Читать книгу The Desert Column - Ion Idriess - Страница 13

EGYPTIAN GOVERNMENT HOSPITAL,

ALEXANDRIA.

June 28th—Here I am, in Alexandria, growling as usual, tired of having been in bed so long. The old leg, under efficient treatment, healed rapidly, but it seems to have broken out again. I employed the time lying here by thinking out a couple of war inventions. I forwarded the plans to the Brigadier and to Admiral Robinson. Naturally I got no reply. However, it helped time pass. I saw Trembath in the Deaconess Hospital yesterday. He is still the same cheerful old growler.

...Such a lot of our fellows have been wiped out. Poor Allan Williams died as he had lived, a Christian and a gentleman. ... Am in Mustapha Base now. In a few days numbers of us patched-up chaps are going back.

...We have just heard of the death of Colonel Harris. The 3rd Infantry Brigade were attacking the trenches in front of Tasmania Post, while the 2nd Light Horse Brigade masked the enemy’s fire. The colonel was shot through the neck and died within two minutes: the 5th will be sorry. The colonel was a disciplinarian, but not oppressively so. We all respected him, and many liked him.

August 23rd—At sea again, in A 25 Huntsend, which looks very much like the Lutzow repainted. The Heads have got numbers of us on guard at absurd places. One man is guarding a dry water-tap. I am on guard at a tap too, but there is about six inches of rusty water in the tank, so I’ll have to be careful. I hope the Turks don’t fly aboard at night and pinch it. Most of the guard on duty last night did not know what they were guarding. The narrow place where I am on duty now is so stuffily hot that it is an effort to breathe. If the officer on duty came down and caught me writing in the diary, the skipper would hang me to the yard arm, or make me walk the plank. What a fuss I’d kick up, though, if they confiscated the diary, which they certainly would. Why don’t the authorities leave the men alone? They want all the rest they can get now. ... This is a cosmopolitan shipload. Officers and men and non-coms, infantry, light horse, artillery, A.M.C. men, Australians, En Zeds and a few Tommies.

...There was a most peculiar incident just now. Right behind the ship, as if sneaking after us, there appeared tiny billows reminiscent of a submerged craft. We stared in an almost breathless anticipation, but our vessel gained speed until now those ominous waves are barely visible. We thought it was the wake of the steamer at first, but we have circled like a terrified deer and can still see that curious phenomenon.

...A transport was torpedoed in these waters several days ago. It is curious to notice how the chaps are taking the chances: the majority apparently don’t care a tinker’s cuss. But they are much quieter than they were on their maiden trip; and I hear odd groups surmising between pipe-puffs as to their chances of getting back this time. We all know what to expect ahead of us. It was the old Australian spirit leaving Cairo and Alexandria yesterday. Yelling and cheering, laughing and joking at the least little thing. That is the spirit that will never die.

...It is a beautifully calm morning. There are stowaways on board, same as last trip. Most are from the Ammunition Column and after twelve months’ soldiering want to see fighting. They’ll soon see it!

August 25th—Anchored at Lemnos. The island is of low hills; destitute of vegetation, with small rocky shores running right into the sea. The harbour, apparently small, is packed with a puzzling fleet of ships. Everywhere are masts—big masts, small masts, short masts, long masts, and the fighting masts of ships of war. On the brown land in places are white lines of tents.

August 26th—How well old Germany has helped us in this war. Alongside us is a huge vessel from which we are taking in water. It has the German eagle nailed to the funnel, while our own transport was a crack German steamer. Quite a number of other German vessels are visible. Kaiser Bill’s navy slipped on its guarding of their merchantmen.

August 27th—The minesweeper is standing by. We are re-embarking for the final four hours’ trip. There was a storm at sea last night. This morning driving rain and mist temporarily blot out the shipping. The rough sea looks cold. We hope it is not raining on the Peninsula for the cold there is intense. We old hands are just taking things as they come. Whatever happens, must happen. That is the best way, after all. We have all our equipment ready. The pack of the Light Horseman on foot is heavy and clumsy. A man will do some slipping about if those Gallipoli hills are muddy.

Late afternoon—We have just re-embarked, walking across deck after deck of closely packed steamers to this other boat. As usual, the Australians were rowdy. The En Zeds howled their hair-raising Maori war song. Among all the hubbub and slowness of the re-embarkation the Australians were imitating the bleatings of a mob of sheep being yarded, made more realistic by the barkings of men who, of a certainty, had worked in many a station muster.

It was all very new and unusual to the numerous ships’ and English officers, who looked on from all those crowded vessels. Some of them gazed in a sort of bewilderment at the apparently unruly crowd surging over the ships, but most of them enjoyed it immensely. The Tommies marched steadily beside us and their sedateness and dignity no doubt emphasized the comical aspect of the business. ... The sun is blazing cheerfully. I hope the sea outside is not over rough. We have no room to sit down, unless on another man’s body.

August 28th—We sneaked into the Landing at ten o’clock last night. A hospital-ship was beautifully lighted on the still waters. Here and there fires gleamed on the old dark hills, and far down on the new Landing at Salt Lake. Those grim black hills waiting there seemed to spread a sinister atmosphere all over the bay. Desultory firing was going on with an odd sharp outburst of machine-gun fire at Salt Lake. All night long we were disembarking, only a few hundred men too, crouched shivering in those big iron barges. The steam pinnace took hours to tow the three barges the stone’s throw to the shore.

