AT 29 (22 page)

“Not safe here, mate! Get the body between us and the side!”

Together, they positioned the bloody corpse against the inside wall of the boat, facing the shoreline. Then, they huddled behind it as bullets once again slammed into the wood only to be stopped as they added more fruitless injury to the dead soldier. More agonizing time passed as the two terrified soldiers crouched just below the edges of the wrecked boat, trying desperately to stay alive. Occasionally, they raised their eyes to look at one another, each man wanting to speak, but unable to muster words above their mutual fright. In time, the onslaught from the ridges died down, enabling them to cautiously peer out at the carnage. Dozens of bodies floated in the waves around boats, some capsized and riddled with dark holes, others upright, serenely untouched. They had drifted almost to the edge of the beach. Aaron wanted to leap into the water and dash up the sand where he hoped he could find shelter from the guns. The other soldier read his mind and reached out to pull on his arm.

“Not yet,” he said, firmly. “They're only waiting for more boats to drop from the ships. When they start firing at them they'll ignore us. Then we make our move.” Aaron heeded the order, relieved to let this stranger take the lead.

The brief lull, interspersed with occasional single shots, seemed like a pleasant interlude, but soon the Turks opened fire again in a deafening barrage, this time aimed higher. Aaron lifted his eyes to look back at the ships far off in the distance. He could see many more soldiers in boats being dropped into the sea, just as he had been dropped at the start of the invasion. The same frightening death rained upon them as the sun rose, casting brilliant light on the carnage. It was time to move, he thought, as both men carefully slid head first over the backside of the boat. They pushed the craft ahead of them, crawling on their knees in the foot deep water. Quickly, it was beached and they remained huddled behind, calculating what to do. On either side he could now make out other soldiers in similar predicaments. There were very few, perhaps ten or fifteen. He gasped.

Suddenly, a soldier stood and slogged for the beach. Aaron watched him sprint up the sandy incline leading to the bottom of the ridge. The guns above continued to fire far out at the other boats, paying no attention to the lone soldier on the beach. Then there came an abrupt flash followed by a muffled explosion that enveloped the running soldier
in a cloud of thick gray smoke. As the smoke dissipated, a mutilated body lay motionless in the sand.

“Mines,” said the soldier beside him. “I was afraid of that. These blokes were ready for us. We should wait a little longer then follow the same path.”

“Why?” Aaron managed to sputter.

“At least we know one of the mines has exploded. We'll need to be on the lookout for others.”

“What about the guns on the ridge?”

“Can't be helped. I expect they'll ignore us like they did him, let the mines do the dirty work while they keep their fire on the boats.”

They huddled, waiting for the right moment. A second soldier sprang from the water. He, too, was ignored by the gunners above as he made his way to the spot where the mine had exploded. Then he dropped to all fours and began to crawl, looking intently for any other mines.

“Smart,” said the experienced soldier guiding Aaron. Let's get on his tail. He'll lead us to the ridgeline or get killed trying.” Then he jumped and scrambled up the beach with Aaron close behind.

At the same time a thunderous barrage could be heard coming from the ocean. A battleship had come about and positioned itself between the troop ships and the shoreline, training its massive guns on the Turkish batteries. Shells whistled through the air, finding their mark with brutal results all along the ridge. One by one, the big Turkish guns were taken out, followed by a gradual silencing of the devastating machine guns. Despite the ear splitting noise that rattled his nerves, Aaron was heartened by the protection finally afforded by the British ship. It did not occur to him, in his desperate desire to stay alive, to question why this covering fire had taken so long to begin.

The soldier, on his hands and knees, had made good progress through the minefield. Aaron and his companion fell in behind, careful to stay close, but not so close that a sudden explosion would catch them, too. Whether by luck or cunning, they made their way swiftly to the base of the ridgeline, hugging tightly to the ragged cliff bottom. There they waited and watched as others crawled out of the water to join them. Within thirty minutes, and with only one more death caused by the mines, twenty-one men formed into a group, crouched low in the morning sun. Of the two hundred men launched into the sea for this first assault at Anzac Cove, only these twenty-one survived to make it to land.

Soon, the hundreds of boats and thousands of men that entered the waters for the second wave reached the now silent shore. They leapt from their small crafts, firing bursts of lead all along the beach as they made their way up the slope. These men had seen the bursting mines that had killed the two soldiers in the first wave. They were taking no chances as they used bullets to ignite any other mines that might hinder their paths to safety.

As the second wave approached, Aaron breathed a sigh of relief and turned his eyes to survey the other twenty men in his group. He recognized no one, suddenly realizing that he, alone, had survived from his platoon. The thought sobered him to the reality of the war he'd expected to be such a grand adventure. It was something else, sheer horror. Somehow he knew, despite his inexperience, that he and the others of his Australian battalion who had been the first men launched that day, were sacrificed to
gauge the defenses of the Turks. That was why the battleship remained silent until the big Turkish guns had wreaked their havoc. He spat on the ground as this bitter realization overcame him with anger. Then he looked out at the dozens of troop ships still dropping boats loaded with his countrymen. Foreign ships led by foreign captains following orders from politicians once again sacrificing others in a quest for something from which only a select few would be permitted to profit. In that moment, he swore his allegiance solely to his Australian homeland.

In the hours that followed, Aaron, re-armed and reassigned to a new platoon in the 4th Infantry Brigade, slogged his way atop the cliffs meter by meter with death ever present from the guns of the opposing Turks. The swift link-up with the British Divisions that landed across the Gallipoli peninsula at Cape Helles Beach never materialized. Both forces found themselves pinned down by the surprisingly strong Turkish defenses.

