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diff --git a/3306-h/3306-h.htm b/3306-h/3306-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4a305cd --- /dev/null +++ b/3306-h/3306-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,5370 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=UTF-8" /> + <title> + At Suvla Bay, by John Hargrave + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of At Suvla Bay, by John Hargrave + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: At Suvla Bay + +Author: John Hargrave + +Release Date: October 30, 2009 [EBook #3306] +Last Updated: March 15, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AT SUVLA BAY *** + + + + +Produced by Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team, +and David Widger + + + + + + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h1> + AT SUVLA BAY + </h1> + <h4> + Being The Notes And Sketches Of Scenes, Characters <br /> And Adventures Of + The Dardanelles Campaign + </h4> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h2> + By John Hargrave + </h2> + <h4> + (“White Fox” of “The Scout “) + </h4> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h5> + While Serving With The 32nd Field Ambulance, X Division, Mediterranean + Expeditionary Force, During The Great War + </h5> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + To + MINOBI + + We played at Ali Baba, + On a green linoleum floor; + Now we camp near Lala Baba, + By the blue Aegean shore. + + We sailed the good ship Argus, + Behind the studio door; + Now we try to play at “Heroes” + By the blue Aegean shore. + + We played at lonely Crusoe, + In a pink print pinafore; + Now we live like lonely Crusoe, + By the blue Aegean shore. + + We used to call for “Mummy,” + In nursery days of yore; + And still we dream of Mother, + By the blue Aegean shore. + + While you are having holidays, + With hikes and camps galore; + We are patching sick and wounded, + By the blue Aegean shore. + + J. H. +</pre> + <p> + <br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Salt Lake Dug-out, + September 12th, 1915. + (Under shell-fire.) +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TURKISH WORDS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Sirt—summit. + Dargh—mountain. + Bair or bahir—spur. + Burnu—cape. + Dere—valley or stream. + Tepe—hill. + Geul—lake. + Chesheme—spring. + Kuyu—well. + Kuchuk—small. + Tekke—Moslem shrine. + Ova—plain. + Liman—bay or harbour. + Skala—landing-place. + Biyuk—great. +</pre> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <blockquote> + <p class="toc"> + <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big> + </p> + <p> + <br /> <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> TURKISH WORDS </a><br /><br /> <a + href="#link2H_4_0002"> <b>AT SUVLA BAY</b> </a><br /><br /><br /> <a + href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I. </a> IN WHICH MY KING AND + COUNTRY NEED ME <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II. </a> A + LONG WAY TO TIPPERARY <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III. + </a> SNARED <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV. + </a> CHARACTERS <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER + V. </a> I HEAR OF HAWK <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0006"> + CHAPTER VI. </a> ON THE MOVE <br /><br /> <a + href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII. </a> MEDITERRANEAN NIGHTS + <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII. </a> THE + CITY OF WONDERFUL COLOUR: ALEXANDRIA <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0009"> + CHAPTER IX. </a> MAROONED ON LEMNOS ISLAND <br /><br /> <a + href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER X. </a> THE NEW LANDING <br /><br /> + <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER XI. </a> THE KAPANJA SIRT + <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER XII. </a> THE + SNIPER-HUNT <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER XIII. </a> THE + ADVENTURE OF THE WHITE PACK-MULE <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0014"> + CHAPTER XIV. </a> THE SNIPER OF THE PEAR-TREE GULLY <br /><br /> + <a href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER XV. </a> KANGAROO BEACH + <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER XVI. </a> THE + ADVENTURE OF THE LOST SQUADS <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0017"> CHAPTER + XVII. </a> "OH, TO BE IN ENGLAND!” <br /><br /> <a + href="#link2HCH0018"> CHAPTER XVIII. </a> TWO MEN RETURN + <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0019"> CHAPTER XIX. </a> THE + RETREAT <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0020"> CHAPTER XX. </a> "JHILL-O! + JOHNNIE!” <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0021"> CHAPTER XXI. </a> SILVER + BAY <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0022"> CHAPTER XXII. </a> DUG-OUT + YARNS <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0023"> CHAPTER XXIII. </a> THE + WISDOM OF FATHER S—— <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0024"> + CHAPTER XXIV. </a> THE SHARP-SHOOTERS <br /><br /> <a + href="#link2HCH0025"> CHAPTER XXV. </a> A SCOUT AT SUVLA BAY + <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0026"> CHAPTER XXVI. </a> THE + BUSH-FIRES <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0027"> CHAPTER XXVII. </a> THE + DEPARTURE <br /><br /> <a href="#link2HCH0028"> CHAPTER XXVIII. </a> LOOKING + BACK <br /><br /> + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h1> + AT SUVLA BAY + </h1> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER I. IN WHICH MY KING AND COUNTRY NEED ME + </h2> + <p> + I left the office of The Scout, 28 Maiden Lane, W.C., on September 8th, + 1914, took leave of the editor and the staff, said farewell to my little + camp in the beech-woods of Buckinghamshire and to my woodcraft scouts, + bade good-bye to my father, and went off to enlist in the Royal Army + Medical Corps. + </p> + <p> + I made my way to the Marylebone recruiting office, and after waiting about + for hours, I went at last upstairs and “stripped out” with a lot of other + men for the medical examination. + </p> + <p> + The smell of human sweat was overpowering in the little ante-room. Some of + the men had hearts and anchors and ships and dancing-girls tattooed in + blue on their chests and arms. Some were skinny and others too fat. Very + few looked fit. I remarked upon the shyness they suffered in walking about + naked. + </p> + <p> + “Did yer pass?” + </p> + <p> + “No, 'e spotted it,” said the dejected rejected. + </p> + <p> + “Wot?” + </p> + <p> + “Rupture.” + </p> + <p> + “Got through, Alf?” + </p> + <p> + “No: eyesight ain't good enough.” + </p> + <p> + So it went on for half-an-hour. + </p> + <p> + Then came my turn. + </p> + <p> + “Ha!” said the little doctor, “this is the sort we want,” and he rubbed + his gold-rimmed glasses on his handkerchief. “Chest, thirty-four—thirty-seven,” + said the doctor, tapping with his tape-measure, “How did yer do that?” + </p> + <p> + “What, sir?” said I, gasping, for I was trying to blow my chest out, or + burst. + </p> + <p> + “Had breathing exercises?” + </p> + <p> + “No, sir—I'm a scout.” + </p> + <p> + “Ha!” said he, and noticed my knees were brown with sunburn because I + always wore shorts. + </p> + <p> + I passed the eyesight test, and they took my name down, and my address, + occupation and age. + </p> + <p> + “Ever bin in the army before?” + </p> + <p> + “No, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Married?” + </p> + <p> + “No, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Ever bin in prison?” + </p> + <p> + “No, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “What's yer religion?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “What?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing at all.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, but you've got to 'ave one in the army.” + </p> + <p> + “Got to?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, you must. Wot's it to be—C. of E.?” + </p> + <p> + “What d'you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “Church of England. Most of 'em do.” + </p> + <p> + Awful thoughts of church parade flashed through my mind. + </p> + <p> + “Right you are—Quaker!” said I. + </p> + <p> + “Quaker! Is that a religion?” he asked doubtfully. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + I watched him write it down. + </p> + <p> + “Right, that'll do. Report at Munster Road recruiting station, Fulham, + to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + We were all dressed by this time. After a lot more waiting about outside + in a yard, a sergeant came and took about eight of us into a room where + there was a table and some papers and an officer in khaki. + </p> + <p> + I spotted a Bible on the table. We had to stand in a row while he read a + long list of regulations in which we were made to promise to obey all + orders of officers and non-commissioned officers of His Majesty's Service. + After that, he told us he would swear us in. We had to hold up the right + hand above the head, and say, all together: “Swhelpmegod!” + </p> + <p> + I immediately realised that I had taken an oath, which was not in + accordance with my regimental religion! + </p> + <p> + No sooner were we let out than I began to feel the ever-tightening tangle + of red tape. + </p> + <p> + What the dickens had I enlisted for? I asked myself. I had lost all my + old-time freedom: I could no longer go on in my old camping and sketching + life. I was now a soldier—a “tommy”—a “private.” I loathed the + army. What a fool I was! + </p> + <p> + The next day I reported at Fulham. More hours of waiting. I discovered an + old postman who had also enlisted in the R.A.M.C., and as he “knew the + ropes” I stuck to him like a leech. In the afternoon an old recruiting + sergeant with a husky voice fell us in, and we marched, a mob of + civilians, through the London streets to the railway station. Although + this was quite a short distance, the sergeant fell us out near a + public-house, and he and a lot more disappeared inside. + </p> + <p> + What a motley crowd we were: clerks in bowler hats; “knuts” in brown + suits, brown ties, brown shoes, and a horse-shoe tie-pin; tramp-like + looking men in rags and tatters and smelling of dirt and beer and rank + twist. + </p> + <p> + Old soldiers trying to “chuck a chest”; lanky lads from the country gaping + at the houses, shops and people. + </p> + <p> + Rough, broad-speaking, broad-shouldered men from the Lancashire + cotton-mills; shop assistants with polished boots, and some even with kid + gloves and a silver-banded cane. Here and there was a farm-hand in + corduroys and hob-nailed, cowdung-spattered boots, puffing at a broken old + clay pipe, and speaking in the “Darset” dialect. At the station they had + to have another “wet” in the refreshment room, and by the time the train + was due to start a good many were “canned up.” + </p> + <p> + Boozy voices yelled out— + </p> + <p> + “'S long way... Tipper-airy...” + </p> + <p> + “Good-bye, Bill... 'ave... 'nother swig?” + </p> + <p> + “Don't ferget ter write, Bill...” + </p> + <p> + “Aw-right, Liz... Good-bye, Albert...” + </p> + <p> + We were locked in the carriage. There was much shouting and laughing.... + And so to Aldershot. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II. A LONG WAY TO TIPPERARY + </h2> + <p> + Aldershot was a seething swarm of civilians who had enlisted. Every class + and every type was to be seen. We found out the R.A.M.C. depot and + reported. A man sat at an old soapbox with a lot of papers, and we had to + file past him. This was in the middle of a field with row upon row of + bell-tents. + </p> + <p> + “Name?” he snapped. + </p> + <p> + I told him. + </p> + <p> + “Age?” + </p> + <p> + “Religion?” + </p> + <p> + “Quaker.” + </p> + <p> + “Right!—Quaker Oats!—Section 'E,' over there.” + </p> + <p> + But my old postman knew better, and, having found out where “Section E” + was camped, we went off up the town to look for lodging for the night, + knowing that in such a crowd of civilians we could not be missed. + </p> + <p> + At last we found a pokey little house where the woman agreed to let us + stay the night and get some breakfast next day. + </p> + <p> + That night was fearful. We had to sleep in a double bed, and it was full + of fleas. The moonlight shone through the window. The shadow of a + barrack-room chimney-pot slid slowly across my face as the hours dragged + on. + </p> + <p> + We got up about 5.30 A.M., so as to get down to the parade-ground in time + for the “fall in.” + </p> + <p> + We washed in a tiny scullery sink downstairs. There was a Pears' Annual + print of an old fisherman telling a story to a little girl stuck over the + mantelpiece. + </p> + <p> + We had eggs and bread-and-butter and tea for breakfast, and I think the + woman only charged us three shillings all told. + </p> + <p> + Once down at the parade-ground we looked about for “Section E” and found + their lines in the hundreds of rows of bell-tents. + </p> + <p> + Life for the next few days was indeed “hand to mouth.” We had to go on a + tent-pitching fatigue under a sergeant who kept up a continual flow of + astoundingly profane oaths. + </p> + <p> + Food came down our lines but seldom. When it did come you had to fetch it + in a huge “dixie” and grope with your hands at the bits of gristle and + bone which floated in a lot of greasy water. Some one bought a box of + sardines in the next tent. + </p> + <p> + “Goin' ter share 'em round?” said a hungry voice. + </p> + <p> + “Nah blooming fear I ain't—wot yer tike me for—eh?” + </p> + <p> + Every one was starving. I had managed to fish a lump of bone with a scrag + of tough meat on it from the lukewarm slosh in our “dixie.” But some one + who was very hungry and very big came along and snatched it away before I + could get my teeth in it. + </p> + <p> + We had continually to “fall in” in long rows and answer our names. This + was “roll-call,” and roll-call went on morning, noon, and night. Even when + your own particular roll-call was not being called you could hear some + other corporal or sergeant shouting— + </p> + <p> + “Jones F.—Wiggins, T.—Simons, G.— Harrison, I....” and + so on all day long. + </p> + <p> + There were no ground-sheets to the tents. We squatted in the mud, and we + had one blanket each, which was simply crawling. + </p> + <p> + We were indeed in a far worse condition than many savages. Then came the + rain. We huddled into the tents. There were twenty-two in mine, and, as a + bell-tent is full up with eighteen, you may imagine how thick the + atmosphere became. One old man would smoke his clay-pipe with choking + twist tobacco. Most of the others smoked rank and often damp “woodbines.” + The language was thick with grumbling and much swearing. At first it was + not so bad. But some one touched the side of the tent and the rain began + to dribble through. Then we found a tiny stream of wet slowly trickling + along underneath the tent-walls towards the tent-pole, and by night time + we were lying and sitting in a pool of mud. + </p> + <p> + About a week later when the sergeant-major told us on parade that we were + “going to Tipperary” we all laughed, and no one believed it. + </p> + <p> + But the next day they marched us down to the Government siding and locked + us all in a train, which took us right away to Fishguard. + </p> + <p> + Some of the men got some bread-and-cheese before starting, but I, in + company with a good many others, did not. + </p> + <p> + The boat was waiting when they bundled us out on the quay. + </p> + <p> + It was a cattle-boat and very small and very smelly. There were no cabins + or accommodation of any sort: only the cattle-stalls down below. Six + hundred of us got aboard. Out of the six hundred, five hundred were sick. + It was a very rough crossing, and we were all starving and shivering. I + had nothing but what I stood up in—shirt, shorts, and cowboy-hat, + and my old haversack, which contained soap, towel and razor, and also a + sketch-book and a small colour-box. + </p> + <p> + The Irish sea-winds whistled up my shorts—but I preferred the icy + wind to the stinking cattle-stalls and insect-infested straw below. We + were packed in like sardines. Men were retching and groaning, cussing and + growling. At last I found a coil of rope. It was a huge coil with a hole + in the centre—something like a large bird's nest. I got into this + hole and curled up like a dormouse. Here I did not feel the cold so much, + and lying down I didn't feel sick. The moon glittered on the great gray + billows. The cattle-boat heaved up and slid down the mountains. She + pitched and rolled and slithered sideways down the wave-slopes. And so to + Waterford. + </p> + <p> + From Waterford by train to Tipperary. It was early morning. The first + thing I noticed was that the grass in Ireland was very green and that the + fields were very small. + </p> + <p> + We had had no food for twenty-seven hours. I found a very hard crust of + bread in my haversack, and eat it while the others were asleep in the + carriage. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III. SNARED + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “CRIMED” + </pre> + <p> + “Off with his head,” said the Queen.—Alice in Wonderland. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Charge against 31963— + Failing to drink some oniony tea; + Ha! Ha! + What! What! + I can have you SHOT! + D'you realise that + I can have you lashed + To a wheel and smashed? + What? + Rot! + Yes—SHOT! + D'you realise this? + Right—turn! + DISMISS!” + + Lemnos: October 1915. +</pre> + <p> + Born and bred in a studio, and brought up among the cloud-swept mountains + of Westmorland, amid the purple heather and the sunset in the peat-moss + puddles, barrack-life soon became like penal servitude. I was like a caged + wild animal. I knew now why the tigers and leopards pace up and down, up + and down, behind their bars at the Zoo. + </p> + <p> + We only stayed a week in the great, gray, prison-like barracks at + Tipperary. We looked about for the “sweetest girl” of the song—but + the “colleens” were disappointing. My heart was not “right there.” We + moved to Limerick; and in Limerick we stopped for seven solid months. + </p> + <p> + For seven months we did the same old squad-drill every day, at the same + time, on the same old square, until at last we all began to be unbearably + “fed up.” The sections became slack at drill because they were + over-drilled and sickened by the awful monotony of it all. + </p> + <p> + During those seven dreary months, in that dismal slum-grown town, we + learnt all the tricks of barrack-life. We knew how to “come the old + soldier”; we knew how and when to “wangle out” of doing this or that + fatigue; we practised the ancient art of “going sick” when we knew a long + route march was coming off next day. + </p> + <p> + We knew how to “square” the guard if we came in late, and the others + learnt how to dodge church parade. + </p> + <p> + “'E never goes to church parade.” + </p> + <p> + “No; 'e was a fly one—'e was.” + </p> + <p> + “Wotchermean?” + </p> + <p> + “Put 'isself down as Quaker.” + </p> + <p> + “Lummy—that's me next time I 'list—Quaker Oats!” + </p> + <p> + By this time I had been promoted to the rank of corporal. + </p> + <p> + Next to the regimental sergeant-major, I had the loudest drill voice on + the square, and shouting at squad-drill and stretcher-drill was about the + only thing I ever did well in the army—except that, having been a + scout, I was able to instruct the signalling squad. + </p> + <p> + Route marches and field-days were a relief from the drill square. For five + months we got no issue of khaki. Many of the men were through at the + knees, and tattered at the elbows. Some were buttonless and patched. I had + to put a patch in my shorts. Our civilian boots were wearing out—some + were right through. Heels came off when they “right turned,” others had + their soles flapping as they marched. + </p> + <p> + My “batman,” who cleaned my boots and swept out the bunk, had his trousers + held together with a huge safety-pin. The people called us “Kitchener's + Rag-time Army.” We became so torn, and worn, and ragged, that it was + impossible to go out in the town. Being the only one in scout rig-out I + drew much attention. + </p> + <p> + “'Ere 'e comes, Moik-ell!” + </p> + <p> + “Kitchener's cowboy! Isn't he lovely!” + </p> + <p> + “Bejazus! so-it-is!” + </p> + <p> + “Come an' see Path-rick—Kitchener's cowboy!