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XIII. The Last Six Weeks

—M.R., N.Z.H.Q., in the "Anzac Book."

It was a misty, showery day. By nightfall the transport was nearing the shore. Soon the dark mass of Sari Bair was dimly outlined in the gloom. An occasional rifle shot rang out clear and distinct, "pit-pot, pit-pot." Bursts of machinegun fire proclaimed that the Battalion was once more back again at the war, and that the old game was still being played. The men went ashore during the night, landing at the little pier below Walker's Ridge, and from there marched round to a bivouac between the Chailak and Aghyll Deres, from whence Auckland went up to the Rhododendron Spur, where they remained until the evacuation.

The weather had changed completely. The fearful enervating heat of the summer months was gone. There was a touch of keenness in the air. Most of the flies were dead, and those who by reason of strength still survived were looking very ill, and were suffering from general debility and cold feet. The lice, however, were stouter hearted and thicker skinned. They hung on with indomitable tenacity. Nothing could shake them off. They flourished in the summer heat, and multiplied in the cold of winter. If one died, however prematurely, ten more seemed to spring into being. They were as the sand on the sea-shore, or the stars in heaven for multitude.

In the Balkans, Mackensen with a mass of men and guns smashed down the Serbian defence, and by so doing opened a clear road from Berlin to Bagdad. The Turkish munition troubles were at an end. Down the Danube came the great page 73howitzers from the Skoda works. The heavy shells were very nerve-racking. There was a muffled report, then for several seconds the huge shell climbed up and up, high above Sari Bair, and having attained its highest elevation, turned, hung for a moment, and finally from the tremendous height dropped perpendicularly with a roar which gradually changed to a diabolic, blood-curdling scream. The projectile landed on the hard ground as if it had struck a stone road, and exploded immediately with a smashing, tearing explosion, practically unmuffled by soft earth. The second day after the return from Lemnos the Turks planted one hundred and thirty big high explosives in Chailak Dere. The menace of these guns, and still more the menace of the imaginary monsters which were to come, caused a great epidemic of "funk-hole digging." The hard clay hills, with their steep faces, were ideal places in which to drive tunnels. There was a keen nip in the air, and a bit of pick and shovel work kept the blood running.

Rhododendron Spur was turned into a splendid home. Seven hundred feet up above sea-level on the rough slopes of Sari Bair was formed a miniature Auckland Town. Every turning, sap and communication trench bore one of the old familiar names:—Queen Street, Quay Street, Customs Street, Fort, Swanson Street, Wyndham Street, Wellesley Street, Manukau Road, and Seafield View.

The view was a glorious one. Every morning Imbros and Samothrace emerged from the morning mists, and every evening the sun set in splendour behind them. On the left, and far below, the plain of Suvla stretched from the Outpost to the Chocolate Hills and Kuchuk Anafarta. To the front and the right ran the ragged spurs of Hill 971. On the shining level of the sea, cruiser and destroyer were ceaselessly on the move. There is a great fascination in watching a destroyer on patrol duty. There is no beauty about her, no colour: she is drab, long and lean from one point of view—broad, low and squat from another. On a moonlight night she is a dark line, barely visible. Night and day she never ceases to move. Always there is the ceaseless, tireless moving, the keen look-page 74out, the instant readiness to strike. She has the range of every trench and landmark to the yard. A Turkish machine-gun has been pestering Chailak Dere. It is thought the Turk and his gun are concealed behind yonder screen of bushes. Rifles and machine-guns cannot shift him. The shore batteries do not command the spot. Word goes to the grey, weather-stained watcher on the laughing blue sea. She drifts backward and forward, so easily, so slowly, so lazily, as though every iron muscle was relaxed, as though nothing mattered, as though the day were too line and the sea too smooth to do anything but drift. But of a sudden there is a flash, a wisp of brown and white smoke, the ear-splitting bang of the 4.7, a burst somewhere upon the hillside, and one more Turkish machinegun has become scrap-iron, and some more of the faithful have passed from war to the Garden of Paradise and the darkeyed houris. Kismet! The destroyer drifts up and down, so quietly, so easily, with such a lazy grace. She may not speak again all day, but always she is ready. The eyes of the watch are fixed on the dark hillsides, and the men in the long narrow trenches know that the vigil never tires and will never fail.

