Читать книгу The Desert Column - Ion Idriess - Страница 8

TRANSPORT LUTZOW,

CAPE HELLAS,

DARDANELLES,

MAY 18TH, 1915

Evening—An elusive vista of hills behind the dim outline of ships, a faint boom-oom-oom, then, like bursting stars, the shells struck a hillside here, there! over there! here again! everywhere!

Intense excitement amongst the 2nd Light Horse Brigade as our transport glided to anchorage. What a roar of voices as an extra vivid flame crashed on a black hill! Then night settled down and the bombardment ceased. At midnight a furious outburst of rifle and machine-gun fire broke forth from the land; but most of us slept, quite soundly.

Next morning—We awoke to the boom! boom! boomoomm-mmm of big guns. We scrambled up on deck to gaze at a medley of busy war- and supply-ships of intriguing kinds around us, all facing the low-lying hills that rose sheer from the sea. Among the foothills, like giant mushrooms, gleamed rows of tents with, in one distinct square, the orderly lines of horses. It was the English and French encampment. Came a harsh buzz overhead and ‘planes soared across the brightening sky right over the enemy’s position. They reminded me of hawks soaring above the farmyard as they gazed down seeking chickens. Bang! a fleecy smoke-puff, eerie in its startling appearance, burst far below a ‘plane, to drift gently out into a perfect little cloud. Another cloud! higher up this time. Another! another! another! Each closer, closer, closer!

What an excited jabber of talk as we watch new clouds bursting faster and nearer the now rapidly climbing ‘plane! Ah! see that puff high above the ‘plane! There’s another; look, another! They are all around it! And so time goes on and another ‘plane drones along and cloud puffs follow her while the great birds circle and rise and soar and swoop, seeking the hidden batteries—and neither are hit.

And now, from far astern, forges a picture of titanic strength and energy—a French cruiser ploughing the foam. We drift closer inland and the boom-oom-oomm grows until we feel a shudder in it. We creep closer still and it becomes a roar, alive with a shaking sound—and the face of each man among us mirrors the excitement of his own queer personality.

Torpedo-boat destroyers, mine-layers, little craft all spiked with machine-guns and anti-aircraft guns buzz around us like hornets guarding a big fat prize. As the day wears on a lively bombardment shakes the shore and ricochets out to sea. One point of the land is fast enveloped by cloud-wreaths from exploding shells. What hell it must be for those alive there now!

...The guns have ceased. We are told to clean up the ship, as after we land she is to steam back to Alexandria loaded with wounded. It is a perfect morning, bright, breezy, and calm. It feels good to be alive and in such cheery company.

...About dinner-time a Turkish fort started a brisk cannonade upon one of the land ramps. We dropped our tucker knives and ran on deck just in time to see a shell explode on a battery galloping out. The head and tail-end of the battery-team galloped on through the smoke haze like maddened gnomes in a devil’s pit, but the middle was ended. A cruiser raced close inshore, slewed broadside on and thundered in crashes of sound that rocked and echoed and smashed amongst the hills—and silenced that fort’s guns. As seen from our transport the English camp is squeezed upon one small flat hill with the Turks fronting it and battering it from left and right.

...The afternoon we have spent in watching aeroplanes circling over the Turkish lines. One circled high over the ship, showing two glaring rings of red, white, and blue. In our inexperience we thought these were really impudent bull’s-eyes. The Turks dotted the clear air with ineffectual shrapnel-bursts.

...Just before sundown a British four-funnelled cruiser opened fire only a few hundred yards from us. As the crash of her guns jumped through the Lutzow we answered with a rousing cheer, and instantly it seemed our rigging was crowded with men all excited and cheering as the big guns’ talk, and roaring acclamations as the terrible shells exploded on the hidden Turkish position in columns of dust and smoke.

A big French cruiser has just ploughed past us full speed ahead—her mighty engines humming. Her band played us “Tipperary.” How we cheered her! We are moving. We have just glided past the firing cruiser—our cheers were drowned in the explosive roar of her guns, the whole great steel mechanism was a throbbing inferno of sound that fanned our faces. I can see our crowd going mad under excitement, like the 9th Battalion, when we go into action. “No smoking,” and “Lights out” tonight is the order. We are steaming fourteen miles farther up the coast to the Australians’ position—and what awaits us there.

And so the day has passed. While the guns have boomed some of us have watched, some sharpened bayonets, a few played cards, and some lay down below and joked and laughed.

Next morning—We steamed here with all lights out, moving stealthily through a black night, anchoring twice in fear of submarines. This is the Australasian camp, which has cost Australia and New Zealand so dearly. From the shore, all through the night after we arrived, came a ceaseless rattle of rifle-fire that swelled into roaring waves of sound made harsher by the burr-rrr-rrrr of machine-guns.

The intensity of the rifle-fire has ceased, but with the sun comes the deep boom! boom! oom-oommz from the warships. Opposite it is a tiny beach which rises abruptly into cliffs merging into steep peaks on a gloomy range of big, dark, scrub-covered hills. Mists curl rather drearily over the larger hills but at the beach the sun glints on stacks of ammunition cases, and dugouts and numerous queer things littered about. Cloud-puffs are continually forming over the beach—Shrapnel!

On either side of us are silhouetted the masts of battleships: the deep echoes of guns roll sullenly over the water. The “Old Brig.” was on shore and has brought us the news of last night’s fighting:

Two divisions of Turks, numbering fifteen thousand each, reinforced the Turkish position yesterday and last night attacked the trenches with the intention of driving the Australians into the sea.