—by-the-holy-sufferin'-jazus!” + </p> + <p> + I found an old curio-shop down near the docks, and here I used to rummage + among the gilded Siamese idols, and the painted African gods and drums. I + discovered some odd parts of A Thousand-and-One Arabian Nights, which I + bought for a penny or two, and took back to my barrack-room to read. By + this means I forgot the gray square, and the gray line of the barracks + outside, and the bare boards and yellow-washed walls within. + </p> + <p> + I used to practise “slipping” the guard at the guard-room gate. This form + of amusement became quite exciting, and I was never caught at it. + </p> + <p> + Next I got a very old and worn copy of the Koran. + </p> + <p> + By this time I was a full-blown sergeant. I made a mistake in walking into + the sergeants' mess with the Koran under my arm. It was difficult to + explain what sort of book it was. One day the regimental sergeant-major + said— + </p> + <p> + “You know, Hargrave, I can't make you out.” + </p> + <p> + “No, sir?” + </p> + <p> + “No;—you're not a soldier, you never will be—you act the part + pretty well. But you don't take things seriously enough.” + </p> + <p> + We were often out on the Clare Mountains for field-days with the + stretcher-squads. Coming back one day, I spotted two herons wading among + some yellow-ochre sedges in a swampy field. I determined there and then to + come back and stalk them. The following Saturday I set out with a fellow + we called “Cherry Blossom,” because he never cleaned his boots. I took a + pair of field-glasses, and “Cherry” had a bag of pastries, which we bought + on the way. We stalked those herons for hours and hours. We crept through + the reeds, hid behind trees, and crawled into bushes, but the herons were + better scouts. We only got about fifty yards up to one. For all that, it + was like my old scout life—and we had had a break from the gray + walls and the everlasting saluting of officers. + </p> + <p> + There were rumours of war, and that's all we knew of it. There were fresh + rumours each day. We were going to Egypt. We were to be sent to the East + Coast for “home defence.” That offended our martial ardour. When were we + going out? Should we ever get out? Had we got to do squad drill for + “duration”? Had Kitchener forgotten the Xth Division? + </p> + <p> + Now and then a batch of men were put into khaki which arrived at the + quartermaster's stores in driblets. Some had greeny puttees and sandy + slacks, a “civvy” coat and a khaki cap. Others were rigged out in + “Kitchener's workhouse blue,” with little forage caps on one side. The + sprinkling of khaki and khaki-browns and greens increased every time we + came on parade: until one day the whole of the three field ambulances were + fitted out. + </p> + <p> + The drill went on like clockwork. It was as if some curse had fallen upon + us. The officers were “fed up” you could see. + </p> + <p> + And now, just a word as to army methods. Immediately opposite the barracks + was a cloth factory, which was turning out khaki uniforms for the + Government every day. + </p> + <p> + For five months we went about in civilian clothes. We were a disgrace as + we marched along. Yet because no order had been given to that factory to + supply us with uniforms, we had to wait till the uniforms had been shipped + to England, and then sent back to Ireland for us to wear! + </p> + <p> + The spark of patriotism which was in each man when he enlisted was dead. + We detested the army, we hated the routine, we were sickened and dulled + and crushed by drill. + </p> + <p> + The old habit of being always on the alert for anything picturesque saved + me from idiotcy. Whenever opportunity offered, or whenever I could take + French leave, I went off with sketchbook and pencil, and forgot for a time + the horror of barrack-room life, with its unending flow of filthy + language, and its barren desolation of yellow-washed walls and broken + windows. + </p> + <p> + And then we moved to Dublin. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV. CHARACTERS + </h2> + <p> + It may be very amusing to read about “Kipps” and those commonplace people + whom Mr. H.G. Wells describes so cleverly, but to have to live with them + in barracks is far from pleasant. + </p> + <p> + There were shop-assistants, dental mechanics, city clerks, office boys, + medical students, and a whole mass of very ordinary, very uninteresting + people. There was a fair sprinkling of mining engineers and miners, and + these men were more interesting and of a far stronger mental and physical + development. They were huge, full-chested, strong-armed men who swore and + drank heavily, but were honest and straight. + </p> + <p> + There were characters here from the docks and from the merchant service, + some of whom had surely been created for W.W. Jacobs. One in particular—Joe + Smith, a sailor-man (an engine-greaser, I think)—was full of queer + yarns and seafaring talk. He was a little man with beady eyes and a huge + curled moustache. He walked about quickly, with the seamen's lurch, as I + have noticed most seagoing men of the merchant service do. + </p> + <p> + This man “came up” in bell-bottomed trousers and a pea jacket. He was fond + of telling a yarn about a vessel which was carrying a snake in a crate + from the West Indies. This snake got into the boiler when they were + cleaning out the engine-room. + </p> + <p> + “The capt'in ses to me, 'Joe.' I ses, 'Yes-sir.' 'Joe,' says 'e, 'wot's to + be done?' + </p> + <p> + “'Why,' ses I, 'thing is ter git this 'ere snake out ag'in!' + </p> + <p> + “'Jistso,' says the capt'in; 'but 'oo' ter do it?'—'E always left + everythink ter me—and I ses, 'Why, sir, it's thiswise, if sobe all + the others are afeared, I ain't, or my name's Double Dutch.' + </p> + <p> + “'Very good, melad,' ses the capt'in, 'I relies on you, Joe.'—'E + always did—and would you believe it, I upped an' 'ooked that there + great rattlesnake out of the boiler with an old hum-brella!” + </p> + <p> + There was a clerk who stood six-foot eight who was something of a “knut.” + He told me that at home he belonged to a “Lit'ry Society,” and I asked him + what books they had and which he liked. + </p> + <p> + “Books?” he asked. “'Ow d'yow mean?” + </p> + <p> + “You said a Literary Society, didn't you?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes, we 'ave got books. But, you know, we go down there and 'ave a + concert, or read the papers, and 'ave a social, perhaps, you know; + sometimes ask the girls round to afternoon tea.” + </p> + <p> + I had a barrack-room full of these people to look after. Most of them got + drunk. Once a young medical student tried to knife me with a Chinese + jack-knife which his uncle, a missionary, had given him. He had “downed” + too much whisky. Just as boys do at school, so these men formed into + cliques, and “hung together” in twos and threes. + </p> + <p> + Some of them, like the “lit'ry society” clerk, had never seen much of life + or people; had lived in a little suburban villa and pretended to be “City + men.” Others had knocked about all over the world. These were mostly + seafaring men. Savage was such a one. He was one of the buccaneer type, + strong and sunburnt, with tattooed arms. Often he sang an old sea-song, + which always ended, “Forty-five fadom, and a clear sandy bottom!” He knew + most of the sea chanties of the old days, one of which went something in + this way— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Heave away Rio! Heave away Rio! + So fare thee well, my sweet pretty maid! + Heave away Rio! Heave away Rio! + For there's plenty of gold—so we've been told— + On the banks of the Sacrament—o!” + </pre> + <p> + An old Irish apple-woman used to come into the barracks, and sit by the + side of the parade ground with two baskets of apples and a box of + chocolate. + </p> + <p> + She did a roaring trade when we were dismissed from drill. + </p> + <p> + We always addressed her as “Mother.” She looked so witch-like that one day + I asked— + </p> + <p> + “Can you tell a fortune, Mother?” + </p> + <p> + “Lord-love-ye, no! Wad ye have the Cuss o' Jazus upon us all? Ye shud see + the priest, sor.” + </p> + <p> + “And can he?” + </p> + <p> + “No, Son! All witch-craftin' is forbid in the Book by the Holy Mother o' + Gord, so they do be tellin' me.” + </p> + <p> + “Can no one in all Ireland read a fortune now, Mother?” + </p> + <p> + “Ach, Son, 'tis died out, sure. Only in the old out-an'-away parts 'tis + done; but 'tis terrible wicked!” + </p> + <p> + She was a good bit of colour. I have her still in my pocket-book. Her + black shawl with her apples will always remind me of early barrack-days at + Limerick if I live to be ninety. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER V. I HEAR OF HAWK + </h2> + <p> + Seldom are we lucky enough to meet in real life a character so strong and + vivid, so full of subtle characteristics, that his appearance in a novel + would make the author's name. Such a character was Hawk. + </p> + <p> + When you consider, you find that many an author of note has made a lasting + reputation by evolving some such character; and in most cases this + character has been “founded on fact.” For example, Stevenson's “Long John + Silver,” Kipling's “Kim,” and Rider Haggard's “Alan Quatermain.” + </p> + <p> + Had Kipling met Hawk he would have worked him into a book of Indian + soldier life; for Hawk was full of jungle adventures and stories of the + Indian Survey Department and the Khyber Pass; while his descriptions of + Kashmir and Secunderabad, with its fakirs and jugglers, monkey temples and + sacred bulls, were superb. + </p> + <p> + On the other hand, Haggard would have placed him “somewhere in Africa,” a + strong, hard man trekking across the African veldt he knew so well; for + Hawk had been in the Boer War. + </p> + <p> + Little did I realise when I met him on the barrack-square at Limerick how + fate would throw us together upon the scorching sands and rocky ridges of + Gallipoli, nor could either of us foresee the hairbreadth escapes and + queer corners in which we found ourselves at Suvla Bay and on the Serbian + frontier. + </p> + <p> + I spotted him in the crowd as the only man on parade with a strong, + clear-cut face. I noted his drooping moustache, and especially his keen + grey eyes, which glittered and looked through and through. Somewhere, I + told myself, there was good blood at the back of beyond on his line of + descent. I was right, for, as he told me later, when I had come to know + him as a trusty friend, he came from a Norseman stock. The jaw was too + square and heavy, but the high-built chiselled nose and the deep-set clear + grey eyes were a “throw-back” on the old Viking trail. Although dressed in + ragged civilian clothes he looked a huge, full-grown, muscular man; active + and well developed, with the arms of a miner and the chest of a gorilla. + On one arm I remember he had a heart with a dagger through it tattooed in + blue and red. + </p> + <p> + I heard of him first as one to be shunned and feared. For it was said that + “when in drink” he would pick up the barrack-room fender with one hand and + hurl it across the room. I was told that he was a master of the art of + swearing—that he could pour forth a continual flow of oaths for a + full five minutes without repeating one single “cuss.” + </p> + <p> + My interest was immediately aroused. I smelt adventure, and I was on the + adventure trail. Hawk was not in my barrack-room, and therefore I knew but + little of him while in the old country. I heard that he had been + galloper-dispatch-rider to Lord Kitchener in South Africa, and I tried to + get him to talk about it. As an “artist's model,” for a canvas to be + called “The Buccaneer,” Hawk was perfect. I never saw a man so splendidly + developed. + </p> + <p> + And Hawk was fifty years old! You would take him for thirty-nine or so. + </p> + <p> + But “drink and the devil had done for the rest”—Hawk himself + acknowledged it. His vices were the vices of a strong man, and when he was + drunk he was “the very devil.” + </p> + <p> + He was “the old soldier,” and knew all the ins and outs of army life. I + quickly became entangled in the interest of unravelling his complex + nature. On the one hand he was said to be a desperado and double-dyed + liar. On the other hand, if he respected you, he would always tell you the + naked truth, and would never “let you down.” He knew drink was his ruin, + but he could not and would not stop it. Yet his advice to me was always + good. Indeed, although he had the reputation of a bold, bad blackguard, he + never led any one else on the “wrong trail,” and his advice to young + soldiers in the barrack-rooms was wonderfully clear and useful. + </p> + <p> + If he respected you, you could trust your life with him. If he didn't, you + could “look up” for trouble. He was honest and “square”—if he liked + you—but he could make things disappear by “sleight of hand” in a + manner worthy of a West End conjurer. + </p> + <p> + He was a miner, and had a sound knowledge of mining and practical geology + which many a science-master might have been proud of. He had the eyes of a + trained observer, and I afterwards discovered he was a crack shot. + </p> + <p> + Some months later, when the A.S.C. ambulance drivers were exercising their + horses, he showed himself a good rough-rider, and I recalled his + “galloper” days. And again at Lemnos and Suvla he was a splendid swimmer. + He was an all-round man. Unlike the other men in barracks—the shop + assistants and clerks—Hawk never missed noticing small things, and + it was this which first drew my attention to him. + </p> + <p> + I remember one night hearing a woman's voice wailing a queer Hindoo chant. + It came from the barrack-room door. Afterwards I discovered it was Hawk + sitting on his trestle bed cross-legged, with a bit of sacking and ashes + on his head imitating the death-wail of an Indian woman for her dead + husband. + </p> + <p> + Hawk knew all the rites and ceremonies of the various Hindoo castes, and + could act the part of a fakir or a bazaar-wullah with wonderful realism. + </p> + <p> + By turns Hawk was a heavy drinker and a clear-brained man of action, calm + in danger. + </p> + <p> + In those early days of my “military career” I looked upon him only as an + author looks upon an interesting character. + </p> + <p> + Months afterwards, on the death-swept peninsula, Hawk and I became fast + friends. The “bad man” of the ambulance became the most useful, most + faithful, in my section. We went everywhere together—like “Horace + and Holly” of Rider Haggard fame: he the great, strong man, and I the + young artist scout. + </p> + <p> + If Hawk was out of camp, you could bet I was also—and vice-versa. + </p> + <p> + Of Hawk more anon. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VI. ON THE MOVE + </h2> + <p> + We moved to Dublin after seven months of drill and medical lectures in + barracks at Limerick. + </p> + <p> + After about a fortnight in the Portobello Barracks we crossed to England + and pitched our camp at Basingstoke. Here we had two or three months' + divisional training. The whole of the Xth Division—about 25,000 men—used + to turn out for long route-marches. + </p> + <p> + We were out in all weathers. We took no tents, and “slept out.” This was + nothing to me, as I had done it on my own when scouting hundreds of times. + It amused me to hear the men grumbling about the hard ground, and to see + them rubbing their hips when they got up. It was a hard training. Still we + didn't seem to be going out, and once again, the novelty of a new place + having worn off, we became unspeakably “fed up.” + </p> + <p> + Here at Basingstoke we were inspected by the King, and later by Lord + Kitchener. + </p> + <p> + Then came the issue of pith helmets and khaki drill uniforms, and the Red + Cross brassards on the left arm. + </p> + <p> + Rumour ran riot. We were going to India; we were going to East Africa... + some one even mentioned Japan! There was a new rumour each day. + </p> + <p> + Then one day, at brief notice, we were quietly entrained at Basingstoke + and taken down to the docks at Devonport before anyone had wind of the + matter. + </p> + <p> + All our ambulance wagons, and field medical equipment in wickerwork + panniers, went with us, and it would astonish a civilian to see the amount + of stores and Red Cross materials with which a field ambulance moves. And + so, after much waiting about, aboard the Canada. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VII. MEDITERRANEAN NIGHTS + </h2> + <p> + Intricate and vivid detail leave a more startling imprint on the + memory-film than the main purport of any great adventure, whether it be a + polar expedition, a new discovery, or such a stupendous undertaking as + that in which we were now involved. + </p> + <p> + The fact of our departure had been carefully kept quiet, and our + destination was unknown. It might have been a secret expedition in search + of buried treasure. Yet, in spite of all precaution, we might be torpedoed + at any moment and go down with all hands, or strike a mine and be blown + up. We knew that victory or defeat were hanging in the balance, and + perhaps the destiny of nations. But while the magnitude of the venture has + left no impression—I cannot recall that we ever spoke about it—commonplace + details remain. + </p> + <p> + The pitch bubbling in the seams under a Mediterranean sun; the queer + iridescent shapes of glowing, greenish phosphorus in the nighttime sea; + the butter melting into yellow oil on the plate on the saloon table; the + sickly smell of steam and grease and oil from the engine-room; the machine + gun fixed at the stern with its waterproof hood; the increasing brilliance + of the stars, and the rapid descent of evening upon the splendid + colour-prism of a Mediterranean sunset—these, and thousands of other + intimate commonplaces, are inlaid for ever in my mind. + </p> + <p> + We went about in our shirts and drill “slacks,” and the scorching boards + of the deck blistered our naked feet. In a few days we became sun-tanned. + Each one of us had a sunburnt V-shaped triangle on the chest where we left + our shirts open. + </p> + <p> + The voyage was uneventful. The food was poor. There was very little fresh + water to drink. It was July. The heat was fatiguing, and the sun-glare + blinding. + </p> + <p> + The coast of Algeria on our right looked bare and terribly forsaken. It + had an awfulness about it—a mystery look; it looked like a “juju” + country, with its sandy spit running like a narrow ribbon to the blue sea, + and its hazy, craggy mountains quivering in the noonday heat. + </p> + <p> + Hawk and I were in the habit of coming up from our bunks in the evening. + We used to lean over the handrail and watch the wonder of a Mediterranean + sunset transform in schemes of peacock-blue and beetle-green, down and + down, through emerald, pale gold and lemon yellow, and so to the horizon + of the inland sea, in bands of deep chrome and orange, scarlet, mauve and + purple. + </p> + <p> + Hawk was the only man I discovered in all those hundreds of apparently + commonplace souls who could really appreciate and never tire of watching + and discussing these things. + </p> + <p> + I had often heard of the blue of the Mediterranean. But I must confess + that I rather thought it had been exaggerated by authors, artists and + poets as a fruitful and beautiful source of inspiration. + </p> + <p> + I never saw such blues before: electric-blue and deep, seething navy blue, + flecked with foam and silver spray; calm lapis-lazuli blue; a sort of + greeny, mummy-case blue; flashing, silk-shot blue, like a kingfisher's + feathers. Sometimes the sea was as calm as a mill-pond, and you could see + down and down and down. + </p> + <p> + There is a certain milky look in the waters of the Mediterranean which I + never saw anywhere else. What it is I do not know, but it hangs in the + water like a cloud. Once there was a shoal of porpoises playing round us, + and they curled and dived and flopped in the warm blue seas. + </p> + <p> + At night Hawk and I stood for hours watching first one constellation + “light up,” and then another, till the whole purple-velvet of the + Mediterranean night sky was pinholed with the old familiar star-designs. + </p> + <p> + It struck me as most extraordinary, and almost uncanny, to see the same + old stars we knew in England, still above us, so many hundred miles from + home. + </p> + <p> + Phosphorescent fragments went floating along beneath us like bits of + broken moonlight. + </p> + <p> + In watching and talking of these things, I quickly perceived in Hawk a man + who not only noticed small detail and took a real interest in Nature, but + one who had a sound, natural philosophy and a good idea of the reasonable + and scientific explanation of things which so many people either ignore or + look upon as “atheistic.” + </p> + <p> + We did not yet know whither we were sailing. We knew we were part of the + Mediterranean Expeditionary Force, and that was all. + </p> + <p> + One day we put in at Malta. + </p> + <p> + Here the fruit-boats, all painted green and red and white and blue, came + rowing out to meet us. The Maltese who manned them stood upto row their + oars-and rowed the right way forwards, instead of facing the wrong way, as + we do in England. They were selling tomatoes and pears, apples, chocolate, + cigars, cigarettes, Turkish delight, and lace. + </p> + <p> + Continually they cried their goods— + </p> + <p> + “Cee-gar-ette!” + </p> + <p> + “Cee-gar-ette!” + </p> + <p> + “Tomart! Tomart!” + </p> + <p> + One man recognised us as the Irish Division, and shouted— + </p> + <p> + “Irish! Irish! My father Irish—from Dundee!” + </p> + <p> + Here were diving-boys in their own tiny boats, diving for pennies. They + were wonderfully lithe and graceful, with sun-tanned limbs and dripping + black hair. + </p> + <p> + Here, too, was a huge old man, who was also diving for pennies and tins of + bully-beef. He was fat and sun-browned, and his muscles and chest were + well developed. + </p> + <p> + “Me dive for bully-beef!” he shouted. “Me dive for bully-beef!” + </p> + <p> + Never once did he fail to retrieve these tins when they were chucked + overboard. + </p> + <p> + The tomatoes were very large and ripe, and the tobacco and cigarettes + exceedingly cheap and good. Most of the men got a stock. + </p> + <p> + The next day we put to sea again. + </p> + <p> + It was a real voyage of adventure, for here we were, on an unknown course, + sailing under sealed orders, no one knew whither, nor did we know what + would be the climax to this great enterprise. + </p> + <p> + Would any of us ever return across those blue-green waters?... Or would + our bones lie, a few days hence, bleaching on the yellow sands? ... + Mystery and adventure sailed with us—and each day the heat + increased. The sun blazed from a brazen sky, the shadow of the halyards + and the great ventilators were clear-cut black silhouettes upon the baking + decks. + </p> + <p> + The decks were crammed with that same khaki crowd of civilians who had + cursed and sworn and drilled and growled for ten long months in the Old + Country. You imagine what desperate adventurers they had suddenly become. + Some had never been out of Ireland, others had been as far as Portsmouth, + and taken a return voyage to the Isle of Wight. And each day we zigzagged + across the blue seas towards some unknown Fate... death, perhaps... + victory or failure—who could tell? + </p> + <p> + Until one day a thin, yellowish-white streak appeared upon the sea-line; + little groups of palms huddled together, and here and there a white dome + or a needle-minaret. And so we warped into harbour, through the boom and + past the lightships, to join the crowd of transports and battle cruisers + lying off this muddled city—the city of wonderful colour, + Alexandria. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VIII. THE CITY OF WONDERFUL COLOUR: ALEXANDRIA + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Scarlet-orange; + Beetle-green, + Flashing like a magic screen. + Silken garment, + 'Broidered hood; + Richly woven gown; + Flashing like a pantomime, + In and out Aladdin's town. + + Fretted lattice; + Dancing girl; + Drooping lash and ebon curl. + Silver tassel; + Scented room; + Almond “glad”-eye-look. + Queersome figures prowling round, + From some kiddies' picture-book. + + Graeco-Serbian Frontier, + J. H., October 1915. +</pre> + <p> + The coal-yards and dingy quays looked gray and chill. Here were + gray-painted Government sheds, with white numbers on the sliding doors, + dull gray trucks, and dirty sidings. + </p> + <p> + A couple of Egyptian native police in khaki drill, brown belts, side-arms, + red fezes, and carrying canes, both smoking cigarettes, swaggered up and + down in front of an arc-light. + </p> + <p> + There were dump-yards and gray tin offices, rusty cranes, and a gray + floating quay. Gangs of Egyptian beggars in ragged clothes and a flock of + little brown children continually dodged the native police as we sailed + slowly through the docks. They were the only touch of colour in a muddle + of Government buildings, stores, and transport ships. + </p> + <p> + We were all crowding to the handrail looking overboard. The Egyptian + sunset had just vanished and the deep blue of an Eastern night held the + docks in a haze of gloom. + </p> + <p> + The pipe band of the Inniskillings was playing “The Wearin' o' the Green” + in that mournful, gurgling chant which we came to know so well. + </p> + <p> + One of the little Egyptian beggar-girls was dancing to it on the floating + quay down below us by the flicker of the arc-lamp. She was a tiny mite, + with a shock of black hair and brown face and arms. She wore a pink dress + with some brass buttons hung round her neck. She danced with all the + supple gracefulness of the out-door tribes of the desert, never out of + step, always true and rhythmic in every motion of arms and body. + </p> + <p> + When the pipes on board trailed away with a hiss of wind and a choking, + gurgling noise into silence the little dancing girl began to sing in a + deep, musical voice—the voice of one who has lived out-of-doors in + tents— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Itta long way—Tipple-airy! + —Long way to go! + —Long way—Tipple-airy! + Sweetie girl I know!...” + </pre> + <p> + She sang in broken English, and danced to the tune, which she knew + perfectly. + </p> + <p> + The khaki crowd aboard whistled and cheered and laughed. Some one threw a + penny. The whole gang of beggars scrambled after it, and there ensued a + scrimmage with much shouting and swearing in Arabic. + </p> + <p> + We could see the city lit up beyond the dull gray docks. + </p> + <p> + Next morning we went for a route march through Alexandria. We marched + through the dockyards. Gangs of native workmen in native costume-coloured + robes and bare feet, turbans and red fezes—were working on the + transports, unloading box after box of bully-beef and biscuit and piling + them in huge “dumps” on the quays. Rusty chains clanked, steam cranes + rattled and puffed out whiffs of white steam. + </p> + <p> + But they did not hustle or hurry. They worked under the direction of + English sergeants and officers, loading and unloading. + </p> + <p> + At last we got outside the zone of awful ugliness which follows the + British wherever they go. The docks were left behind and the change was + sudden and startling. + </p> + <p> + It was like putting down a novel by Arnold Bennett and taking up the + Koran. + </p> + <p> + I did not trouble to keep in step or “cover off.” My eyes were trying to + take in the splendid Eastern scenes. Here were figures which had come + right out of the Arabian Nights. + </p> + <p> + Was that not Haroun Al Raschid, Commander of the Faithful, disguised as a + water-carrier, with a goatskin bottle slung over his shoulder, and great + yellow baggy trousers and a striped cummerbund? + </p> + <p> + Here were veiled women and old men squatting under their open bazaar + fronts, with coloured mats and blinds strung across the narrow streets. + Fruit sellers surrounded by melons, and beans, tomatoes and figs and dates—a + jumble of colour, orange, scarlet, green, and gold. Pitchers and jars and + woven carpets; queer Eastern scents; shuttered windows and flat roofs, + mules and here and there a loaded camel, two Jews in black robes, a band + of wild-looking desert wanderers in white with hoods and veils. + </p> + <p> + Egyptian women carrying little brown babies; who would believe there could + be such figures, such colour and picturesque compositions? + </p> + <p> + It was a short march, but we saw much. + </p> + <p> + So this was the land of Egypt. It was good. What a pity we could see so + little of it... + </p> + <p> + There were very smartly dressed French women with faces powdered and + painted and scented. Old men with hollow eyes and yellow parchment skins + all creased and wrinkled squatted on the cobble-stones, smoking + hubble-bubbles and long ivory-stemmed pipes. + </p> + <p> + Arab boys selling oranges ran about the streets. The heat was stifling—the + shadows purple-black, the sunlight glared golden-white on the buildings + and towers and minarets. + </p> + <p> + Here were curio-shops with queer oriental carvings and alabaster figures. + </p> + <p> + It was like a chapter of my <i>Thousand-and-One Nights</i> come true, and + I remembered the gray barracks at Limerick and the incessant drill. + </p> + <p> + At last we marched back through the docks and aboard the Canada. Next + morning we were sailing far away upon a blue sea. Just a glimpse of the + city of wonderful colour and we were once more creeping closer and closer + to the mystery of our unknown venture. + </p> + <p> + Many of us would never pass that way again—and each one wondered + sometimes if he would be claimed by that Mechanical Death which none of us + fully realised. + </p> + <p> + Only a few short hours—a day or two longer—and we should be + plunged into battle. A bullet for one, shrapnel for another, dysentery for + a third, a bayonet or death from weakness and starvation. + </p> + <p> + The great game of luck was gathering faster and faster. We loafed about on + deck and wondered where we were going and what it would be like... our + minds were thinking of the immediate future. Each one tried to make out he + didn't care, but each one was thinking upon the same subject—his + luck, fate, kismet. How many would return to old England—should I be + one; or would the Eastern sunshine blaze down upon my decomposing body on + some barren sandy shore? + </p> + <p> + We passed many of the Greek Islands—some came up pink and mauve out + of the sea, others were green with vineyards; once or twice a little + triangular-sailed boat bobbed along the coast. + </p> + <p> + The uncertainty was a strain, and we felt utterly cut off, until at last + we sighted a sandy streak, and later a line of volcanic-looking peaks—the + Isle of Lemnos. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IX. MAROONED ON LEMNOS ISLAND + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + LEMNOS HARBOUR + + Within the outer anchorage + The ancient Argonauts lay to; + Little they dreamt—that dauntless crew— + That here to-day in the sheltered bay + Where the seas are still and blue, + Great battle-ships should froth and + hum, And mighty transport-vessels come + Serenely floating through. + + With magic sail the Argonauts + Stood by to go about; + Little they thought—that hero band— + As they made once more for an unknown land + In a world of terror and doubt, + That here in the wake of the magical bough + Should come the all-terrible ironclad now + Serenely floating out. + + Written on Mudros Beach: Oct. 7, 1915. +</pre> + <p> + July the twenty-seventh. + </p> + <p> + The deadly silence... + </p> + <p> + The tenderfoot on an expedition of this sort naturally expects to find + himself plunged into a whirl of noise and tumult. + </p> + <p> + The crags were colourless and shimmering in the heat. The harbour was calm + and greeny-blue. One by one, with our haversacks and water-bottles, belts + and rolled overcoats, we went down the companion-way into the waiting + surf-boats. Again and again these boats, roped together and tugged by a + little launch, went back and forth from the S.S. Canada to the “Turk's + Head Pier'—a tiny wooden jetty built by the Engineers. + </p> + <p> + I asked one of the straw-hatted men of the Naval Division, who was casting + off the painter, what the place was like— + </p> + <p> + “Sand an' flies, and flies an' sand—nothinkelse!” he replied. + </p> + <p> + No sooner ashore than the green and black flies came pestering and + tormenting like a host of wicked jinn. The glare of sunlight on the yellow + sand hurt the eyes. The deadly silence of the place was oppressive—especially + when you had strung yourself up to concert pitch to face the crash and + turmoil of a fearful battle. + </p> + <p> + The quiet isolation and khaki desolation of jagged peaks and sandy slopes + was nerve-breaking. + </p> + <p> + You could see the thin lines of the wireless station and little groups of + white bell-tents dotted here and there. + </p> + <p> + Robinson Crusoe wasn't in it. Sand and flies and sun; sun and flies and + sand. + </p> + <p> + “Wot 'ave we struck 'ere, Bill?” + </p> + <p> + “Some d—-d desert island, I reckon!” + </p> + <p> + “A blasted heath...” + </p> + <p> + “Gordlummy, look at the d—-d flies!” + </p> + <p> + “Curse the —— sun; sweat's trickling down me back.” + </p> + <p> + “And curse all the d—-d issue...” + </p> + <p> + “What the holy son of Moses did we join for?” + </p> + <p> + We growled and groaned and cursed our luck. The sweat ran down under our + pith helmets and soaked in a stream from under our armpits. We trudged to + our camping-place along the shore. One or two Greek natives followed us + about with melons to sell. Parched and choked with sand, we were only too + glad to buy these water-melons for two or three leptas. + </p> + <p> + The rind was green like a vegetable marrow, but the inside was yellow with + pink and crimson pips—the colour of a Mediterranean sunset. + </p> + <p> + One day ashore on this accursed island and the diarrhoea set in. I never + saw men suffer such awful stomach-pains before. The continual eating of + melons to allay the blistering thirst helped the disease. Many men slept + close to the latrines, too weak to crawl to and fro all night long. The + sun blazed, and the flies in thousands of millions swarmed and irritated + from early morning till sundown. + </p> + <p> + At night it was cold. The stars burned white-hot—a calm, fierce + glitter. + </p> + <p> + Hawk and I “kipped down” (slept) together on a sandy stretch overlooking + the bay. We could see the green-and-red electric lights of the hospital + ships waiting in the harbour—for us, perhaps... + </p> + <p> + The “graft” (work) was fearful. All day long we were at it: hauling up our + equipment from the beach where it had been dumped ashore. Medical + panniers, operating marquee, tents and tent-poles, cook-house dixies, + picks and shovels, bully and biscuit boxes and a hundred-and-one articles + necessary to the work of the Medical Corps in the field: all this had to + be man-handled through the sand up to our camp about a mile away. And the + sun blazed, and the flies pestered and stung and buzzed and fought with + each other for the drops of sweat streaming down your face. How long + should we be here? When were we going into action?... The suspense was + brain-racking. The diarrhoea increased: everyone went down with it. Some + got the ague shivers and some a touch of dysentery. + </p> + <p> + We became gloomy and bodily sick. We wanted to get into it—into + action... + </p> + <p> + Anything would be better than this God-forsaken island. Why the dickens + did they leave us moping here: working in the blazing heat, and crawling + to the latrines in the chilly nights? For goodness' sake, let's get out of + it! Let's get to work!... So the days dragged on. + </p> + <p> + The natives wore baggy trousers and coloured head-bands. They sat all day + near our camp selling melons, tomatoes, very cheap and tasteless + chocolates, raisins, figs and dates. + </p> + <p> + We used to go down to swim in the little bay-like semicircle of the + harbour. The water was always warm and very salt. Here were tiny shoals of + tiny fish. The water was clear and glassy. There were pinky sea-urchins + with spikey spines which jabbed your feet. The sandy bed of the bay was + all ribbed with ripples. + </p> + <p> + The island was humming and ticking like a watch with insect-noises: + otherwise the deadly silence held. There were red-winged grasshoppers and + great green-gray locust-looking crickets which whistled and “cricked” all + night. + </p> + <p> + We had to fetch our water from the water-tank boats, about a mile and a + half distant, and haul it up in a water-cart. + </p> + <p> + Gangs of natives were working under the military authorities. There were + Greeks and Greek-Armenians, Turks and Ethiopians, Egyptians and + half-breeds of all kinds from Malta and Gib. They were employed in making + roads and clearing the ground for huts and camps. + </p> + <p> + And all the time we had no letters from home. We were actually marooned on + Lemnos Island: as literally marooned on a barren desert isle as any + buccaneer of the old Spanish galleon days. We went suddenly back to a + savage life. We went down to bathe stark naked, with the sunset glowing + orange on our sunburnt limbs. Here it was that Hawk proved himself a + wonderfully good swimmer. He was lithe and supple and well-made—an + extraordinary specimen of virile manhood—and he spent his fiftieth + birthday on Lemnos! + </p> + <p> + One day came the order to pack up and man-handle all our stuff down to the + beach ready for re-embarkation. At last we were on the move. We worked + with a will now. The great day would soon dawn. Some of us would get “put + out of mess,” no doubt, but this waiting about to get killed was much + worse than plunging into the thick of it. + </p> + <p> + August the 6th saw us steaming out at night towards the great unknown + climax—the New Landing. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER X. THE NEW LANDING + </h2> + <p> + A pale pink sunrise burst across the eastern sky as our transport came + steaming into the bay. The haze of early morning dusk still held, blurring + the mainland and water in misty outlines. + </p> + <p> + Hawk and I had slept upon the deck. Now we got up and stretched our + cramped limbs. Slowly we warped through the quiet seas. + </p> + <p> + You must understand that we knew not where we were. We had never heard of + Suvla Bay—we didn't know what part of the Peninsula we had reached. + The mystery of the adventure made it all the more exciting. It was to be + “a new landing by the Xth Division”—that was all we knew. + </p> + <p> + Some of us had slept, and some had lain awake all night. Rapidly the pink + sunrise swept behind the rugged mountains to the left, and was reflected + in wobbling ripples in the bay. + </p> + <p> + We joined the host of battleships, monitors, and troopships standing out, + and “stood by.” + </p> + <p> + We could hear the rattle of machine-guns in the distant gloom beyond the + streak of sandy shore. The decks were crowded with that same khaki crowd. + We all stood eagerly watching and listening. The death-silence had come + upon us. No one spoke. No one whistled. + </p> + <p> + We could see the lighters and small boats towing troops ashore. We saw the + men scramble out, only to be blown to pieces by land mines as they waded + to the beach. On the Lala Baba side we watched platoons and companies form + up and march along in fours, all in step, as if they were on parade. + </p> + <p> + “In fours!” I exclaimed to Hawk, who was peering through my field-glasses. + </p> + <p> + “Sheer murder,” said Hawk. + </p> + <p> + No sooner had he spoken than a high explosive from the Turkish positions + on the Sari Bair range came screaming over the Salt Lake: + “Z-z-z-e-e-e-o-o-o-p—Crash!” + </p> + <p> + They lay there like a little group of dead beetles, and the wounded were + crawling away like ants into the dead yellow grass and the sage bushes to + die. A whole platoon was smashed. + </p> + <p> + It was not yet daylight. We could see the flicker of rifle-fire, and the + crackle sounded first on one part of the bay, and then another. Among the + dark rocks and bushes it looked as if people were striking thousands of + matches. + </p> + <p> + Mechanical Death went steadily on. Four Turkish batteries on the Kislar + Dargh were blown up one after the other by our battleships. We watched the + thick rolling smoke of the explosions, and saw bits of wheels, and the + arms and legs of gunners blown up in little black fragments against that + pearl-pink sunrise. + </p> + <p> + The noise of Mechanical Battle went surging from one side of the bay to + the other—it swept round suddenly with an angry rattle of maxims and + the hard echoing crackle of rifle-fire. + </p> + <p> + Now and then our battle-ships crashed forth, and their shells went + hurtling and screaming over the mountains to burst with a muffled roar + somewhere out of sight. + </p> + <p> + Mechanical Death moved back and forth. It whistled and screamed and + crashed. It spat fire, and unfolded puffs of grey and white and black + smoke. It flashed tongues of livid flame, like some devilish ant-eater + lapping up its insects... and the insects were the sons of men. + </p> + <p> + Mechanical Death, as we saw him at work, was hard and metallic, + steel-studded and shrapnel-toothed. Now and then he bristled with + bayonets, and they glittered here and there in tiny groups, and charged up + the rocks and through the bushes. + </p> + <p> + The noise increased. Mechanical Death worked first on our side, and then + with the Turks. He led forward a squad, and the next instant mowed them + down with a hail of lead. He galloped up a battery, unlimbered—and + before the first shell could be rammed home Mechanical Death blew the + whole lot up with a high explosive from a Turkish battery in the hills. + </p> + <p> + And so it went on hour after hour. Crackle, rattle and roar; scream, + whistle and crash. We stood there on the deck watching men get killed. Now + and then a shell came wailing and moaning across the bay, and dropped into + the water with a great column of spray glittering in the early morning + sunshine. A German Taube buzzed overhead; the hum-hum-hum of the engine + was very loud. She dropped several bombs, but none of them did much + damage. The little yellow-skinned observation balloon floated above one of + our battleships like a penny toy. The Turks had several shots at it, but + missed it every time. + </p> + <p> + The incessant noise of battle grew more distant as our troops on shore + advanced. It broke out like a bush-fire, and spread from one section to + another. Mechanical Death pressed forward across the Salt Lake. It stormed + the heights of the Kapanja Sirt on the one side, and took Lala Baba on the + other. Puffs of smoke hung on the hills, and the shore was all wreathed in + the smoke of rifle and machine-gun fire. A deadly conflict this—for + one Turk on the hills was worth ten British down below on the Salt Lake. + </p> + <p> + There was no glory. Here was Death, sure enough—Mechanical Death run + amok—but where was the glory? + </p> + <p> + Here was organised murder—but it was steel-cold! There was no + hand-to-hand glory. A mine dispersed you before you had set foot on dry + land; or a high explosive removed your stomach, and left you a mangled + heap of human flesh, instead of a medically certified, healthy human + being. + </p> + <p> + Mechanical Death wavered and fluctuated—but it kept going. If it + slackened its murderous fire at one side of the bay, it was only to burst + forth afresh upon the other. + </p> + <p> + We wondered how it was that we were still alive, when so many lay dead. + Some were killed on the decks of the transports by shrapnel. + </p> + <p> + Our monitors crept close to the sandy shore, and poured out a deadly brood + of Death. + </p> + <p> + The crack and crash was deafening, and it literally shook the air... it + quivered like a jelly after each shot. + </p> + <p> + The fighting got more and more inland, and the rattle and crackle fainter + and farther away. But we still watched, fascinated. + </p> + <p> + The little groups of men lay in exactly the same positions on the beach. + That platoon by the side of Lala Baba lay in a black bunch—stone + dead. We could see our artillery teams galloping along like a team of + performing fleas, taking up new positions behind Lala Baba. So this is + war? Well, it's pretty awful! Wholesale murder... what's it all for? + Wonder how long we shall last alive before Mechanical Death blows our + brains out, or a leg off... + </p> + <p> + Queer thing, war! Didn't think it was quite like this! So mechanical and + senseless. + </p> + <p> + And now came the time for us to land. A lighter came alongside, with a + little red-bearded man in command— + </p> + <p> + “Remind you of any one?” I said to Hawk. + </p> + <p> + “Cap'n Kettle!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes!” + </p> + <p> + He was exactly like Cutcliffe Hyne's famous “Kettle,” except that he + smoked a pipe. We huddled into the lighter, and hauled our stores down + below. Some of us were “green about the gills,” and some were trying to + pretend we didn't care. + </p> + <p> + We watched the boat which landed just before us strike a mine and be blown + to pieces. Encouraging sight... At last we reached the tiny cove, and the + lighter let down a sort of tail-board on the sand. