job and baffled all Abdul's machinations.

Lance-corporal Keyzor was one of a band of heroes who did wonders in the hell-zone at the south-eastern corner of Lone Pine. It was a murder hole and after much slaughter we found that we could not hold the outer trench, while Abdul found that he also was unable to hold it. Finally it was abandoned as no man's land. But round about here there were lively times during August. As a bomb-thrower, Keyzor was pre-eminent. He was one of those who repeatedly caught the enemy's bombs and hurled them back before they could explode. It was here that Colonel Scobie was killed shortly afterwards, and here it was that for days and nights Keyzor moved amongst the showers of bombs with dead and dying all around, and threw bombs till every muscle ached and he could not lift his arm.

Young Hamilton was very young. But lots of these young Australians had old heads on their young shoulders. It was at Lone Pine where the 3rd Battalion was defending a section of the lineagainst the repeated attacks of the Turks that young Hamilton won the coveted honour. He climbed on to the top of the parapet and with a few sandbags as a precarious shield against bombs and bullets he stayed there for five solid hours sniping merrily, potting off any stray Turks that showed up, and giving warning to the officer below each time the enemy started out to attack. There was plenty of shrapnel flying and the zip of bullets into the sandbags grew monotonous. But young Hamilton hung on.

It was away on the left of our line at Hill 60 that Lieutenant Throssell of the 10th Light Horse performed his great act of valour. There was one section of the enemy's line that obstinately defied the Australasian attack. At last the 3rd Light Horse Brigade received orders that the redoubt had to be taken. The brigadier sent the 10th Light Horse Regiment out to do the job. Just after midnight—August 28-29—the Westralians suddenly leaped on to the parapet and charged ahead. They were met with a hail of machine-gun and rifle fire and a shower of bombs, but nothing could stop those horseless horsemen. A brief mêlée on and in the Turkish trenches and theposition was won. But holding it was a far more difficult matter. Lieutenant Throssell in charge of the digging party worked overtime putting the new line in a state of defence. Soon the Turks massed for the inevitable counter-attack, and Throssell, with Captain Fry and a troop of the Light Horse, repulsed the first charge. But just as dawn was breaking the Turks came again with a shower of bombs as a prelude. The grenades were smothered as they fell or thrown back again, but Captain Fry paid the final penalty. One bomb rolled over the parapet into the trench, and spluttered. The men yelled "Let it rip." But the only safe thing to do was to smother the bomb or heave it out. The gallant captain chose the latter alternative, but the bomb exploded and killed him. The holding of this threatened elbow of the line devolved upon Throssell, who rose manfully to the occasion. With his rifle he shot half a dozen Turks and with his cheery example he heartened his command, and Abdul attacked in vain. Twice indeed they swarmed in and the Light Horsemen had to give ground. But only a few yards and a fresh barricade was immediately erected. Early in the afternoonThrossell was wounded in the shoulder. But he kept on. At four o'clock he got another bullet in the neck. He kept on. Then just after nightfall relief came and his superior officer sent him back to the field hospital.

There were other Australians who gained the V.C.—Captain Hawker of the Flying Corps, Corporal William Cosgrove of the Royal Munster Fusiliers, who did such a fine performance down at Helles, and others. But other historians will tell of their deeds. Corporal Bassett of the New Zealand Signallers won his V.C. for a daring exploit—laying a telephone wire right on to Chunuk Bair in broad daylight under a heavy fire. But Maori-land will do him full justice.

The 2nd Light Horse Brigade had a sultry time in Lone Pine during August. After the big attack early in August they complained that for twenty-four hours they did nothing but bury dead Turks. The stench was shocking—sickening. There was no time for decent burial. Dozens of Turks were placed in the short communication trenches between the lines and covered up with earth, and the ends of the trench bagged up. Partly to kill the insufferable stench the boyssmoked dozens and dozens of cigarettes.... Later on the boys had more than their share of the bombing. Sergeant Ryan won the D.C.M. But scores of the boys did big things that in lesser wars would have won distinction. Here they just were numbered with the unknown heroes. Every man on Lone Pine deserved special honour. If they had been Germans they would have been covered with iron crosses. As it is they are just satisfied that they were able to do their job. Anyhow, Australia won't forget Lone Pine.

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