The Australians and En Zeds waited until the Turkish charge was within fifty yards and then every man blazed away, the machine-guns especially, firing with deadly effect. This morning five thousand Turks are lying before the Australian trenches. There were a hundred and twenty-seven men and four officers of the First Light Horse Brigade killed. The infantry casualties we do not know.

The guns are boom-boom-booming. We are soon to land!

After breakfast—A big grey boat loaded with khaki men has steamed in from the outer sea. A fussy torpedo boat destroyer has just hurried the first crowd ashore. They are apparently Australians—a virile looking crowd, rather hard faced.

The shrapnel is bursting directly in front of that landing crowd now—from here it appears to be exploding above the first hill. Apparently the Turkish gunners cannot quite get the range. What ho—she bumps! A shell has crashed right into their boat! What a lovely time is awaiting us!

Our landing-party is ready. What oiling of rifles; excitement; laughing and swearing. ... Here come the destroyers, racing back hell for leather for more loads. Looks as if men are at a premium.

After dinner—The last boatload of men from the other ship has just raced shorewards. They are New Zealanders. As their packed vessels sped by we yelled from our crowded decks the old Cairo sayings: “Si-eda! Tallahena bint!” “Have you got a piastre?” and the pet sayings of the Tommies. They sounded comical with Australian voices imitating the English accents: “Has your mawther got a Ba-by?” “Have you been to Cai-ro?” etc.

...We are not to land until to-morrow. All are disgusted, but I suppose the “Heads” know best. The mists have long since evaporated. It is a beautiful day. We can see the shore distinctly, where our first battalions made Australian history.

What a seemingly impossible task they were set! The landing-place looks a sheer line of rocky cliffs, the abrupt hills frowning under their grey undergrowth. Cliffs and hills and gullies were swarming with Turks and machine guns at the Landing. It must have been a supreme bayonet charge, as awful as its success was miraculous.

And above survivors and reinforcements are now shrapnel-puffs, with much higher and to the right a scouting biplane like a droning bird. The cruisers farther to our right are roaring a devil’s tattoo. Smoke drifts lazily across the water and wisps away. We are landing after all. The boat is already alongside.

...A Squadron’s turn came. We tumbled down the ladders and packed tightly all over the tiny steamer’s deck. Our kit felt massive, everything felt like haste, even the small steamer looked excited and puffy. Some men were rather quiet, but the majority laughed and joked. I wish I was good humoured. I swore when a big fellow tramped on my toe.

We moved off for the shore all ears to the pop, pop, pop of rifle-shots. Smoke fairly belched from the toy funnel: I suppose the sweating devils below were shoving the coal into her.

Nothing happened until we got closer inshore and the bushes on the hillsides began to take shape. Then whizzz, then ping, ping, ping, ping. By jove, rifle-bullets! Whizz-zz, smack! and a shrill receding whistle as the bullet ricocheted off the water.

We opened our eyes rather inquiringly, two or three laughed—then we all laughed. I know I felt a queer, excited warming at the stomach too. What if one of the damned things smacked into a man before he had a chance!

After that, we listened for the whizz-zz and laughed as the bullet would strike the funnel or smack off the water alongside. They were stray bullets perhaps, but they were straying uncomfortably close.

Our steamer pulled up with a grunt and rattle close inshore as two launches raced out to meet us. Men tumbled aboard and the packed launches raced for the beach, the busy captain roaring to us to get below because the shrapnel would be here any moment!

He had hardly closed his mouth when something came tearing in a shriek through the air and—bang! Bullets burst on the water, clattered on the sides of the boat, screeched through the funnel. How we tumbled down below! How we tried to pack into that little black hole—as if there were room!

There came another screaming whine bursting into a splitting bang! another shower of bullets and hissing of lead-sprayed water.

Someone laughed loudly. Lots of us laughed, some smiled, some shouted derisively advising the far-away Turks where to aim. But they sent seven well-aimed shells right around us and in that very short time the captain had up-anchored and we cleared right out for the horizon. Presently we crept in again, and anchored and went while the going was good. Were jolly glad to step on shore among huge stacks of ammunition and stores. Men were bathing—so strange it seemed that men were dying too. Men were toiling among the heavy stacks of stores, men trudged all over that tiny beach in ragged, clay-stained uniforms, their familiar Australian faces cheerful and grimy under sprouting beards.

Pock marking the first steep hillside were scores of dugouts, like rough black kennels. A few Indian soldiers were loading ammunition on mules. Zigzag tracks were cut along the big hillside. Close inshore were over-turned boats, all shell-smashed, relics of the Landing. We glanced at the sinister bumpy of sandbags that is the dressing-shed. A long line of wounded were lying on the ground waiting their turn. The doctors looked busy; they appeared awfully workmanlike. One of our fools had to make a joke of course as we hurried past. He called to us that he could see one of the doctors and an orderly cutting off a man’s arm.

We climbed up the steep hill path, joking with the toil stained warriors who were cooking their evening meal, or toiling at the ammunition boxes, or lying like tired brown men about their tiny dugouts. Then we filed through a trench that led to the back of the hill and came out in a gloomy, narrow valley all tortuous and fissured as it wound through a sort of basin at the bottom of the big, sombre hills. We now faced many hills gutted with gorges, overshadowed a mile farther ahead by a flat rampart of cliffy peaks. An occasional shrapnel-shell screamed overhead. The whizz, zip, zip, zip of bullets became definite and unfriendly.

And so we climbed the back of the big hill that faces the sea. We are digging holes to get in out of the way of the shrapnel. Quite close one of our hidden Australian guns replies to the Turks and makes a monstrous row. The steep hills are covered with a dense, prickly shrub.

...We have just been called to arms. I suppose we are going into the trenches.