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XI. THE KAPANJA SIRT + </h2> + <p> + One had his stomach blown out, and the other his chest blown in. The two + bodies lay upon the sand as we stepped down. + </p> + <p> + The metallic rattle of the firing-line sounded far away. We man-handled + all our medical equipment and stores from the hold of the lighter to the + beach. + </p> + <p> + We had orders to “fall in” the stretcher-bearers, and work in open + formation to the firing-line. + </p> + <p> + The Kapanja Sirt runs right along one side of Suvla Bay. It is one wing of + that horse-shoe formation of rugged mountains which hems in the Anafarta + Ova and the Salt Lake. + </p> + <p> + Our searching zone for wounded lay along this ridge, which rises like the + vertebrae of some great antediluvian reptile—dropping sheer down on + the Gulf of Saros side, and, in varying slopes, to the plains and the Salt + Lake on the other. + </p> + <p> + Here again small things left a vivid impression—the crack of a rifle + from the top of the ridge, and a party of British climbing up the rocks + and scrub in search of the hidden Turk. + </p> + <p> + The smell of human blood soaking its way into the sand from those two + “stiffies” on the beach. The sullen silence, except for the distant + crackle and the occasional moan of a shell. The rain which came pelting + down in great cold blobs, splashing and soaking our thin drill clothes + till we were wet to the skin and shivering with cold. + </p> + <p> + We were all thinking: “Who will be the first to get plugged?” We moved + slowly along the ridge, searching every bush and rock for signs of wounded + men. + </p> + <p> + We wondered what the first case would be—and which squad would come + across it. + </p> + <p> + I worked up and down the line of squads trying to keep them in touch with + each other. We were carrying stretchers, haversacks, iron rations, medical + haversacks, medical water-bottles, our own private water-bottles (filled + on Lemnos Island), and three “monkey-boxes” or field medical companions. + </p> + <p> + Those we had left on the beach were busy putting up the operating marquee + and other tents, and the cooks in getting a fire going and making tea. + </p> + <p> + The stretcher-squads worked slowly forward. We passed an old Turkish well + with a stone-flagged front and a stone trough. Later on we came upon the + trenches and bivouacs of a Turkish sniping headquarters. There were all + kinds of articles lying about which had evidently belonged to Turkish + officers: tobacco in a heap on the ground near a bent willow and thorn + bivouac; part of a field telephone with the wires running towards the + upper ridges of Sirt; the remains of some dried fish and an earthenware + jar or “chattie” which had held some kind of wine; a few very hard + biscuits, and a mass of brand-new clothing, striped shirts and white + shirts, grey military overcoats, yellow leather shoes with pointed toes, a + red fez, a great padded body-belt with tapes to tie it, a pair of boots, + and some richly coloured handkerchiefs and waistbands all striped and + worked and fringed. + </p> + <p> + It was near here that our first man was killed later in the day. He was + looking into one of these bivouacs, and was about to crawl out when a + bullet went through his brain. It was a sniper's shot. We buried him in an + old Turkish trench close by, and put a cross made of a wooden bully-beef + crate over him. + </p> + <p> + The sun now blazed upon us, and our rain-soaked clothes were steaming in + the heat. The open fan-like formation in which we moved was not a success. + We lost the officers, and continually got out of touch with each other. + </p> + <p> + At last we reached the zone of spent bullets. “Z-z-z-z-e-e-e-e-e-pp!—zing!” + “S-s-s-ippp!” + </p> + <p> + “That one was jist by me left ear!” said Sergeant Joe Smith, although as a + matter of fact it was yards above his head. Here, among a hail of moaning + spent shots, our officers called a halt, made us fall in, in close + formation, and we retired—what for I do not know. + </p> + <p> + We went back as far as the old Turkish well. Here Hawk had something to + say. + </p> + <p> + “Our place is advancing,” said he, “not retiring because of a few spent + bullets. There's men there dying for want of medical attention—bleeding + to death.” + </p> + <p> + The next time we went forward that day was in Indian file, each + stretcher-squad following the one in front. + </p> + <p> + A parson came with us. I marched just behind the adjutant, and the parson + walked with me. He was a big man and a fair age. We went past the well and + the bivouacs. I could see he was very nervous. + </p> + <p> + “Do you think we are out of danger here?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “I think so, sir” (we were three miles from the firing-line). A few paces + further on— + </p> + <p> + “I wonder how far the firing-line is?” + </p> + <p> + “Couldn't say, sir.” + </p> + <p> + A yard or so, and then— + </p> + <p> + “D'you suppose the British are advancing?” + </p> + <p> + “I hope so.” And after a minute or two— + </p> + <p> + “I wonder if there are any Turks near here...?” + </p> + <p> + I made no answer, and marvelled greatly that the “man of God” should not + be better prepared to meet “his Maker,” of Whom in civil life he had + talked so much. + </p> + <p> + It was just then that I spotted it—a little black figure, + motionless, away beyond the bushes on the right. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XII. THE SNIPER-HUNT + </h2> + <p> + He lay flat under a huge rock. I left the stretcher-squads, and, crawling + behind a bush, looked through the glasses. It certainly was a Turk, and + his position was one of hiding. He kept perfectly motionless on his + stomach and his rifle lay by his side. + </p> + <p> + I sent a message to pass the word up to the leading squads for Hawk. + Quickly he came down to me and took the glasses. He had wonderful sight. + After looking for a few seconds he agreed that it looked like a Turkish + sniper lying in wait. + </p> + <p> + “Let's go and see, anyway,” said I. + </p> + <p> + “Chance it?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Righto.” + </p> + <p> + Hawk led the way down into the thorn-bushes and dried-up plants. I + followed close at his heels. We crouched as we went and kept well under + cover. Hawk took a semicircular route, which I could see would ultimately + bring us out by the side of the rock under which the sniper hid. + </p> + <p> + Now we caught a glimpse of the little dark figure—then we plunged + deeper into the rank willow-growth and bore round to the right. + </p> + <p> + Hawk unslung the great jack-knife which hung round his waist and silently + opened the gleaming blade. I did the same. + </p> + <p> + “I'll surprise him; you can leave it to me to get in a good slash,” said + Hawk, and I saw the great muscles of his miner's arms tighten. “But if he + gets one in on me,” he whispered, “be ready with your knife at the back of + his neck.” + </p> + <p> + A few steps farther brought us suddenly upon the rock and the sniper. Hawk + was immediately in front of me, and his arm was held back ready for a + mighty blow. He stood perfectly still looking at the rock, and I watched + his muscles relax. + </p> + <p> + “See it?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “What?” + </p> + <p> + “Dead.” + </p> + <p> + There was the Turk—a great heat-swollen figure stinking in the + sunshine. As I moved forward a swarm of green and black flies, which had + been feeding on his face and crawling up his nostrils, went up in a + humming, buzzing cloud. + </p> + <p> + A bit of wood lying near had looked like his rifle from a distance; and + now we saw that, instead of lying on his stomach, he was lying on his + back, and looked as if he had been killed by shrapnel. + </p> + <p> + “Putrid stink,” said I; “come on—let's clear out.” + </p> + <p> + And so our sniper-hunt led to nothing but a dead Turk stewing in the + glaring sunshine. We rejoined the squads. No one had missed us. This first + day was destined to be one of many adventures. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIII. THE ADVENTURE OF THE WHITE PACK-MULE + </h2> + <p> + That night was dark, with no stars. I didn't know what part of Gallipoli + we were in, and the maps issued were useless. + </p> + <p> + The first cases had been picked up close to the firing-line, and were + mostly gun-shot wounds, and now—late in the evening—all my + squads having worked four miles to the beach, I was trying to get my own + direction back to the ambulance. + </p> + <p> + The Turks seldom fired at night, so that it was only the occasional shot + of a British rifle, or the sudden “pop-pop-pop-pop-pop!” of a machine-gun + which told me the direction of the firing-line. + </p> + <p> + I trudged on and on in the dark, stumbling over rocks and slithering down + steep crags, tearing my way through thorns and brambles, and sometimes + rustling among high dry grass. + </p> + <p> + Queer scents, pepperminty and sage-like smells, came in whiffs. It was + cold. I must have gone several miles along the Kapanja Sirt when I came to + a halt and once more tried to get my bearings. I peered at the gloomy sky, + but there was no star. I listened for the lap-lap of water on the beach of + Suvla Bay, but I must have been too far up the ridges to hear anything. + There was dead silence. When I moved a little green lizard scutted over a + white rock and vanished among the dead scrub. + </p> + <p> + I was past feeling hungry, although I had eaten one army biscuit in the + early morning and had had nothing since. + </p> + <p> + It was extraordinarily lonely. You may imagine how queer it was, for here + was I, trying to get back to my ambulance headquarters at night on the + first day of landing—and I was hopelessly lost. It was impossible to + tell where the firing-line began. I reckoned I was outside the British + outposts and not far from the Turkish lines. Once, as I went blundering + along over some rocks, a dark figure bolted out of a bush and ran away up + the ridge in a panic. + </p> + <p> + “Halt!” I shouted, trying to make believe I was a British armed sentry. + But the figure ran on, and I began to stride after it. This led me up and + up the ridge over very broken ground. Whoever it was (it was probably a + Turkish sniper, for there were many out night-scouting) I lost sight and + sound of him. + </p> + <p> + I went climbing steadily up till at last I found myself looking into + darkness. I got down on my hands and knees and peered over the edge of a + ridge of rock. I could see a tiny beam of light away down, and this beam + grew and grew as it slowly moved up and up till it became a great + triangular ray. It swept slowly along the top of what I now saw was a + steep precipice sloping sheer down into blackness below. One step further + and I should have gone hurtling into the sea. For, although I did not then + know it, this was the topmost ridge of the Kapanja Sirt. + </p> + <p> + The great searchlight came nearer and nearer, and I slid backwards and lay + on my stomach looking over. The nearer it came the lower I moved, so as to + get well off the skyline when the beam reached me. It may have been a + Turkish searchlight. It swept slowly, slowly, till at last it was turned + off and everything was deadly black. + </p> + <p> + I started off again in another direction, keeping my back to the ridge, as + I reckoned that to be a Turkish searchlight, and, therefore, our own lines + would be somewhere down the ridge. Here, high up, I could just see a grey + streak, which I took to be the bay. + </p> + <p> + I tried to make for this streak. I scrambled down a very steep stratum of + the mountain-side and landed at last in a little patch of dead grass and + tall dried-up thistles. + </p> + <p> + By this time, having come down from my high position on the Sirt, I could + no longer see the bay; but I judged the direction as best I could, and + without waiting I tramped on. + </p> + <p> + I began to wonder how long I had been trudging about, and I put it at + about two hours. + </p> + <p> + “Halt!—who are you?” called a voice down below. + </p> + <p> + “Friend! stretcher-bearer!” I shouted. + </p> + <p> + “Come here—this way!” answered the voice. + </p> + <p> + I went down to a clump of bushes, and a man with a rifle slung over his + shoulder stepped forward, and we both glared at each other for a second. + </p> + <p> + “Do yer know where the 45th Company is?” + </p> + <p> + “No idea,” said I. + </p> + <p> + “Any water?” + </p> + <p> + “Not a drop left.” + </p> + <p> + “We're trying to get back to the firing-line but we're all lost—there's + eight of us.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm trying to get to the 32nd Field Ambulance—d'you know the way?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; go right ahead there,” he pointed, “and keep well down off the hills—you'll + see the beach when you've gone for a mile or so—” + </p> + <p> + “How far is it?” + </p> + <p> + “'Bout four miles;” and then, “Got a match?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—but it's dangerous to light up.” + </p> + <p> + “Must 'ave a smoke—nothink to eat or drink.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, here you are; light up inside my helmet.” + </p> + <p> + He did; this hid the lighted match from any sniper's eye. The other seven + men came crawling out of the bushes to light up their “woodbines” and + fag-ends. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I'm off,” said I, and once more went forward in the direction + pointed out by the corporal and his lost squad. + </p> + <p> + “So long, mate—good luck!” he shouted. + </p> + <p> + “Same to you!” I called back. + </p> + <p> + And now came sleep upon me. Even as I walked an awful weariness fell upon + every limb. My legs became heavy and slow. That short rest had stiffened + me, and my eyelids closed as I trudged on. I lifted them with an effort + and dragged one foot after the other. I knew I must get back to my unit, + and that here it was very dangerous. I wanted to lie down on the dead + grass and sleep and sleep and sleep. I urged my muscles to swing my legs—for + I knew if once I sat down to rest I should never keep awake. + </p> + <p> + It was while I was thus trying to jerk my sleepy nerves on to action that + I came upon a zigzagged trench. It was fully six feet deep and about a + yard wide. It was of course an old Turkish defence running crosswise along + the great backbone of the Sirt. I knew now that I was nearing the bay, for + most of these trenches overlooked the beach. + </p> + <p> + There was a white object about ten yards from me. What it was I could not + tell, and a quiver of fear ran through me and threw off the awful + sleepiness of fatigue. + </p> + <p> + Was it a Turkish sniper's shirt? Or was it a piece of white cloth, or a + sheet of paper? In the gloom of night I could not discover. + </p> + <p> + However, I determined to go steady, and I crept up to a dark thorn-bush + and stood still. It did not move. Still standing against the dark bush to + hide the fact that I was unarmed, I shouted— + </p> + <p> + “Halt! who are you?” in as gruff and threatening a tone as I could + command. + </p> + <p> + Silence. It did not move. I ran forward along the trench and there found a + white pack-mule all loaded up with baggage; I could make out the queerly + worked trappings, with brass-coins on the fringed bridle and coloured + fly-tassels over the eyes. It was stone dead and stiff. Its eyes glared at + me—a glassy glare full of fear. The Turkish pack-mule had been + bringing up material to the Turks in the trench when it had been killed—and + now the deep sides of the trench were holding it upright. + </p> + <p> + I trudged away towards the beach and lay down to sleep at last among the + other men of the ambulance, who were lying scattered about behind tufts of + bush or against ledges of rock. + </p> + <p> + When weighed down with sleep any bed will serve. + </p> + <p> + And this was the end of our first day's work on the field. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIV. THE SNIPER OF THE PEAR-TREE GULLY + </h2> + <p> + We used to start long before daylight, when the heavy gloom of early + morning swept mountain, sea and sand in an indistinct haze; when the + cobwebs hung thick from thorn to thorn like fairy cats'-cradles all + dripping and beaded with those heavy dews. The guard would wake us up + about 3.30 A.M. We were asleep anywhere, lying about under rocks and in + sandy dells, sleeping on our haversacks and water-bottles, and our pith + helmets near by. We got an issue of biscuit and jam, or biscuit and + bully-beef, to take with us, and each one carried his iron rations in a + little bag at his side. + </p> + <p> + So we set off—a long, straggling, follow-my-leader line of men and + stretchers. The officer first, then the stretcher-sergeant—(myself)—and + the squads, two men to a stretcher, carrying the stretchers folded up, and + last of all a corporal or a “lance-jack” bringing up the rear in case any + one should fall out. + </p> + <p> + Cold, dark, shivery mornings they were; our clothes soaked in dew and our + pith helmets reeking wet, with the puggaree all beaded with dew-drops. We + toiled up and up the ridges and gullies of the Kislar Dargh and the + Kapanja Sirt slowly, like a little column of ants going out to bring in + the ant eggs. + </p> + <p> + Often we had to wait while the Indian transport came down from the + hill-track before we could proceed, and we always came upon the Engineers' + field-telegraph wires on the ground. I would shout “Wire!” over my + shoulder, and the shout “Wire!... Wire!... Wire!” went down the line from + squad to squad. + </p> + <p> + From the old Turkish well I led my stretcher-squads past the gun of the + Field Artillery (mounted quite near our hospital tents) along a track + which ran past a patch of dry yellow grass and dead thistles—here + among the prickly plants and sage-bushes grew a white flower—pure + and sweet-scented—something like a flag—a “holy flower” among + the dead and scorched-up yellow ochre blades and the khaki and dull + grey-greens of thorns. We went along this track, past the dead sniper + which Hawk and I had so carefully stalked. Near by, hidden by bushes and + rank willow thickets lay a dozen more dead Turks, swollen, fly-blown and + stinking in the broiling sun. We hurried on past the Turkish bivouacs—many + of the relics had been picked up by the British Tommies since last I saw + the place: the tobacco had all gone—many of the shirts and overcoats + which had been lying about had disappeared—the place had been + thoroughly ransacked. We trudged past the wooden cross of our dead comrade + and we were silent. + </p> + <p> + Indeed, throughout those first three days—Saturday, Sunday and + Monday—when the British and Turks grappled to and fro and flung + shrapnel at each other incessantly; when the fighting line swayed and + bent, sometimes pushing back the Turks, sometimes bending in the British; + when the fate of the whole undertaking still hung in the balance; when + what became a semi-failure might have been a staggering success: in those + days the death-silence fell upon us all. + </p> + <p> + No one whistled those rag-time tunes; no one tried to make jokes, except + the very timid, and they giggled nervously at their own. + </p> + <p> + No one spoke unless it was quite necessary. Each man you passed asked you + the vital question: “Any water?” + </p> + <p> + For a moment as he asks his eyes glitter with a gleam of hope—when + you shake your head he simply trudges on over the rocks and scrub with the + same fatigued and sullen dullness which we all suffered. + </p> + <p> + Often you asked the same question yourself with parched and burning lips. + </p> + <p> + One after another we came upon the wounded. Here a man dragging a broken + leg along with him. Here a man holding his fractured fore-arm and running + towards us. Sometimes the pitiful cry, faint and full of agony: + “Stretchers! Stretcher-bearers!” away in some densely overgrown defile + swept with bullets and shrapnel. + </p> + <p> + And so at last all my squads had turned back with stretchers loaded with + men and pieces of men. I went on alone—a lonely figure wandering + about the mountains, looking and listening for the wounded. + </p> + <p> + I came now upon a party of Engineers at work making a road. They were + working with pick-axe and spade—clearing away bush and rocks. + </p> + <p> + “Any water?” they asked. + </p> + <p> + I shook my head. + </p> + <p> + “Any wounded?” I said. + </p> + <p> + “Some down there, they say,” said a red-faced man. + </p> + <p> + “Damn rotten job that,” muttered another, as I went on. + </p> + <p> + “Better keep well over in the bushes,” shouted the red-faced man. “They've + got this bit of light-coloured ground marked—you're almost sure ter + git plugged.” + </p> + <p> + “Thanks!” I called back, and broke off to my left among the sage and + thistle and thorn. + </p> + <p> + I went now downhill into an overgrown water-course (very much like the one + in which I used to sleep and eat away back by the artillery big gun). Here + were willows and brambles with ripe blackberries, and wild-rose bushes + with scarlet hips. “Just like England!” I thought. + </p> + <p> + And then, as I crossed the little dry-bed stream and came out upon a sandy + spit of rising ground: “Z-z-ipp! Ping!”