We landed at daybreak, and we score of the 5th started out to try and find the old regiment, or I should say, the remnant. I met old Gus Gaunt coming over the hills. He looked a living skeleton, just yellow skin stretched tight over bones. He told me of our troop and all the old mates who are gone. Poor Fitzhannam, shot through the head yesterday morning. We plugged on up a goat track winding around the hills. The regiment was away on the right, at Chatham’s Post.

...I have quite a cosy dugout in a trench, where I can lie and gaze down on the sea and see the cruisers stealing around the shores. I am detailed for the firing-line now.

Late afternoon—This trench sniping is intriguing. I am a crack shot, and was put on sniping. Not seeing any Turks I blazed away persistently at one of their loopholes. The invitation was presently answered. “Ping, ping, ping,” Johnny Turk replied. One of his bullets flattened on the loophole plate, which suggests the wisdom of letting a sleeping dog lie. When he quietens down again I’ll worry him some more. Perhaps one of us may get the other. ... The sandbags along the trench are all spattered with bloodstains.

August 29th—Put in a bad night, standing gazing through the dark towards the Turkish trenches; the blooming old leg was giving me beans before daylight. I could just see the top of the Turkish trenches in the half moonlight and used to snipe now and then. Some Turk answered snappily. I believe he must have aimed his rifle by daylight and set it in a vice, for his bullets repeatedly struck the loophole plate. It is a nasty sound when a bullet flattens on iron within an inch of a man’s nose.

...I “spotted” awhile for Billy Sing this morning. Billy and I came down on the same boat from Townsville. He is a little chap, very dark, with a jet-black moustache and a goatee beard. A picturesque looking man killer. He is the crack sniper of the Anzacs. His tiny possy is perched in a commanding position high up in the trench. He does nothing but sniping. He has already shot one hundred and five Turks. He has a splendid telescope and through it I peered across at a distant loophole, just in time to see a Turkish face framed behind the loophole. He disappeared. A few minutes later, and part of his face appeared. That vanished. Five minutes later he cautiously gazed from a side angle through the loophole. I could see his moustache, his eyebrows, and part of his forehead. He disappeared. Then he showed all his face and disappeared. He didn’t reappear again, though I kept turning the telescope back to his possy. At last, farther along the line, I spotted a man’s face framed enquiringly in a loophole. He stayed there. Billy fired. The Turk vanished instantly, but with the telescope I could partly see the motion of men inside the trench picking him up. So it was one more man to Billy’s tally.

...Dr Dods has just been hit in the shoulder by shrapnel, when he was out in the open attending a wounded man, an 11th Light Horse chap who had only been on the Peninsula a few hours. The news simply flew around Chatham’s Post. Since the beginning of the regiment we have admired and respected Dr Dods. We are all relieved that he is not hit too badly.

August 30th—Last night was very quiet, just desultory firing rippling away down the line into silence. Our trench runs downhill with the barbed wire into the sea. There’s a little destroyer that seems to have adopted the regiment, as a terrier does a man. Last night it sneaked in again, blazed away hell and fury at the Turkish trenches just opposite us, then whipped around and faded into the night as silently as she had come.

...A taube is buzzing overhead now. He visits us every day and drops a few bombs, but doesn’t seem to do much harm. ... It was misery fighting to keep awake last night—had to rock to and fro and then fire a few shots and then rock again and force open my eyes with my fingers, or I would have fallen asleep in spite of everything. Part of the trench caved in last night. More work.

...Civilities were exchanged up at Lone Pine last night. Then, presently, the Turks (game men) sneaked right up to the trenches and slung in half a dozen bombs. They were “duds.” Instead of relighting them and throwing them back as our boys generally do, the bombs were allowed to lie there until morning, and then examined. The fuses were instantaneous. If our chaps had put a match to them they would have instantly been blown to pieces. So Johnny Turk was “had.”

Afternoon—I’ve just been indulging in a duel with a Turk, shot for shot. I’d fire, and the dust would fly up against his loophole. Then slowly and cautiously the tiny circle of light on the trench parapet which was Johnny’s loophole would fill up with half his square, grim face. Watching like a cat watching a distant mouse-hole I’d see his rifle-muzzle slowly poke through the loophole, then a spurt of smoke with the crack—ping! and his bullet would plonk into the sandbag above my loophole. Then my turn. I’d wait with my rifle-sights levelled evenly at that distant tell-tale gleam of light, then immediately it was blotted out by his cautious face, I’d fire. Instantly he would duck. And vice versa, and so on. It was thrilling I waited for each of my turns with every sense keyed to concert pitch, thrilled through and through. No doubt Johnny the Turk felt the same. I tried to kill him, and he tried to kill me. Yet we have never seen one another and never will.

...Our regimental trench system is called Chatham’s Post. ... I wish there was not so much night work—the sleeplessness is cruel. ... A few evenings ago, some of the 6th Light Horse off duty were amusing themselves by playing Two-up behind the trenches. The Turks started shelling them, but the Two-up enthusiasts took no notice until presently a shrapnel bowled over three of them. So they picked up their wounded and retired casually into their dugouts, one of the wounded men arguing volubly that he had won the last toss.