There are other craft to be seen. Sometimes a monitor creeps out from Imbros Harbour. She has a great 14-inch gun in her bow, and when she comes out there is something to justify the thunder-tones in which she speaks. Perhaps the enemy are dragging a gun into position. As the ox-team toils patiently along the rough road from Bulair there is a rumbling in the air, gradually growing nearer, a thud as the projectile buries itself in the earth, a rending explosion, and then men, machinery, bushes, rocks and débris rise slowly in the air, hang for a moment, while a pall of smoke rises, covering all from sight. The smoke clears. The watcher from Rhododendron can perceive no change; but the Skoda gun, brought with such toil down the Danube will never fire a shot.

A few days after the return to Anzac a working party from the Battalion were down by the little pier below Walkers Ridge. A group of Staff Officers came ashore. The central figure was Earl Kitchener. He was speedily recognised. The page 75Tommies and Indians fell in with appropriate clothes on. Australians and New Zealanders came just as they were. Some had hats on, others had none. Those who were smoking went on smoking, those with their hands in their pockets kept them there. The crowd pressed in to see the famous soldier. A number had cameras, with which they proceeded to take photos of the Field-Marshal under his very nose. The scene was not at all unlike a cattle show, with a group of fanners discussing the points of a prize beast. There was no disrespect. A Man met Men. The Man recognised the qualities of the Men, and the Men recognised in him the leadership, the steadfastness of purpose; and the inspiration which called the New Armies into being and mobilised Britain for war.

The air had had a nip in it for some time, and then one morning men woke to find the ground covered with snow. It was for many their first experience. The hillsides were very beautiful. Every little bush was outlined in gleaming white. The ground was frozen hard. It was cold, until the blood was running, and after that quite splendid. The air was cold, the water was cold, the dishes were cold, and, strange to say, many men never felt dirty for three whole days, and then only when the sun shone at mid-day. An Aucklander required more resolution to face cold water than to walk up to a machine-gun. During the days when the snow lay on the ground, delicacies such as fat bacon and bully-beef were devoured ravenously. The days of diminutive trousers were gone. Men no longer wandered round in identity discs, indecent apparel and wide smiles. Fortunate was he who had much clothing. Fortunate was he whose mother, sisters and sweethearts sent many balaclavas, scarves and socks, and still more fortunate was he who could salvage all these things from the careless. "Blessed is he that hath, for if he hath enterprise he shall have much more."

On the high slopes the snow disappeared slowly. Amongst the New Zealanders there were practically no cases of frostbite. Lower down, however, on the Suvla flat, the trenches were flooded out by the melting snow. Trench-foot and frost-page 76bite claimed as many victims as a big battle. For three whole days there was one long procession of poor Tommies and Ghurkas being carried out.

On November 20th Colonel Plugge returned, and took over the Battalion from Colonel Young. Life was very tranquil. A few casualties occurred from stray bullets and shells, but the trenches were so good, and afforded such splendid cover that the infantry in the line really ran very little danger. Rhododendron, in particular, was very safe.

The bombers were in possession of a Japanese mortar, which was regarded with a certain amount of suspicion and fear by those who were in the neighbourhood. Whether it was so regarded by the Turks it is difficult to say.

Very great attention was paid to the cleanliness of trenches, which were swept out every day. The prevalent disease was no longer dysentery, but jaundice. It was during this epidemic that men first commenced to get some idea of Major Allen's quality. He was a tall man, rather finely built, very deliberate in his movements and speech. Somewhat reserved, puritanical perhaps, he was never observed to be under the influence of liquor, and his language was most carefully moderated. His lisp when he commanded the "Houwakis to clean their wusty wifles," had become a standing joke. Who was this man? How would he turn out? There were not a few who were of the opinion that he would find war a very dirty, disagreeable, bloody business, and then retire gracefully from the scene to a more congenial sphere. Others suspended judgment, while odd men thought they detected some resemblance to Stonewall Jackson. In the meanwhile, as the Major commanding a company, the eyes of all were upon him. Apparently he had not yet realised that there was any danger in the air; if so, he gave no sign. Though suffering very badly with jaundice, he stayed on, performing all his duties. As a senior officer, he would have had not the slightest difficulty in being sent off. Also he was particular about the comfort of his men.