—just by my left arm. The + bullet struck a ledge of white rock with the now familiar metallic “tink!” + </p> + <p> + I went on moving quickly to get behind a thorn-bush—the only cover + near at hand. Here, at any rate, I should be out of sight. + </p> + <p> + “Ping!” + </p> + <p> + “Crack—ping!” + </p> + <p> + I could hear the report of the rifle. I lay flat on my stomach, grovelled + my face into the sandy soil and lay like a snake and as still as a + tortoise. + </p> + <p> + I waited for about ten minutes. It seemed an hour, at least, to me. The + sniper did not shoot again. In front of my thorn-bush was an open space of + pale yellow grass, with no cover at all. I crawled towards the left flank + and tried to creep slowly away. I moved like the hands of a clock—so + slowly; about an inch at a time, pushing forward like a reptile on my + stomach, propelling myself only by digging my toes into the earth. My arms + I kept stiff by my side, my head well down. + </p> + <p> + But the sniper away behind that little pear-tree (which stood at the far + end of the open space) had an eagle eye. + </p> + <p> + “Ping! z-z-pp! ping!” + </p> + <p> + I lay very still for a long time and then crept slowly back to my + thorn-bush. + </p> + <p> + I tried the right flank, but with the same effect. And now he began + shooting through my thorn-bush on the chance of hitting me. + </p> + <p> + Behind me was a dense undergrowth of thorn, wild-rose bramble, thistle, + willow and sage. + </p> + <p> + I turned about and crawled through this tangle, until at last I came out, + scratched and dishevelled and sweating, into the old water-course. + </p> + <p> + The firing-line was only a few hundred yards away, and the bullets from a + Turkish maxim went wailing over my head, dropping far over by the + Engineers whom I had passed. + </p> + <p> + I wanted to find those wounded, and I wanted to get past that open space, + and I wanted above all to dodge that sniper. The old scouting instincts of + the primitive man came calling me to try my skill against the skill of the + Turk. I sat there wiping away blood from the scratches and sweat from my + forehead and trying to think of a way through. + </p> + <p> + I looked at the mountains on my left—the lower ridge of the Kapanja + Sirt—and saw how the water-course went up and up and in and out, and + I thought if I kept low and crawled round in this ditch I should come out + at last close behind the firing-line, and then I could get in touch with + the trenches. I could hear the machine-gun of the M—'s rattling and + spitting. + </p> + <p> + I began crawling along the water-course. I had only gone three yards or + so, and turned a bend, when I came suddenly upon two wounded men. Both + quite young—one merely a boy. He had a bad shrapnel wound through + his boot, crushing the toes of his right foot. The other lay groaning upon + his back—with a very bad shrapnel wound in his left arm. The arm was + broken. + </p> + <p> + The boy sat up and grinned when he saw me. + </p> + <p> + “What's up?” asked his pal. + </p> + <p> + “Red Cross man,” says the boy; and then: “Any water?” + </p> + <p> + “Not a drop, mate,” said I. “Been wounded long?” + </p> + <p> + “Since yesterday evening,” says the boy. + </p> + <p> + “Been here all that time?” I asked. (It was now mid-afternoon.) + </p> + <p> + “Yes: couldn't get away”—and he pointed to his foot. + </p> + <p> + “'E carn't move—it's 'is arm. We crawled 'ere.” + </p> + <p> + “I'll be back soon with stretchers and bandages,” I said, and went quickly + back along the water-course and then past the Engineers. + </p> + <p> + “Found 'em?” they asked. + </p> + <p> + “Yes: getting stretchers up now,” said I. “Awful stink here! Found any + dead?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, there's one or two round here. We buried one over there yesterday: + 'e fell ter bits when we moved 'im.” + </p> + <p> + I went on. Soon I was back in the ditch beside the wounded men. I had + successfully dodged the sniper by following along the bottom of the bed of + the stream. With me I brought two stretcher-squads, and they had a + haversack containing, as I thought, splints and bandages. But when I + opened it, it had only some field dressings in it and some iodine + ampoules. + </p> + <p> + I soon found that the man's arm was not only septic, but broken and + splintered. + </p> + <p> + “Got a pair of scissors?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + One man had a pair of nail-scissors, and with this very awkward instrument + I proceeded to operate. It was a terrible gash. His sleeve was soaked in + blood. I cut it away, and his shirt also. + </p> + <p> + I broke an iodine phial and poured the yellow chemical into his great + gaping wound. Actually his flesh stunk: it was going bad. + </p> + <p> + “Is it broke?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Be all right in a few minutes; nothing much.” I lied to him. + </p> + <p> + “Not broke then?” + </p> + <p> + “Bit bent; be all right.” + </p> + <p> + With the nail-scissors I cut great chunks of his arm out, and all this + flesh was gangrenous, and mortification was rapidly spreading. My fingers + were soaked in blood and iodine. + </p> + <p> + I cut away a piece of muscle which stunk like bad meat. + </p> + <p> + “Can you feel that?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “Feel what?” he murmured. + </p> + <p> + “I thought that might hurt. I was cutting your sleeve away, that's all.” + </p> + <p> + I cut out all the bad flesh, almost to the broken bones. I filled up the + jagged hole with another iodine ampoule. I plugged the opening with + double-cyanide gauze, and put on an antiseptic pad. + </p> + <p> + “Splints?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “Haven't any.” + </p> + <p> + So I used the helve of an entrenching-tool and the stalks of the willow + undergrowth. + </p> + <p> + I set his arm straight and bandaged it tightly and fixed it absolutely + immovably. Then we got him on a stretcher, and they carried him three and + a half miles to our ambulance tents. But I'm afraid that arm had to come + off. I never heard of him again. + </p> + <p> + The other fellow was cheerful enough, and only set his teeth and drew his + breath when I cut off his boot with a jack-knife. Wonderful endurance some + of these young fellows have. There's hope for England yet. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XV. KANGAROO BEACH + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “COMMUNICATIONS” + + The native only needs a drum, + On which to thump his dusky thumb— + + But WE—the Royal Engineers, + Must needs have carts and pontoon-piers; + Hundreds of miles of copper-wire, + Fitted on poles to make it higher. + Hundreds of sappers lay it down, + And stick the poles up like a town. + By a wonderful system of dashes and dots, + Safe from the Turkish sniper's shots— + We have, as you see, a marvellous trick, + Of sending messages double-quick. + You can't deny it's a great erection, + Done by the 3rd Field Telegraph Section; + But somewhere— + THERE'S A DISCONNECTION! + + The native merely thumps his drum, + He thumps it boldly, thus—“Tum! Tum!” + + J. H. + (Sailing for Salonika.) +</pre> + <p> + Kangaroo Beach was where the Australian bridge-building section had their + stores and dug-outs. + </p> + <p> + It was one muddle and confusion of water-tanks, pier-planks, pontoons, + huge piles of bully-beef, biscuit and jam boxes. Here we came each evening + with the water-cart to get our supply of water, and here the water-carts + of every unit came down each evening and stood in a row and waited their + turn. The water was pumped from the water-tank boats to the tank on shore. + </p> + <p> + The water-tank boats brought it from Alexandria. It was filthy water, full + of dirt, and very brackish to taste. Also it was warm. During the two + months at Suvla Bay I never tasted a drop of cold water—it was + always sickly lukewarm, sun-stewed. + </p> + <p> + All day long high explosives used to sing and burst—sometimes + killing and wounding men, sometimes blowing up the bully-beef and + biscuits, sometimes falling with a hiss and a column of white spray into + the sea. It was here that the field-telegraph of the Royal Engineers + became a tangled spider's web of wires and cross wires. They added wires + and branch wires every day, and stuck them up on thin poles. Here you + could see the Engineers in shirt and shorts trying to find a + disconnection, or carrying a huge reel of wire. Wooden shanties sprang up + where dug-outs had been a day or so before. Piers began to crawl out into + the bay, adding a leg and trestle and pontoon every hour. Near Kangaroo + Beach was the camp of the Indians, and here you could see the dusky ones + praying on prayer mats and cooking rice and “chupatties” (sort of + oatcake-pancakes). + </p> + <p> + Here they were laying a light rail from the beach up with trucks for + carrying shells and parts of big guns. + </p> + <p> + Here was the field post-office with sacks and sacks of letters and + parcels. Some of the parcels were burst and unaddressed; a pair of socks + or a mouldy home-made cake squashed in a cardboard box—sometimes + nothing but the brown paper, card box and string, an empty shell—the + contents having disappeared. What happened to all the parcels which never + got to the Dardanelles no one knows, but those which did arrive were + rifled and lost and stolen. Parcels containing cigarettes had a way of not + getting delivered, and cakes and sweets often fell out mysteriously on the + way from England. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVI. THE ADVENTURE OF THE LOST SQUADS + </h2> + <p> + Things became jumbled. + </p> + <p> + The continual working up to the firing-line and the awful labour of + carrying heavy men back to our dressing station: it went on. We got used + to being always tired, and having only an hour or two of sleep. It was + log-heavy, dreamless sleep... sheer nothingness. Just as tired when you + were wakened in the early hours by a sleepy, grumbling guard. And then + going round finding the men and wakening them up and getting them on + parade. Every day the same... late into the night. + </p> + <p> + Then came the disappearance of a certain section of our ambulance and the + loss of an officer. + </p> + <p> + This particular young lieutenant was left on Lemnos sick. He really was + very sick indeed. He recovered to some extent of the fever, and joined us + one day at Suvla. This was in the Old Dry Water-course period, when Hawk + and I lived in the bush-grown ditch. + </p> + <p> + Officers, N.C.O.'s, and men were tired out with overwork. This young + officer came up to the Kapanja Sirt to take over the next spell of duty. + </p> + <p> + I remember him now, pale and sickly, with the fever still hanging on him, + and dark, sunken eyes. He spoke in a dull, lifeless way. + </p> + <p> + “Do you think you'll be all right?” asked the adjutant. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I think so,” he answered. + </p> + <p> + “Well, just stick here and send down the wounded as you find them. Don't + go any farther along; it's too dangerous up there—you understand?” + </p> + <p> + “All right, sir.” + </p> + <p> + It was only a stroke of luck that I didn't stay with him and his + stretcher-squads. + </p> + <p> + “You'd better come down with me, sergeant,” says the adjutant. + </p> + <p> + Next day the news spread in that mysterious way which has always puzzled + me. It spread as news does spread in the wild and desolate regions of the + earth. + </p> + <p> + “... lost... all the lot...” + </p> + <p> + “Who is?” + </p> + <p> + “Up there... Lieutenant S—- and the squads...” + </p> + <p> + “How-joo-know?” + </p> + <p> + “Just heard—that wounded fellow over there on the stretcher... they + went out early this morning, and they've gone—no sign, never came + back at all—” + </p> + <p> + “'E warn't fit ter take charge... 'e was ill, you could see.” + </p> + <p> + “Nice thing ter do. The old man'll go ravin' mad.” + </p> + <p> + “It was a ravin' mad thing to put the poor feller in charge... ” + </p> + <p> + “Don't criticise yer officers,” said some wit, quoting the Army + Regulations. + </p> + <p> + The adjutant and a string of squads turned out, and we went back again to + the spot where we had left the young officer the evening before. + </p> + <p> + The cook and an orderly man remained, and we heard from them the details + of the mystery. + </p> + <p> + Early that morning they had formed up, and gone off under Lieutenant S—- + along the mule track overlooking the Gulf of Saros. That was all. There + was still hope, of course... but there wasn't a sign of them to be seen. + The machine-gun section had seen them pass right along. Some officers had + warned them not to go up, but they went and they never came back. + </p> + <p> + There were rumours that one of the N.C.O.'s of the party, a sergeant, had + been seen lying on some rocks. + </p> + <p> + “Just riddled with bullets—riddled!” + </p> + <p> + The hours dragged on. I begged of the adjutant to let me go off along the + ridge on my own to see if I could find any trace. + </p> + <p> + “It's too dangerous,” he said. “If I thought there was half a chance I'd + go with you, but we don't want to lose any more.” + </p> + <p> + Those ten or twelve men went out of our lives completely. Days passed. + There was no news. It was queer. It was queer when I called the roll next + day— + </p> + <p> + “Briggs!”—“Sar'nt!” + </p> + <p> + “Boots!”—“Sarn't!” + </p> + <p> + “Cudworth!”—“Here, Sar'nt!” + </p> + <p> + “Dean!”—“Sar'nt!” + </p> + <p> + “Desmond!”—“Sar'nt!” + </p> + <p> + “D—-.” + </p> + <p> + I couldn't remember not to call his name out. It seemed queer that he was + missing. It seemed quite hopeless now. Three or four days dragged on. + Everything continued as usual. We went up past the place where we had left + them, and there was no news, no sign. They just vanished. No one saw them + again, and except for the “riddled” rumour of the poor old sergeant the + whole thing was a blank. + </p> + <p> + We supposed that the young officer, coming fresh to the place, did not + know where the British lines ended and the Turks' began, and he marched + his squads into that bit of No Man's Land beyond the machine-gun near + “Jefferson's Post,” and was either shot or taken prisoner. + </p> + <p> + It made the men heavy and sad-minded. + </p> + <p> + “Poor old Mellor—'e warn't a bad sort, was he!” + </p> + <p> + “Ah!—an' Bell, Sergeant Bell... riddled they say... some one seen 'm—artillery + or some one!” + </p> + <p> + It hung over them like a cloud. The men talked of nothing else. + </p> + <p> + “Somebody's blundered,” said one. + </p> + <p> + “It's a pity any'ow.” + </p> + <p> + “It's a disgrace to the ambulance—losin' men like that.” + </p> + <p> + And, also, it made the men nervous and unreliable. It was a shock. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVII. “OH, TO BE IN ENGLAND!” + </h2> + <p> + It may be that I have never grown up properly. I'm a very poor hand at + pretending I'm a “grown man.” + </p> + <p> + Impressions of small queer things still stamp themselves with a clear + kodak-click on my mind—an ivory-white mule's skull lying in the sand + with green beetles running through the eye-holes... anything—trivial, + childlike details. + </p> + <p> + I remember reading an article in a magazine which stated that under fire, + and more especially in a charge, a man moves in a whirl of excitement + which blots out all the small realities around him, all the “local + colour.” He remembers nothing but a wild, mad rush, or the tense intensity + of the danger he is in. + </p> + <p> + It is not so. The greater the danger and the more exciting the position + the more intensely does the mind receive the imprint of tiny commonplace + objects. + </p> + <p> + Memories of Egypt and the Mediterranean are far more a jumble of general + effects of colour, sound and smell. + </p> + <p> + The closer we crept to the shores of Suvla Bay, and the deathbed of the + Salt Lake, the more exact and vivid are the impressions; the one is like + an impressionist sketch—blobs and dabs and great sloshy washes; but + the memories of Pear-tree Gully, of the Kapanja Sirt, and Chocolate Hill + are drawn in with a fine mapping pen and Indian ink—like a Rackham + fairy-book illustration—every blade of dead grass, every ripple of + blue, every pink pebble; and towards the firing-line I could draw it now, + every inch of the way up the hills with every stone and jagged rock in the + right place. + </p> + <p> + Before sailing from England I had bought a little colour-box, one good + sable brush, and a few H.B. pencils—these and a sketch-book which my + father gave me I carried everywhere in my haversack. The pocket-book was + specially made with paper which would take pencil, colour, crayon, ink or + charcoal. I was always on the look out for sketches and notes. The cover + bore the strange device— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + JOHN HARGRAVE, + R.A.M.C. + 32ND FIELD AMBULANCE. +</pre> + <p> + printed in gilt which gradually wore off as time went on. Inside on the + fly-leaf I had written— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “IF FOUND, please return to + + Sgt. J. HARGRAVE, 32819, R.A.M.C. + 32nd Field Ambulance, + X Division, Med. Exp. Force.” + </pre> + <p> + And on the opposite page I wrote— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “IN CASE OF DEATH please post as soon as possible to + + GORDON HARGRAVE, + Cinderbarrow Cottage, + Levens, + Westmorland.” + </pre> + <p> + I remember printing the word “DEATH,” and wondering if the book would some + day lie with my own dead body “somewhere in the Dardanelles.” Printing + that word in England before we started made the whole thing seem very + real. Somehow up to then I hadn't realised that I might get killed quite + easily. I hadn't troubled to think about it. + </p> + <p> + We moved our camp from “A” Beach farther along towards the Salt Lake. We + moved several times. Always Hawk and I “hung together.” Once he was very + ill in the old dried-up water-course which wriggled down from the Kislar + Dargh. He ate nothing for three days. I never saw anything like it before. + He was as weak as a rat, and I know he came very near “pegging out.” He + felt it himself. I was sitting on the ground near by. + </p> + <p> + “I may not pull through this, old fellow,” says Hawk, with just a + tear-glint under one eyelid. He lay under a shelf of rock, safe from + shrapnel. + </p> + <p> + “Come now, Fred,” says I, “you're not going to snuff it yet.” + </p> + <p> + “Weak as a rat—can't eat nothink, PRACtically... nothink; but see + here, John,”—he seldom called me John—“if I do slip off the + map, an' I feel PRACtically done for this time—if I SHOULD—you + see that ration-bag”—he pointed to a little white bag bulging and + tied up and knotted. + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” + </p> + <p> + “It's got some little things in it—for the kiddies at home—a + little teapot I found up by the Turkish bivouac over there, and one or two + more relics—I want 'em to have 'em—will you take care of it + and send it home for me if you get out of this alive?” + </p> + <p> + Of course I promised to do this, but tried to cheer him up, and assured + him he would soon pull round. + </p> + <p> + In a few days he threw off the fever and was about again. + </p> + <p> + Hawk and I had lived for some weeks in this overgrown water-course. It was + a natural trench, and at one place Hawk had made a dug-out. He picked and + shovelled right into the hard, sandy rock until there was quite a + good-sized little cave about eight feet long and five deep. + </p> + <p> + The same sickness got me. It came over me quite suddenly. I was fearfully + tired. Every limb ached, and, like all the others, I began to develop what + I call the “stretcher-stoop.” I just lay down in the ditch with a blanket + and went to sleep. Hawk sat over me and brought me bovril, which we had + “pinched” on Lemnos Island. + </p> + <p> + I felt absolutely dying, and I really wondered whether I should have + enough strength to throw the sickness off as Hawk had. I gave him just the + same sort of instructions about my notes and sketches as he had given me + about his little ration-bag. + </p> + <p> + “Get 'em back to England if you can,” I said; “you're the man I'd soonest + trust here.” + </p> + <p> + If Hawk hadn't looked after me and made me eat, I don't believe I should + have lived. I used to lie there looking at the wild-rose tangles and the + red hips; there were brambles, too, with poor, dried-up blackberries. It + reminded me of England. Little green lizards scuttled about, and great + black centipedes crawled under my blanket. The sun was blazing at mid-day. + Hawk used to rig me up an awning over the ditch with willow-stems and a + waterproof ground-sheet. + </p> + <p> + Somehow you always thought yourself back to England. No matter what train + of thought you went upon, it always worked its way by one thread or + another to England. Mine did, anyway. + </p> + <p> + It was better to be up with the stretcher-squads in the firing line than + lying there sick, and thinking those long, long thoughts. + </p> + <p> + This is how I would think— + </p> + <p> + “What a waste of life; what a waste... Christianity this; all part of + civilisation; what's it all for? Queer thing this civilised + Christianity... very queer. So this really IS war; see now: how does it + feel? not much different to usual... But why? It's getting awfully + sickening... plenty of excitement, too—plenty... too much, in fact; + very easy to get killed any time here; plenty of men getting killed every + minute over there; but it isn't really very exciting... not like I thought + war was in England... England? Long way off, England; thousands of miles; + they don't know I'm sick in England; wonder what they'd think to see me + now; not a bad place, England, green trees and green grass... much better + place than I thought it was; wonder how long this will hang on... I'd like + to get back after it's finished here; I expect it's all going on just the + same in England; people going about to offices in London; women dressing + themselves up and shopping; and all that... This is a d——place, + this beastly peninsula—no green anywhere... just yellow sand and + grey rocks and sage-coloured bushes, dead grass—even the thistles + are all bleached and dead and rustling in the breeze like paper flowers... + </p> + <p> + “And we WANTED to get out here... Just eating our hearts out to get into + it all, to get to work—and now... we're all sick of it... it's + rotten, absolutely rotten; everything. It's a rotten war. Wonder what they + are doing now at home...” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVIII. TWO MEN RETURN + </h2> + <p> + I shall never forget those two little figures coming into camp. + </p> + <p> + They were both trembling like aspen leaves. One had ginger hair, and a + crop of ginger beard bristled on his chin. Their eyes were hollow and + sunken, and glittered and roamed unmeaningly with the glare of insanity. + They glanced with a horrible suspicion at their pals, and knew them not. + The one with the ginger stubble muttered to himself. Their clothes were + torn with brambles, and prickles from thorn-bushes still clung round their + puttees. A pitiful sight. They tottered along, keeping close together and + avoiding the others. An awful tiredness weighed upon them; they dragged + themselves along. Their lips were cracked and swollen and dry. They had + lost their helmets, and the sun had scorched and peeled the back of their + necks. Their hair was matted and full of sand. But the fear which looked + out of those glinting eyes was terrible to behold. + </p> + <p> + We gave them “Oxo,” and the medical officer came and looked at them. They + came down to our dried-up water-course and tried to sleep; but they were + past sleep. They kept dozing off and waking up with a start and muttering— + </p> + <p> + “... All gone... killed... where? where? No, no... No!.. . don't move... + (mumble-mumble)... keep still... idiot! you'll get shot... can you see + them? Eh? where?... he's dying, dying... stop the bleeding, man! He's + dying... we're all dying... no water... drink...” + </p> + <p> + I've seen men, healthy, strong, hard-faced Irishmen, blown to shreds. I've + helped to clear up the mess. I've trod on dead men's chests in the sand, + and the ribs have bent in and the putrid gases of decay have burst through + with a whhh-h-ff-f. + </p> + <p> + But I'd rather have to deal with the dead and dying than a case of + “sniper-madness.” + </p> + <p> + I was just recovering from that attack of fever and dysentery, and these + two were lying beside me; the one mumbling and the other panting in a + fitful sleep. + </p> + <p> + When they were questioned they could give very little information. + </p> + <p> + “Where's Lieutenant S—-?” + </p> + <p> + “... Gone... they're all gone...” + </p> + <p> + “How far did you go with him?” + </p> + <p> + No answer. + </p> + <p> + “Where are the others?” + </p> + <p> + “... Gone... they're all gone...” + </p> + <p> + “Are they killed?” + </p> + <p> + “... Gone.” + </p> + <p> + “Are any of the others alive?” + </p> + <p> + “We got away... they're lost... dead, I think.” + </p> + <p> + “Did you come straight back—it's a week since you were lost?” + </p> + <p> + “It's days and days and long nights... couldn't move; couldn't move an + inch, and poor old George dying under a rock... no cover; and they shot at + us if we moved... we waved the stretchers when we found we'd got too + far... too far we got... too far... much too far; shot at us...” + </p> + <p> + “What about the sergeant?” + </p> + <p> + “We got cut off... cut off... we tried to crawl away at night by rolling + over and over down the hill, and creeping round bushes... always creeping + an' crawling... but it took us two days and two nights to get away... + crawling, creeping and crawling... an' they kep' firing at us...” + </p> + <p> + “No food... we chewed grass... sucked dead grass to get some spittle... + an' sometimes we tried to eat grass to fill up a bit.. . no food... no + water...” + </p> + <p> + They were complete wrecks. They couldn't keep their limbs still. They + trembled and shook as they lay there. + </p> + <p> + Their ribs were standing out like skeletons, and their stomachs had sunken + in. They were black with sunburn, and filthily dirty. + </p> + <p> + Gradually they got better. The glare of insanity became less obvious, but + a certain haunted look never left them. They were broken men. Months + afterwards they mumbled to themselves in the night-time. + </p> + <p> + Nolan, one of the seafaring men of my section who was with the lost + squads, also returned, but he had not suffered so badly, or at any rate he + had been able to stand the strain better. + </p> + <p> + It was about this time that we began to realise that the new landing had + been a failure. It was becoming a stale-mate. It was like a clock with its + hands stuck. The whole thing went ticking on every day, but there was no + progress—nothing gained. And while we waited there the Turks brought + up heavy guns and fresh troops on the hills. They consolidated their + positions in a great semicircle all round us—and we just held the + bay and the Salt Lake and the Kapanja Sirt. + </p> + <p> + So all this seemed sheer waste. Thousands of lives wasted—thousands + of armless and legless cripples sent back—for nothing. The troops + soon realised that it was now hopeless. You can't “kid” a great body of + men for long. It became utterly sickening—the inactivity—the + waiting—for nothing. And every day we lost men. Men were killed by + snipers as they went up to the trenches. The Turkish snipers killed them + when they went down to the wells for water. + </p> + <p> + The whole thing had lost impetus. It came to a standstill. It kept on + “marking time,” and nothing appeared to move it. + </p> + <p> + In the first three days of the landing it wanted but one thing to have + marched us right through to Constantinople—it wanted, dash! + </p> + <p> + It didn't want a careful, thoughtful man in command—it wanted dash + and bluff. It could have been done in those early days. The landing WAS a + success—a brilliant, blinding success—but it stuck at the very + moment when it should have rushed forward. It was no one's fault if you + understand. It was sheer luck. It just didn't “come off”—and only + just. But a man with dash, a devil-may-care sort of leader, could have cut + right across on Sunday, August the 8th, and brought off a staggering + victory. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIX. THE RETREAT + </h2> + <p> + It happened on the left of Pear-tree Gully. + </p> + <p> + Pear-tree Gully was a piece of ground which neither we nor the Turks could + hold. It was a gap in both lines, swept by machine-gun fire and haunted by + snipers and sharp-shooters. + </p> + <p> + We had advanced right up behind the machine-gun section, which was hidden + in a dense clump of bushes on the top of a steep rise. + </p> + <p> + The sun was blazing hot and the sweat was dripping from our faces. We were + continually on the look-out for wounded, and always alert for the agonised + cry of “Stretcher-bearers!” away on some distant knoll or down below in + the thickets. Looking back the bay shimmered a silver-white streak with + grey battleships lying out. + </p> + <p> + In front the fighting broke out in fierce gusts. + </p> + <p> + “Pop-pop-pop-pop!—Pop-pop!” went the machine-gun. We could see one + man getting another belt of ammunition ready to “feed.” Bullets from the + Turkish quick-firers went singing with an angry “ssss-ooooo! + zzz-z-eeee!... whheee-ooo-o-o! zz-ing!” + </p> + <p> + “D'you know where Brigade Headquarters is?” asked the adjutant. + </p> + <p> + “I'll find it, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well, go up with this message, and I shall be here when you come + back.” + </p> + <p> + I took the message, saluted and went off, plunging down into the thickets, + and at last along my old water-course where I had crawled away from the + sniper some days before. + </p> + <p> + I made a big detour to avoid showing myself on the sky-line. I knew the + general direction of our Brigade Headquarters, and after half-an-hour's + steady trudging with various creepings and crawlings I arrived and + delivered my message. I returned quickly towards Pear-tree Gully. I + stopped once to listen for the “Pop-pop-pop!” of our machine-gun but I + could not hear it. I hurried on. It was downhill most of the way going + back. I crept up through the bushes and looked about for signs of our men + and the officer. + </p> + <p> + I saw a man of the machine-gun section carrying the tripod-stand, followed + by another with the ammunition-belt-box. + </p> + <p> + “Seen any Medical Corps here?” + </p> + <p> + “They've gone down—'ooked it... you'd better get out o' this quick + yourself—we're retreating—can't 'old this place no'ow—too + 'ot!” + </p> + <p> + “Did the officer leave any message?” + </p> + <p> + “No—they've bin gone some time—come on, Sammy.” + </p> + <p> + Well, I thought to myself, this IS nice. So I went down with the + machine-gunners and in the dead grass just below the gully I found a + wounded man: he was shot through the thigh and it had gone clean through + both legs. + </p> + <p> + He was bleeding to death quickly, for it had ripped both arteries. Looking + round I saw another man coming down, hopping along but very cheerful. + </p> + <p> + “In the ankle,” he said; “can you do anything?” + </p> + <p> + “I'll have a look in a minute.” + </p> + <p> + I examined the man who was hit in the thigh and discovered two tourniquets + had been applied made out of a handkerchief and bits of stick to twist + them up. But the blood was now pumping steadily from both wounds and + soaking its way into the sandy soil. I tightened them up, but it was + useless. There was no stopping the loss of blood. + </p> + <p> + All the time little groups of British went straggling past—hurrying + back towards the bay—retreating. + </p> + <p> + It was impossible to leave my wounded. I helped the cheerful man to hop + near a willow thicket, and there I took off his boot and found a clean + bullet wound right through the ankle-bone of the left foot. It was + bleeding slowly and the man was very pale. + </p> + <p> + “Been bleeding long?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “About half an hour I reckon. Is it all right, mate?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. It's a clean wound.” + </p> + <p> + I plugged each hole, padded it and bound it up tightly. I had a look at + the other man, who was still bleeding and had lost consciousness + altogether. + </p> + <p> + It was a race for life. Which to attend to? Both men were still bleeding, + and both would bleed to death within half an hour or so. I reckoned it was + almost hopeless with the tourniquet-man and I left him passing painlessly + from life to death. But the ankle-man's wound was still bleeding when I + turned again to him. It trickled through my plugging. It's a difficult + thing to stop the bleeding from such a place. Seeing the plug was useless + I tried another way. I rolled up one of his puttees, put it under his + knee, braced his knee up and tied it in position with the other puttee. + This brought pressure on the artery itself and stopped the loss of blood + from his ankle. I could hear the Turkish machine-gun much closer now. It + sputtered out a leaden rain with a hard metallic clatter. + </p> + <p> + “Thanks, mate,” said the man; “'ow's the other bloke?” + </p> + <p> + “He's all right,” I answered, and I could see him lying a little way up + the hill, calm and still and stiffening. + </p> + <p> + I found two regimental stretcher-bearers coming down with the rest in this + little retreat, and I got them to take my ankle-man on to their dressing + station about two miles further back. + </p> + <p> + It's no fun attending to wounded when the troops are retiring. + </p> + <p> + Next day they regained the lost position, and I trudged past the poor dead + body of the man who had bled to death. The tourniquets were still gripping + his lifeless limbs and the blood on the handkerchiefs had dried a rich + red-brown. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0020" id="link2HCH0020"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XX. “JHILL-O! JOHNNIE!” + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “A” BEACH + + SUVLA BAY + + There's a lot of senseless “doing” + And a fearful lot of work; + There are gangs of men with “gangers,” + To see they do not shirk. + There's the usual waste of power + In the usual Western way, + There's a tangle in the transport, + And a blockage every day. + The sergeants do the swearing, + The corporals “carry on”; + The private cusses openly, + And hopes he'll soon be gone. +</pre> + <p> + One evening the colonel sent me from our dug-out near the Salt Lake to “A” + Beach to make a report on the water supply which was pumped ashore from + the tank-boats. I trudged along the sandy shore. At one spot I remember + the carcase of a mule washed up by the tide, the flesh rotted and sodden, + and here and there a yellow rib bursting through the skin. Its head + floated in the water and nodded to and fro with a most uncanny motion with + every ripple of the bay. + </p> + <p> + The wet season was coming on, and the chill winds went through my khaki + drill uniform. The sky was overcast, and the bay, generally a kaleidoscope + of Eastern blues and greens, was dull and grey. + </p> + <p> + At “A” Beach I examined the pipes and tanks of the water-supply system and + had a chat with the Australians who were in charge. I drew a small plan, + showing how the water was pumped from the tanks afloat to the standing + tank ashore, and suggested the probable cause of the sand and dirt of + which the C.O. complained. + </p> + <p> + This done I found our own ambulance water-cart just ready to return to our + camp with its nightly supply. Evening was giving place to darkness, and + soon the misty hills and the bay were enveloped in starless gloom. + </p> + <p> + The traffic about “A” Beach was always congested. It reminded you of the + Bank and the Mansion House crush far away in London town. + </p> + <p> + Here were clanking water-carts, dozens of them waiting in their turn, + stamping mules and snorting horses; here were motor-transport wagons with + “W.D.” in white on their grey sides; ambulance wagons jolting slowly back + to their respective units, sometimes full of wounded, sometimes empty. + Here all was bustle and noise. Sergeants shouting and corporals cursing; + transport-officers giving directions; a party of New Zealand + sharp-shooters in scout hats and leggings laughing and yarning; a patrol + of the R.E.'s Telegraph Section coming in after repairing the wires along + the beach; or a new batch of men, just arrived, falling in with + new-looking kit-bags. + </p> + <p> + It was through this throng of seething khaki and transport traffic that + our water-cart jostled and pushed. + </p> + <p> + Often we had to pull up to let the Indian Pack-mule Corps pass, and it was + at one of these halts that I happened to come close to one of these dusky + soldiers waiting calmly by the side of his mules. + </p> + <p> + I wished I had some knowledge of Hindustani, and began to think over any + words he might recognise. + </p> + <p> + “You ever hear of Rabindranarth Tagore, Johnnie?” I asked him. The name of + the great writer came to mind. + </p> + <p> + He shook his head. “No, sergeant,” he answered. + </p> + <p> + “Buddha, Johnnie?” His face gleamed and he showed his great white teeth. + </p> + <p> + “No, Buddie.” + </p> + <p> + “Mahomet, Johnnie?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—me, Mahommedie,” he said proudly. + </p> + <p> + “Gunga, Johnnie?” I asked, remembering the name of the sacred river Ganges + from Kipling's “Kim.” + </p> + <p> + “No Gunga, sa'b—Mahommedie, me.” + </p> + <p> + “You go Benares, Johnnie?” + </p> + <p> + “No Benares.” + </p> + <p> + “Mecca?” + </p> + <p> + “Mokka, yes; afterwards me go Mokka.” + </p> + <p> + “After the war you going to Mokka, Johnnie?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; Indee, France—here—Indee back again—then Mokka.” + </p> + <p> + “You been to France, Johnnie?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sa'b.” + </p> + <p> + “You know Kashmir, Johnnie?” + </p> + <p> + “Kashmir my house,” he replied. + </p> + <p> + “You live in Kashmir?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; you go Indee, sergeant?” + </p> + <p> + “No, I've never been.” + </p> + <p> + “No go Indee?” + </p> + <p> + “Not yet.” + </p> + <p> + “Indee very good—English very good—Turk, finish!” + </p> + <p> + With a sudden jerk and a rattle of chains our water-cart mules pulled out + on the trail again and the ghostly figure with its well-folded turban and + gleaming white teeth was left behind. + </p> + <p> + A beautifully calm race, the Hindus. They did wonderful work at Suvla Bay. + Up and down, up and down, hour after hour they worked steadily on; taking + up biscuits, bully-beef and ammunition to the firing-line, and returning + for more and still more. Day and night these splendidly built Easterns + kept up the supply. + </p> + <p> + I remember one man who had had his left leg blown off by shrapnel sitting + on a rock smoking a cigarette and great tears rolling down his cheeks. But + he said no word. Not a groan or a cry of pain. + </p> + <p> + They ate little, and said little. But they were always extraordinarily + polite and courteous to each other. They never neglected their prayers, + even under heavy shell fire. + </p> + <p> + Once, when we were moving from the Salt Lake to “C” Beach, Lala Baba, the + Indians moved all our equipment in their little two-wheeled carts. + </p> + <p> + They were much amused and interested in our sergeant clerk, who stood 6 + feet 8 inches. They were joking and pointing to him in a little bunch. + </p> + <p> + Going up to them, I pointed up to the sky, and then to the Sergeant, + saying: “Himalayas, Johnnie!” + </p> + <p> + They roared with laughter, and ever afterwards called him “Himalayas.” + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + THE INDIAN TRANSPORT TRAIN + + (Across the bed of the Salt Lake every night from the + Supply Depot at Kangaroo Beach to the firing-line beyond + Chocolate Hill, September 1915.) + + (footnote: “Jhill-o!”—Hindustani for “Gee-up”; used by the + drivers of the Indian Pack-mule Corps.) +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The Indian whallahs go up to the hills— + “Jhill-o! Johnnie, Jhill-o!” + They pass by the spot where the gun-cotton kills; + They shiver and huddle—they feel the night chills— + “Jhill-o! Johnnie, Jhill-o!” + + With creaking and jingle of harness and pack— + “Jhill-o! Johnnie, Jhill-o!” + Where the moonlight is white and the shadows are black, + They are climbing the winding and rocky mule-track— + “Jhill-o! Johnnie, Jhill-o!” + + By the blessing of Allah he's more than one wife; + “Jhill-o! Johnnie, Jhill-o!” + He's forbidden the wine which encourages strife, + But you don't like the look of his dangerous knife; + “Jhill-o! Johnnie, Jhill-o!” + + The picturesque whallah is dusky and spare; + “Jhill-o! Johnnie, Jhill-o!” + A turban he wears with magnificent air, + But he chucks down his pack when it's time for his prayer; + “Jhill-o! Johnnie, Jhill-o!” + + When his moment arrives he'll be dropped in a hole; + “Jhill-o! Johnnie, Jhill-o!” + 'Tis Kismet, he says, and beyond his control; + But the dear little houris will comfort his soul; + “Jhill-o! Johnnie, Jhill-o!” + + The Indian whallahs go up to the hills; + “Jhill-o! Johnnie, Jhill-o!” + They pass by the spot where the gun-cotton kills; + But those who come down carry something that chills; + “Jhill-o! Johnnie, Jhill-o!” + </pre> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0021" id="link2HCH0021"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXI. SILVER BAY + </h2> + <p> + On the edge of the Salt Lake, by the blue Aegean shore, Hawk and I dug a + little underground home into the sandy hillock upon which our ambulance + was now encamped. + </p> + <p> + “I'm going deep into this,” said Hawk—he was a very skilful miner, + and he knew his work. + </p> + <p> + “None of your dead heroes for me,” he said; “I don't hold with 'em—we'll + make it PRACtically shell-proof.” We did. Each day we burrowed into the + soft sandy layers, he swinging the pick, and I filling up sand-bags. At + last we made a sort of cave, a snug little Peter Pan home, sand-bagged all + round and safe from shells when you crawled in. + </p> + <p> + I often thought what a fine thing Stevenson would have written from the + local colour of the bay. + </p> + <p> + Its changing colours were intense and wonderful. In the early morning the + waves were a rich royal blue, with splashing lines of white breakers + rolling in and in upon the pale grey sand, and the sea-birds skimming and + wheeling overhead. + </p> + <p> + At mid-day it was colourless, glaring, steel-flashing, with the sunlight + blazing and everything shimmering in the heat haze. + </p> + <p> + In the early afternoon, when Hawk and I used to go down to the shore and + strip naked like savages, and plunge into the warm water, the bay had + changed to pale blue with green ripples, and the outline of Imbros Island, + on the horizon, was a long jagged strip of mauve. + </p> + <p> + Later, when the sunset sky turned lemon-yellow, orange, and deep crimson, + the bay went into peacock blues and purples, with here and there a current + of bottle-glass green, and Imbros Island stood clear cut against the + sunset-colour a violet-black silhouette. + </p> + <p> + Queer creatures crept across the sands and into the old Turkish snipers' + trenches; long black centipedes, sand-birds—very much resembling our + martin, but with something of the canary in their colour. Horned beetles, + baby tortoises, mice, and green-grey lizards all left their tiny + footprints on the shore. + </p> + <p> + “If this silver sand was only in England a man could make his fortune,” + said Hawk. (“We wept like anything to see—!”) + </p> + <p> + I never saw such white sand before. One had to misquote: “Come unto these + SILVER sands.” It glittered white in a great horse-shoe round the bay, and + the bed of the Salt Lake (which is really an overflow from the sea) was a + barren patch of this silver-sand, with here and there a dead mule or a + sniper's body lying out, a little black blot, the haunt of vultures. + </p> + <p> + I made some careful drawings of the sand-tracks of the bay; noting down + tracks being a habit with the scout. + </p> + <p> + In these things Hawk was always interested, and often a great help; for, + in spite of his fifty years and his buccaneerish-habits, he was at heart a + boy—a boy-scout, in fact, and a fine tracker. + </p> + <p> + One of the most picturesque sights I ever saw was an Indian officer + mounted on a white Arab horse with a long flowing mane, and a tail which + swept in a splendid curve and trailed in the sands. The Hindu wore a khaki + turban, with a long end floating behind. He sat his horse bolt upright, + and rode in the proper military style. + </p> + <p> + The Arab steed pranced, and arched its great neck. With the blue of the + bay as a background it made a magnificent picture, worthy of the + Thousand-and-One Nights. + </p> + <p> + Day by day we improved our dug-out, going deeper into the solid rock, and + putting up an awning in front made of two army blankets, with a wooden + cross-beam roped to an old rusty bayonet driven into the sand. + </p> + <p> + We lived a truly Robinson Crusoe life, with the addition of Turkish + high-explosives, and bully-beef-and-biscuit stew. + </p> + <p> + Our dug-out was back to the firing-line, and at night we looked out upon + the bay. We lay in our blankets watching the white moonlight on the waves, + and the black shadows of our ambulance wagons on the silver sand. + </p> + <p> + It was in this dug-out that Hawk used to cook the most wonderful dishes on + a Primus stove. + </p> + <p> + The language was thick and terrible when that stove refused to work, and + Hawk would squat there cursing and cleaning it, and sticking bits of wire + down the gas-tube. + </p> + <p> + He cooked chocolate-pudding, and rice-and-milk, and arrowroot-blancmange, + stewed prunes, fried bread in bacon fat, and many other tasty morsels. + </p> + <p> + “The proof of a good cook,” said Hawk, “is whether he can make a meal + worth eating out of PRACtically nothink”—and he could. + </p> + <p> + There were very few wounds now to attend to in the hospital dug-out. + Mostly we got men with sandfly-fever and dysentery; men with scabies and + lice; men utterly and unspeakably exhausted, with hollow, black-rimmed + eyes, cracked lips and foot-sores; men who limped across the sandy bed, + dragging their rifles and equipment in their hands; men who were + desperately hungry, whose eyes held the glint of sniper-madness; men whose + bodies were wasting away, the skin taut and dry like a drum, with every + rib showing like the beams of a wreck, or the rafters of an old roof. + </p> + <p> + Always we were in the midst of pain and misery, hunger and death. We do + not get much of the rush and glory of battle in the “Linseed Lancers.” We + deal with the wreckage thrown up by the tide of battle, and wreckage is + always a sad sight—human wreckage most of all. + </p> + <p> + But the bay was always full of interest for me, with its ever-changing + colour, and the imprint of the ripples in the gleaming silver-sand. + </p> + <p> + And the silver moonlight silvers the silver-sand, while the skeletons of + the Xth sink deeper and deeper, to be rediscovered perhaps at some future + geological period, and recognised as a type of primitive man. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0022" id="link2HCH0022"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXII. DUG-OUT YARNS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Oft in the stilly night, + By yellow candle-light, + With finger in the sand + We mapped and planned. + + “This is the Turkish well, + That's where the Captain fell, + There's the great Salt Lake bed, + Here's where the Munsters led.” + + Primitive man arose, + With prehistoric pose, + Like Dug-out Men of old, + By signs our thoughts were told. +</pre> + <p> + I have slept and lived in every kind of camp and bivouac. I have dug and + helped to dig dug-outs. I have lain full length in the dry, dead grass + “under the wide and starry sky.” I have crept behind a ledge of rock, and + gone to sleep with the ants crawling over me. I have slept with a pair of + boots for a pillow. I have lived and snoozed in the dried-up bed of a + mountain torrent for weeks. A ground-sheet tied to a bough has been my + bedroom. I have slumbered curled in a coil of rope on the deck of a + cattle-boat, in an ambulance wagon, on a stretcher, in farmhouse barns and + under hedges and haystacks. I have slept in the sand by the blue + Mediterranean Sea, with the crickets and grasshoppers “zipping” and + “zinging” all night long. + </p> + <p> + But our dug-out nights on the edge of the bay at Buccaneer Bivouac were + the most enjoyable. + </p> + <p> + It was here of a night-time that Hawk and I—sometimes alone, + sometimes with Brockley, or “Cherry Blossom,” or “Corporal Mush,” or + Sergeant Joe Smith, the sailormen as onlookers and listeners—it was + here we drew diagrams in the sand with our fingers, and talked on politics + and women's rights, marriage and immorality, drink and religion, customs + and habits; of life and death, peace and war. + </p> + <p> + Sometimes Hawk burst into a rare phrase of splendid composition—well-balanced + rhetoric, not unworthy of a Prime Minister. + </p> + <p> + At other times he is the buccaneer, the flinger of foul oaths, and + terrible damning curses. But as a rule they are not vindictive, they have + no sting—for Hawk is a forgiving and humble man in reality, in spite + of his mask of arrogance. + </p> + <p> + A remarkable character in every way, he fell unknowingly into the old + north-country Quaker talk of “thee and thou.” + </p> + <p> + Another minute he gives an order in those hard, calm, commanding words + which, had he had the chance, would have made him, in spite of his lack of + schooling, one of the finest Generals the world could ever know. + </p> + <p> + On these occasional gleams of pure leadership he finds the finest King's + English ready to his lips, while at other times he is ungrammatical, + ordinary, but never uninteresting or slow of intuition. + </p> + <p> + He was a master of slang, and like all strong and vivid characters had his + own peculiar sayings. + </p> + <p> + He never thought of looking over my shoulder when I was sketching. He was + a gentleman of Nature. But when he saw I had finished, his clear, deep-set + eyes (handed down to him from those old Norseman ancestors) would glint + with interest— + </p> + <p> + “Dekko the drawing,” he would say, using the old Romany word for “let's + see.” + </p> + <p> + “PRACtically” was a favourite word. + </p> + <p> + “PRACtically the 'ole Peninsula—” + </p> + <p> + “PRACtically every one of 'em—” + </p> + <p> + “It weren't that,” he would say; or, “I weren't bothering—” + </p> + <p> + “I'm not bothered—” + </p> + <p> + “Thee needn't bother, but it's a misfortunate thing—” + </p> + <p> + “Hates me like the divil 'ates Holy Water.” + </p> + <p> + “Like enough!” + </p> + <p> + “A pound to a penny!” + </p> + <p> + “As like as not!” + </p> + <p> + “Ah; very like.” + </p> + <p> + These were all typical Hawkish expressions. + </p> + <p> + His yarns of India out-Rudyard Kipling. They were superb, full of + barrack-room touches, and the smells and sounds of the jungle. He told of + the time when a soldier could get “jungling leave”; when he could go off + with a Winchester and a pal and a native guide for two or three months; + when the Government paid so many rupees for a tiger skin, so many for a + cobra—a scale of rewards for bringing back the trophies of the + jungle wilds. + </p> + <p> + He pictured the Himalayas and the Hindu Kush, describing the everlasting + snows where you look up and up at the sheer rocks and glaciers; “you feel + like a baby tortoise away down there, so small, as like as not you get + giddy and drunk-like.” + </p> + <p> + One night Hawk told me of a Hindu fakir who sat by the roadside performing + the mango-trick for one anna. I illustrated it in the sand as he told it. + </p> + <p> + <i>caption: Dug-out, September 9, 1915.</i> + </p> + <p> + 1. The fakir puts a pinch of dust from the ground in a little pile on a + glass plate on a tripod. + </p> + <p> + 2. He covers it up with a handkerchief or a cloth. + </p> + <p> + 3. He plays the bagpipes, or a wooden flute, while you can see the heap of + dust under the cloth a-growing and a-growing up and up, bigger and bigger. + </p> + <p> + 4. At last he lifts up the cloth and shows you the green mango-tree + growing on the piece of glass. + </p> + <p> + “He covers it again—plays. Lifts the cloth, shows you the mango tree + in leaf. Covers it again—plays again. Takes away the cloth, and + shows you the mango-tree in fruit, real fruit; but they never let you have + the fruit for love or money. Rather than let any one have it, they pluck + it and squash it between their fingers.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0023" id="link2HCH0023"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXIII. THE WISDOM OF FATHER S—— + </h2> + <p> + One day, while I was making some sketch-book drawings of bursting shells + down in the old water-course, the Roman Catholic padre came along. + </p> + <p> + “Sketching, Hargrave?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir.” + </p> + <p> + And then: “I suppose you're Church of England, aren't you?” + </p> + <p> + “No, sir; I'm down as Quaker.” + </p> + <p> + “Quaker, eh?—that's interesting; I know quite a lot of Quakers in + Dublin and Belfast.” + </p> + <p> + Who would expect to find “Father Brown” of G. K. Chesterton fame in a + khaki drill uniform and a pith helmet? + </p> + <p> + A small, energetic man, with a round face and a habit of putting his hands + deep into the patch pockets of his tunic. Here was a priest who knew his + people, who was a real “father” to his khaki followers. I quickly + discovered him to be a man of learning, and one who noticed small signs + and commonplace details. + </p> + <p> + His eyes twinkled and glittered when he was amused, and his little round + face wrinkled into wreaths of smiles. + </p> + <p> + When we moved to the Salt Lake dug-outs he came with us, and here he had a + dug-out of his own. + </p> + <p> + When the day's work was finished, and the moonlight glittered white across + the Salt Lake, I used to stroll away for a time by myself before turning + in. + </p> + <p> + It was a good time to think. Everything was so silent. Even my own + footsteps were soundless in the soft sand. It was on one of these + night-prowls that I spotted the tiny figure of Father S—- jerking + across the sands, with that well-known energetic walk, stick in hand. + </p> + <p> + “Stars, Hargrave?” said the little priest. + </p> + <p> + “Very clear to-night, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Queer, you know, Hargrave, to think that those same old stars have looked + down all these ages; same old stars which looked down on Darius and his + Persians.” + </p> + <p> + He prodded the sand with his walking stick, stuck his cap on one side (I + don't think he cared for his helmet), and peered up to the star-spangled + sky. + </p> + <p> + “Wonderful country, all this,” said the padre; “it may be across this very + Salt Lake that the armies of the ancients fought with sling and stone and + spear; St. Paul may have put in here, he was well acquainted with these + parts—Lemnos and all round about—preaching and teaching on his + travels, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “Talking about Lemnos Island,” he went on, “did you notice the series of + peaks which run across it in a line?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, it was on those promontories that Agamemnon, King of Mycenæ, lit a + chain of fire-beacons to announce the taking of Troy to his Queen, + Clytaemnestra, at Argos—” + </p> + <p> + Here the little priest, as pleased as a school-boy, scratched a rough + sketch map in the sand— + </p> + <p> + “All the islands round here are full of historical interest, you know; + `far-famed Samothrace,' for instance.” Father S—- talked much of + classical history, connecting these islands with Greek and Roman heroes. + </p> + <p> + All this was desperately interesting to me. It was picturesque to stand in + the sand-bed of the Salt Lake, lit by the broad flood of silver moonlight, + with the little priest eagerly scratching like an ibis in the sand with + his walking-stick. + </p> + <p> + I learnt more about the Near East in those few minutes than I had ever + done at school. + </p> + <p> + But besides the interest in this novel history lesson, I was more than + delighted to find the padre so correct in his sketch of the island and the + coast, and I took down what he told me in a note-book afterwards, and + copied his sand-maps also. + </p> + <p> + After this I came to know him better than I had. I visited his dug-out, + and he let me look at his books and Punch and a month-old Illustrated + London News, or so. I came to admire him for his simplicity and for his + devotion to his men. Every Sunday he held Mass in the trenches of the + firing-line, and he never had the least fear of going up. + </p> + <p> + A splendid little man, always cheerful, always looking after his “flock.” + Praying with those who were about to give up the ghost; administering the + last rites of the Church to those who, in awful agony, were fluttering + like singed moths at the edge of the great flame, the Great Life-Mystery + of Death. + </p> + <p> + He wrote beautifully sad letters of comfort to the mothers of boy-officers + who were killed. Father S—- knew every man: every man knew Father S—- + and admired him. + </p> + <p> + His dug-out was made in a slope overlooking the bay, and was really a deep + square pit in the sand-bank, roofed with corrugated iron and sandbagged + all round. Here we talked. I found he knew G. K. C. and Hilaire Belloc. + Always he wanted to look at any new drawings in my sketch-books. + </p> + <p> + It is a relief to speak with some intelligent person sometimes. + </p> + <p> + Such was Father S—-, a very 'cute little man, knowing most of the + troubles of the men about him, noticing their ways and keeping in touch + with them all. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0024" id="link2HCH0024"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXIV. THE SHARP-SHOOTERS + </h2> + <p> + Just after the episode of the lost squads we were working our + stretcher-bearers as far as Brigade Headquarters which were situated on a + steep backbone-like spur of the Kapanja Sirt. + </p> + <p> + One of my “lance-jacks” (lance-corporals) had been missing for a good long + time, and we began to fear he was either shot or taken prisoner with the + others who had gone too far up the Sirt. + </p> + <p> + One afternoon we were resting among the rocks, waiting for wounded to be + sent back to us; for since the loss of the others we were not allowed to + pass the Brigade Headquarters. There was a lull in the fighting, with only + a few bursting shrapnel now and then. + </p> + <p> + This particular lance-jack was quite a young lad of the middle-class, with + a fairly good education. + </p> + <p> + But he was a weedy specimen physically, and I doubted whether he could + pull through if escape should mean a fight with Nature for food and water + and life itself. + </p> + <p> + Fairly late in the day as we all lay sprawling on the rocks or under the + thorn-bushes, I saw a little party staggering along the defile which led + up to the Sirt at this point. + </p> + <p> + There were two men with cow-boy hats, and between them they helped another + very thin and very exhausted-looking fellow, who tottered along holding + one arm which had been wounded. + </p> + <p> + As they came closer I recognised my lost lance-jack, very pale and shaky, + a little thinner than usual, and with a hint of that gleam of + sniper-madness which I have noticed before in the jumpy, unsteady eyes of + hunted men. + </p> + <p> + The other two, one each side, were sturdy enough. Well-built men, one + short and the other tall, with great rough hands, sunburnt faces, and bare + arms. They wore brown leggings and riding-breeches and khaki shirts. They + carried their rifles at the trail and strode up to us with the graceful + gait of those accustomed to the outdoor life. + </p> + <p> + “Awstralians!” said some one. + </p> + <p> + “An' the corporal!” + </p> + <p> + Immediately our men roused up and gathered round. + </p> + <p> + “Where's yer boss?” asked the tall Colonial. + </p> + <p> + “The adjutant is over here,” I answered. + </p> + <p> + “We'd like a word with him,” continued the man. I took them up to the + officer, and they both saluted in an easy-going sort of way. + </p> + <p> + “We found 'im up there,” the Australian jerked his head, “being sniped and + couldn't git away—says 'e belongs t' th' 32nd Ambulance—so + here he is.” + </p> + <p> + The two Australians were just about to slouch off again when the adjutant + called them back. + </p> + <p> + “Where did you find him?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Up beyond Jefferson's Post; there was five snipers pottin' at 'im, an' it + looked mighty like as if 'is number was up. We killed four o' the snipers, + and got him out.” + </p> + <p> + “That was very good of you. Did you see any more Medical Corps up there? + We've lost some others, and an officer and sergeant.” + </p> + <p> + “No, I didn't spot any—did you, Bill?” The tall man turned to his + pal leaning on his rifle. + </p> + <p> + “No,” answered the short sharp-shooter; “he's the only one. It was a good + afternoon's sport—very good. We saw 'e'd got no rifle, and was in a + tight clove-'itch, so we took the job on right there an' finished four of + 'em; but it took some creepin' and crawlin'.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, we'll be quittin' this now,” said the tall one. “There's only one + thing we'd ask of you, sir: don't let our people know anything about + this.” + </p> + <p> + “But why?” asked the adjutant, astonished. “You've saved his life, and it + ought to be known.” + </p> + <p> + “Ya-as, that may be, sir; but we're not supposed to be up here + sharp-shootin'—we jist done it fer a bit of sport. Rightly we don't + carry a rifle; we belong to the bridge-buildin' section. We've only + borrowed these rifles from the Cycle Corps, an' we shall be charged with + bein' out o' bounds without leave, an' all that sort o' thing if it gits + known down at our headquarters.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well, I'll tell no one; all the same it was good work, and we thank + you for getting him back to us,” the adjutant smiled. + </p> + <p> + The two Australians gave him a friendly nod, and said, “So long, you + chaps!” to us and lurched off down the defile. + </p> + <p> + “We'll chuck it fer to-day—done enough,” said the tall man. + </p> + <p> + “Ya-as, we'd better git back. It was good sport—very good,” said the + short one. + </p> + <p> + Certainly the Australians we met were a cheerful, happy-go-lucky, + devil-may-care crew. They were the most picturesque set of men on the + peninsula. + </p> + <p> + Rough travelling, little or no food, no water, sleepless nights and + thrilling escapes made them look queerly primitive and Robinson Crusoeish. + </p> + <p> + I wrote in my pocket-book: “September 8, 1915.—The Australians have + the keen eye, quick ear and silent tongue which evolves in the bushman and + those who have faced starvation and the constant risk of sudden death, who + have lived a hard life on the hard ground, like the animals of the wild, + and come through. + </p> + <p> + “Fine fellows these, with good chests and arms, well-knit and gracefully + poised by habitually having to creep and crouch, and run and fight. + Sunburnt to a deep bronze, one and all. + </p> + <p> + “Their khaki shorts flap and ripple in the sea-wind like a troop of Boy + Scouts. Some wear green shirts, and they all wear stone-gray wide-awake + hats with pinched crown and broad flat brims.” + </p> + <p> + When at last the mails brought us month-old papers from England, we read + that “The gallant Australians” at Suvla “took” Lala Baba and Chocolate + Hill; indeed, as Hawk read out in our dug-out one mail-day— + </p> + <p> + “The Australians have took everythink, or practically everythink worth + takin'. They stormed Lala Baba and captured Chocolate 'ill—in fac' + they made the landin'; and the Xth and XIth Divisions are simply a myth + accordin' to the papers!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0025" id="link2HCH0025"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXV. A SCOUT AT SUVLA BAY + </h2> + <p> + Many times have I seen the value of the Scout training, but never was it + demonstrated so clearly as at Suvla Bay. Here, owing to the rugged nature + of the country—devoid of all signs of civilisation—a barren, + sandy waste—it was necessary to practise all the cunning and craft + of the savage scout. Therefore those who had from boyhood been trained in + scouting and scoutcraft came out top-dog. + </p> + <p> + And why?—because here we were working against men who were born + scouts. + </p> + <p> + It became necessary to be able to find your way at night by the stars. You + were not allowed to strike a light to look at a map, and anyhow the maps + we had were on too small a scale to be of any real use locally. + </p> + <p> + Now, a great many officers were unable to find even the North Star! + Perhaps in civil life they had been men who laughed at the boy scout in + his shirt and shorts because they couldn't see the good of it! But when we + came face to face with bare Nature we had to return to the methods of + primitive man. + </p> + <p> + More than once I found it very useful to be able to judge the time by the + swing of the star-sky. + </p> + <p> + Then again, many and many a young officer or army-scout on outpost duty + was shot and killed because, instead of keeping still, he jerked his head + up above the rocks and finding himself spotted jerked down again. The + consequence was, that when he raised himself the next time the Turks had + the spot “taped” and “his number was up.” + </p> + <p> + This means unnecessary loss of men, owing entirely to lack of training in + scoutcraft and stalking. + </p> + <p> + Finding your way was another point. How many companies got “cut up” simply + because the officer or sergeant in charge had no bump of location. As most + men came from our big cities and towns, they knew nothing of spotting the + trail or of guessing the right direction. Indeed, I see Sir Ian Hamilton + states that owing to one battalion “losing its way” a most important + position was lost—and this happened again and again—simply + because the leaders were not scouts. + </p> + <p> + Then there were many young officers who when it came to the test could not + read a map quickly as they went. (Boy scouts, please note.) This became a + very serious thing when taking up fresh men into the firing-line. + </p> + <p> + Those men who went out with a lot of “la-di-da swank” soon found that they + were nowhere in the game with the man who cut his drill trousers into + shorts—went about with his shirt sleeves rolled up and didn't mind + getting himself dirty. + </p> + <p> + There were very few “knuts” and they soon got cracked! + </p> + <p> + Shouting and talking was another point in scouting at Suvla Bay. Brought + up in towns and streets, many men found it extremely difficult to keep + quiet. Slowly they learnt that silence was the only protection against the + hidden sniper. + </p> + <p> + I remember a lot of fresh men landing in high spirits and keen to get up + to the fighting zone. They marched along in fours and whistled and sang; + but the Turks in the hills soon spotted them and landed a shell in the + middle of them. Silence is the scout's shield in war-time. + </p> + <p> + It fell to my lot to make crosses to mark the graves of the dead. These + crosses were made out of bully-beef packing-cases, and on most of them I + was asked to inscribe the name, number and regiment of the slain. I did + this in purple copying pencil, as I had nothing more lasting: and + generally it read:— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “In Memory of 19673, + Pte.——— + Royal Irish Fus. + R.I.P.” + </pre> + <p> + I had to be tombstone maker and engraver—and sometimes even sexton—a + scout turns his hand to anything. + </p> + <p> + We had our advanced dressing station on the left of Chocolate Hill—the + proper name of which is Bakka Baba. + </p> + <p> + Our ambulance wagons had to cross the Salt Lake, and often the wheels sank + and we had to take another team of mules to pull them out. + </p> + <p> + The Turks had a tower—a gleaming white minaret—just beyond + Chocolate Hill, near the Moslem cemetery in the village of Anafarta. It + was supposed to be a sacred tower, but as they used it as an observation + post, our battle-ships in the bay blew it down. + </p> + <p> + Flies swarmed everywhere, and were a great cause of disease, as, after + visiting the dead and the latrines they used to come and have a meal on + our jam and biscuits! + </p> + <p> + During the whole of August and September we were under heavy shell-fire; + but we got quite used to it and hardly turned to look at a bursting shell. + </p> + <p> + I must say khaki drill uniform is not a good hiding colour. In the + sunlight it showed up too light. I believe a parti-coloured uniform, say + of green, khaki and gray would be much better. Therefore the Scout who + wears a khaki hat, green shirt, khaki shorts and gray stockings is really + wearing the best uniform for colour-protection in stalking. + </p> + <p> + The more scouting we can introduce the better. + </p> + <p> + Carry on, Boy Scouts! Bad scoutcraft was one of the chief drawbacks in + what has been dubbed “The Glorious Failure.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0026" id="link2HCH0026"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXVI. THE BUSH-FIRES + </h2> + <p> + There are some things you never forget... + </p> + <p> + That little Welshman, for instance, lying on a ledge of rock above our + Brigade Headquarters with a great gaping shrapnel wound in his abdomen + imploring the Medical Officer in the Gaelic tongue to “put him out,” and + how he died, with a morphia tablet in his mouth, singing at the top of his + high-pitched voice— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “When the midnight chu-chu leaves for Alabam! + I'll be right there! + I've got my fare... + All aboard! + All aboard! + All aboard for Alla-Bam! + ... Midnight... chu-chu... chu-chu...” + </pre> + <p> + And so, slowly his soul steamed out of the wrecked station of his body and + left for “Alabam!” + </p> + <p> + One evening, the 25th of August, bush-fires broke out on the right of + Chocolate Hill. + </p> + <p> + The shells from the Turks set light to the dried sage, and thistle and + thorn, and soon the whole place was blazing. It was a fearful sight. Many + wounded tried to crawl away, dragging their broken arms and legs out of + the burning bushes and were cremated alive. + </p> + <p> + It was impossible to rescue them. Boxes of ammunition caught fire and + exploded with terrific noise in thick bunches of murky smoke. A bombing + section tried to throw off their equipment before the explosives burst, + but many were blown to pieces by their own bombs. Puffs of white smoke + rose up in little clouds and floated slowly across the Salt Lake. + </p> + <p> + The flames ran along the ridges in long lapping lines with a canopy of + blue and gray smoke. We could hear the crackle of the burning thickets, + and the sharp “bang!” of bullets. The sand round Suvla Bay hid thousands + of bullets and ammunition pouches, some flung away by wounded men, some + belonging to the dead. As the bush-fires licked from the lower slopes of + the Sari Bair towards Chocolate Hill this lost ammunition exploded, and it + sounded like erratic rifle-fire. The fires glowed and spluttered all + night, and went on smoking in the morning. I had to go up to Chocolate + Hill about some sand-bags for our hospital dug-outs next day, and on the + way up I noticed a human pelvis and a chunk of charred human vertebrae + under a scorched and charcoaled thorn-bush. + </p> + <p> + Hawk and I kept a very good look-out every day. We noted the arrival of + reinforcements, and the putting up of new telegraph lines; we spotted + incoming transports, and the departure of our battle-ships in the bay. + </p> + <p> + In fact, between us, we worked a very complete “Intelligence Department” + of our own. We made a rough chart showing the main lines of + communications, and the position of snipers and wells, telegraph wires to + the artillery, and the main observation posts and listening saps. + </p> + <p> + “It's just as well,” said I, “to know as much as we can how things are + going, and to keep account of details—it's safer, and might be very + useful.” + </p> + <p> + “Very true,” said Hawk; “'ave you noticed 'ow that little cruiser comes in + every morning at the same time, and goes out again in the late afternoon? + Also, two brigades of Territorials came in last night and went round by + the beach early this morning towards Lala Baba; I see the footprints when + I went down for a wash.” + </p> + <p> + The colonel had camped us on the edge of the Salt Lake on this side of an + incline which led up to a flat plateau. Into this incline we had made our + dug-outs, and he was now planning the digging out of a square-shaped place + which would hold all our stretchers on which the sick and wounded lay, and + would be protected from the Turkish shell-fire by being dug into the solid + sandstone. + </p> + <p> + I was looking about for sand-tracks and shells, and I noticed that the + grass had grown much more luxuriously at one level than it did lower down. + This grass was last year's and was now yellow and dead and rustling like + paper flowers. + </p> + <p> + “This,” said I to Hawk, “was last year's water-mark in the rainy season.” + </p> + <p> + “That's gospel,” said Hawk; “and what would you make out o' that + observation?” + </p> + <p> + He smiled his queer whimsical smile. + </p> + <p> + “Why, I guess we shall be swamped out of this camp in a month's time.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; practically the 'ole of this, up to this level, will be under + water.” + </p> + <p> + “Then what's the good of starting to dig a big permanent hospital here + when——?” + </p> + <p> + “Yours not to reason why,” said Hawk; “it's a way they have in the army; + but I'm not bothering.” + </p> + <p> + Each section dug in shifts day after day until the men were worn out with + digging. + </p> + <p> + Then the long, flat rain-clouds appeared one morning over the distant + range of mountains. + </p> + <p> + “You see them,” said Hawk, lighting a “woodbine,” and pointing across the + Salt Lake; “that's the first sign of the wet season coming up.” + </p> + <p> + Sure enough in a few days the colonel had orders to shift his ambulance to + “C” Beach, near Lala Baba, as our present position was unfavourable for + the construction of a permanent field hospital, owing to the rise of water + in the wet season. + </p> + <p> + Soon after this, Hawk was moved to the advanced dressing station on + Chocolate Hill, and I had to remain with my section near the Salt Lake. + Thus we were separated. + </p> + <p> + “It's to break up our click, too thick together, we bin noticing too much, + we know the workin' o' things too well, must break up the combine, + dangerous to 'ave people about 'oo spot things and keep their jaws tight. + Git rid o' Hawk—see th' ideeah? Very clever, ain't it? Practically + we're the only two 'oo do feel which way the wind blows, an' that's + inconvenient sometimes.” + </p> + <p> + I asked Hawk while he was on Chocolate Hill to note down in his head the + various snipers' posts, and the general positions of the British and + Turkish trenches. + </p> + <p> + There came a time when I wanted to send him a note. But it was a dangerous + thing to send notes about. They might fall into the hands of some sniper + and give away information. + </p> + <p> + Therefore I got a bar of yellow soap from our stores, cut it in two, bored + out a small hole in one half, wrapped up my note, put it inside the soap, + clapped the two halves together, stuck them together by wetting it, and + completely concealed the cut by rubbing it with water. + </p> + <p> + I then asked one of the A.S.C. drivers who was going up with the ambulance + wagon in the morning to give the piece of soap to Hawk. + </p> + <p> + “He <i>hasn't</i> got any soap,” I explained, “and he asked me to send him + a bit. Tell him it's from me, and that I hope he'll find it all right—it's + the best we have!” + </p> + <p> + Hawk got the soap, guessed there was a reason for sending it, broke it + open and found the note. So a simple boy-scout trick came in useful on + active service. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0027" id="link2HCH0027"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXVII. THE DEPARTURE + </h2> + <p> + Now came a period of utter stagnation + </p> + <p> + It was a deadlock. + </p> + <p> + We held the bay, the plain of Anafarta, the Salt Lake, the Kislar Dagh and + Kapanja Sirt in a horse-shoe. + </p> + <p> + The Turks held the heights of Sari Bair, Anafarta village, and the hills + beyond “Jefferson's Post” in a semicircle enclosing us. Nothing happened. + We shelled and they shelled—every day. Snipers sniped and men got + killed; but there was no further advance. Things had remained at a + standstill since the first week of the landing. + </p> + <p> + Rumours floated from one unit to another: + </p> + <p> + “We were going to make a great attack on the 28th”—always a fixed + date; “the Italians were landing troops to help the Australians at Anzac”—every + possible absurdity was noised abroad. + </p> + <p> + Hawk was on Chocolate Hill with our advanced dressing station. I was on + “C” Beach, Lala Baba, with the remainder of the ambulance. I had lost all + my officers by sickness and wounds, and I was now the last of the original + N.C.O.'s of “A” Section. Except for the swimming and my own observations + of tracks and birds and natural history generally, this was a desperately + uninteresting period. + </p> + <p> + Orders to pack up ready for a move came suddenly. It was now late in + September. The wet season was just beginning. The storm-clouds were coming + up over the hills in great masses of rolling banks, black and forbidding. + It grew colder at night, and a cold wind sprang up during the day. + </p> + <p> + Every one was bustling about, packing the operating tent and equipment, + operating table, instruments, bottles, pans, stretchers, “monkey-boxes,” + bandages, splints, cooking dixies, bully-beef crates, biscuit tins—everything + was being packed up and sorted out ready for moving. + </p> + <p> + But where? No one knew. We were going to move... soon, very soon, it was + rumoured. + </p> + <p> + Within every mind a small voice asked—“Blighty?” And then came + another whiff of rumour: “The Xth Division are going—England + perhaps!” + </p> + <p> + But it was too good to believe. Every one wanted to believe it... each man + in his inmost soul hoped it might be true... but it couldn't be England... + and yet it might! + </p> + <p> + One night the Indian Pack-mule Corps came trailing down with their little + two-wheeled, two-muled carts and transported all our medical panniers away + into the gloom, and they went towards Lala Baba. It was a good sign. + </p> + <p> + Everything was gone now except our own packs and kit, and we had orders to + “stand by” for the command to “Fall in.” + </p> + <p> + We lay about in the sand waiting—and wondering. At last towards the + last minutes of midnight we got the orders to “Fall in.” The N.C.O.'s + called the “Roll,” “numbered off” their sections and reported “All present + and correct, sir!” + </p> + <p> + In a long straggling column we marched from our last encampment towards + Lala Baba. The night was very dark and the sand gave under our feet. It + was hard going, but every man had a gleam of hope, and trudged along + heavy-laden with rolled overcoat, haversack and water-bottle and + stretcher, but with a light heart. + </p> + <p> + The advanced party from Chocolate Hill met us at Lala Baba. Here + everything was bustle and hurry. + </p> + <p> + Every unit of the Xth Division was packed up and ready for embarkation. + Lighters and tugs puffed and grated by the shore. Horses stamped and + snorted; sergeants swore continually; officers nagged and shouted. + </p> + <p> + Men got mixed up and lost their units, sections lost their way in the + great crowd of companies assembled. + </p> + <p> + Once Hawk loomed out of the darkness and a strong whiff of rum came with + him... he disappeared again: “See you later, Sar'nt—lookin' after + things—important—practically everythink——” + </p> + <p> + He was full of drink, and in his hurry to look after “things” (mostly + bottles) he lost some of his own kit and my field-glasses. He worked hard + at getting the equipment into the lighters, notwithstanding the fact that + he was “three-parts canned.” + </p> + <p> + Every now and then he loomed up like some great khaki-clad gorilla, only + to fade away again to the secret hiding-place of a bottle. + </p> + <p> + And so at last we got aboard. It was still a profound secret. No one knew + whither we were going, or why we were leaving the desolation of Suvla Bay. + </p> + <p> + But every one was glad. Anything would be better than this barren waste of + sand and flies and dead men. + </p> + <p> + That was the last we saw of the bay. A sheet of gray water, a moving mob + on the slope of Lala Baba, the trailing smoke of the tug, and a + pitch-black sky—and Hawk lurching round and swearing at the loss of + his bottle and his kit. + </p> + <p> + An old sea-song was running in my mind:— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “But two men of her crew alive— + What put to sea with seventy-five!” + </pre> + <p> + Only three months ago we had landed 25,000 strong; and now we numbered + about 6000. A fearful loss—a smashed Division. + </p> + <p> + We transferred to a troop-ship standing out in the bay with all possible + speed. + </p> + <p> + Still with the gloom hanging over everything we steamed out and every man + was dead tired. + </p> + <p> + However, I found Hawk, and we decided not to sleep down below with the + others, all crowded together and stinking in the dirty interior of the + ship. + </p> + <p> + We took our hammocks up on deck and slung them forward from the handrail + near one of the great anchors. + </p> + <p> + I had a purpose in doing this. I had no intention of going to sleep. By + taking note of a certain star which had appeared just to the right of a + cross-spar, and by noticing its change of position, I was enabled to guess + with some exactitude the course we were laying. + </p> + <p> + For the first two or three hours the star and the mast kept a perfectly + unchangeable position. + </p> + <p> + I woke up after dozing for some minutes, and taking up my old stand near + the companion-way again took my star observation. But this time the star + had swept right round and was the other side of the mast. We had changed + our course from south-west to north. Just then Hawk came up the + companion-way, no doubt from a bottle-hunt down below. + </p> + <p> + “It's—Salonika!” said he. + </p> + <p> + “We've turned almost due north in the last quarter of an hour.” + </p> + <p> + “I know it,—been down to the stokers' bunks—it's Salonika—another + new landing.” + </p> + <p> + “They keep the Xth for making new landings.” + </p> + <p> + And so to the Graeco-Serbian frontier and a fresh series of adventures, + including sickness, life in an Egyptian hospital—and then England. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0028" id="link2HCH0028"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXVIII. LOOKING BACK + </h2> + <p> + The queer thing is, that when I look back upon that “Great Failure” it is + not the danger or the importance of the undertaking which is strongly + impressed so much as a jumble of smells and sounds and small things. + </p> + <p> + It is just these small things which no author can make up in his study at + home. + </p> + <p> + The glitter of some one carrying an army biscuit-tin along the mule track; + the imprinted tracks of sand-birds by the blue Aegean shore; the stink of + the dead; a dead man's hand sticking up through the sand; the blankets + soaked each morning by the heavy dew; the incessant rattle of a + machine-gun behind Pear-tree Gully; the distant ridges of the Sari Bahir + range shimmering in the heat of noon-day; the angry “buzz” of the green + and black flies disturbed from a jam-pot lid; the grit of sand in the + mouth with every bite of food; the sullen dullness of the overworked, + death-wearied troops; the hoarse dried-up and everlasting question: “Any + water?”; the silence of the Hindus of the Pack-mule Corps; the + “S-s-s-e-e-e-e-o-o-o-op!—Crash!”—of the high explosives + bursting in a bunch of densely solid smoke on the Kislar Dargh, and the + slow unfolding of these masses of smoke and sand in black and khaki rolls; + the snort and stampede of a couple of mules bolting along the beach with + their trappings swinging and rattling under their panting bellies; the + steady burning of the star-lit night skies; the regular morning shelling + from the Turkish batteries on the break of dawn over the gloom-shrouded + hills; the far-away call of some wounded man for “Stretchers! + Stretchers!”; the naked white men splashing and swimming in the bay; the + swoop of a couple of skinny vultures over the burning white sand of the + Salt Lake bed to the stinking and decomposing body of a + shrapnel-slaughtered mule hidden in the willow-thickets at the bottom of + Chocolate Hill; a torn and bullet-pierced French warplane stranded on the + other side of Lala Baba—lying over at an angle like a wounded white + seabird; the rush for the little figure bringing in “the mails” in a sack + over his shoulder; the smell of iodine and iodoform round the + hospital-tents; the long wobbling moan of the Turkish long-distance + shells, and the harmless “Z-z-z-eee-e-e-o-ooop!” of their “dud” shells + which buried themselves so often in the sand without exploding; the + tattered, begrimed and sunken-eyed appearance of men who had been in the + trenches for three weeks at a stretch; the bristling unshaven chins, and + the craving desire for “woodbines”; the ingrained stale blood on my hands + and arms from those fearful gaping wounds, and the red-brown blood-stain + patches on my khaki drill clothes; the pestering curse of those damnable + Suvla Bay flies and the lice with which every officer and man swarmed. + </p> + <p> + The awful—cut-off, Robinson Crusoe feeling—no letters from + home, no newspapers, no books... sand, biscuits and flies; flies, bully + and sand... + </p> + <p> + Stay-at-home critics and prophets of war cannot strike just that tiny + spark of reality which makes the whole thing “live.” + </p> + <p> + However many diagrams and wonderful ideas these remarkable amateur experts + publish they won't “go down” with the man who has humped his pack and has + “been out.” + </p> + <p> + Mention the word “Blighty” or “Tickler's plum-and-apple,” “Kangaroo Beach” + or “Jhill-o! Johnnie!” or “Up yer go—an' the best o' luck!” to any + man of the Mediterranean Expeditionary Force and in each case you will + have touched upon a vividly imprinted impresssion of the Dardanelles. + </p> + <p> + There was adventure wild and queer enough in the Dardanelles campaign to + fill a volume of Turkish Nights' Entertainments, but the people at home + know nothing of it. + </p> + <p> + This is the very type of adventure and incident which would have aroused a + war-sickened people; which would have rekindled war-weary enthusiasm and + patriotism in the land. Maybe most of these accounts of marvellous escapes + and 'cute encounters, secret scoutings and extraordinary expeditions will + lie now for ever with the silent dead and the thousands of rounds of + ammunition in the silver sand of Suvla Bay. + </p> + <p> + The stars still burn above the Salt Lake bed; the white breakers roll in + each morning along the blue sea-shore, sometimes washing up the bodies of + the slain—just as they did when we camped near Lala Baba. + </p> + <p> + But the guns are gone and there the heavy silence of the waste places + reigns supreme. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of At Suvla Bay, by John Hargrave + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AT SUVLA BAY *** + +***** This file should be named 3306-h.htm or 3306-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/3/0/3306/ + +Produced by Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team, +and David Widger + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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