Two days after the landing at Anzac Cove, the Turks launched a ferocious counter attack intended to drive the Australians back to the beaches. The British battleships offshore drove them back and held them at bay through the night, enabling the Anzacs to dig in. From there the progress was frustratingly slow. Aaron was shocked to discover that most of the fighting took place from a prone position, lying almost face down in the dirt and rising only slightly to bring his rifle to his shoulder to fire. Many of the soldiers were reluctant to move forward at the line of trenches barely thirty meters ahead. Too often they encountered an onslaught of bullets that silenced, forever, those of their fellows who did. But the Australian officers were under enormous pressure to gain ground. Despite mounting losses, they compelled their men to fruitless charges through the open terrain at an enemy all too prepared to foil their advances.

On May 2 the Australian division commander ordered a major offensive. The night attack advanced only a short distance before it came under withering fire. Aaron, careful not to take the lead after his bitter lesson on the beach, saw many of his fellow infantrymen fall. He knew the attack was doomed to fail and gathered half a dozen of the soldiers nearest him to dig a trench for protection. There, they remained through the night, firing sporadically at an unseen enemy until the order to fallback came at dawn. In the morning light a brief truce was agreed so the Anzacs could collect their dead and dying from the field. One thousand casualties were reported to the commanders back at headquarters. No ground gained.

The stalemate continued for two weeks as the opposing forces tried to devise a plan to break the siege. In that time, an extensive line of trenches, connected by supply tunnels, was dug and fortified. As he toiled with spade in hand Aaron shook with disgust. He knew of the trench warfare in Europe. He also knew it was testimony to the abject failure resulting from out of date military tactics that elderly, out of touch, Generals refused to abandon. He had grown to hate his decision to join the Army. In the evenings, huddled deep in the foul smelling depth of his trench, he wrote of his disillusion to his mother.

My Dear Mother
,

This war, I fear, has become mere folly. All illusion of glory has left me as I spend my time fortifying a muddy hole that has become my only refuge from slaughter. Our mates have died the most dreadful of deaths, alone in the dark with no hope of rescue from the terrible enemy guns all around. I have been called upon to bury my dead countrymen in the gray light of day when a short truce allows. I cannot count the number
.

Officers have come to be with us, trying to keep our spirits high, but it is a fool's errand. Some of the men are brash in their remarks, questioning why we must rely on foreign leaders for our orders when it is clear that they care not for our valor
.

I often find my mind lost in a fearsome fright, even when there is no danger near. It takes hold of me, causing my limbs to shake as sweat pours down my brow no matter how cold the night air. What is this otherworldly anguish that I see also in some of the other men? I fear it will come at an inopportune moment when I must have my wits at the ready to avoid real danger. I try to fight it, but it overtakes my every attempt
.

In the night when it is silent, I find peace in my father's songs, humming them to myself. Some of the others join me after we have eaten the cold tasteless gruel that passes for beef in the tiny tins we carry. They like my songs and hum in unison with me until it is time to sleep in that restless way we never knew before landing at this hellish place
.

Less than one year from that day I left our beautiful farm, I long to return. Will I have the good fortune to escape from this struggle unlike so many of my fellows? I do not know. But, do not fear too greatly for my safety. I have learned to guard myself from the risks that others may take. I will lead no charge. Pray for me dear Mother, that I may see you again
.

Your faithful son
,

Aaron

The morning was pallid with a threatening mist. After checking out of his cabin, Jimmy loaded the Saab and drove off, feeling far better than when he arrived. Saint Virgil's College sat atop a hill with buildings and walkways that spread down its sides, covering five hundred and eighty two acres. Serving a mere two thousand students, the hundred-year-old institution dominated the pastoral landscape.

He spent an hour walking among the buildings, stopping here and there to look inside. The spring semester was over and the summer session was several weeks off. The quadrangle grass was thick and green. In the fall it played host to touch football and an occasional bonfire. In February, the winter festival's ice sculptures dotted its every corner. Then in spring the graduates took their places on rows of chairs. There, they listened to an array of speakers, received their degrees and threw caps into the air. Every college has a grassy expanse upon which its traditions carry on.

Regent Hall was one of four buildings bordering the Quad. In Jimmy's time it housed the freshmen. He walked the diagonal brick path, looking up at a window on the third floor, his old room.

Kevin Royce was his roommate, not at first and, tragically, not for long during his first year at Saint Virgil's. They didn't meet until three weeks after arriving on campus although their rooms were across the hall from one another. Jimmy's two roommates were odd characters. Within days of their arrival the other students on the floor had nicknamed them pothead and psychopath. To Jimmy's mind, the terms were apt. Pothead's father was an Air Force Colonel who dropped his son at the door with a curt good-bye. Then he drove off, never to be seen again. Pothead carried his bags upstairs, threw them onto the bunk above Jimmy's and, by way of introduction, rolled two joints on the spot, handing one over as he lit his own. Psychopath arrived the next day from Indiana. Dark and brooding, he immediately announced that, no offense intended, he would prefer to be left alone. Pothead waved his hand in agreement. Jimmy rolled his eyes.

Other than when they slept, all three went their separate ways. Pothead found a cadre of like-minded friends while Psychopath spent most of his time in the room, watching television. After his classes Jimmy went down to the basement of Regent Hall with the Gibson, resuming his solitary habits just as he had done at Kendall.

The initial big event of the year was held on the third Friday of October. The Crusader Club, an organization of upper classmen, organized an annual talent show. The master list of volunteer performers was posted in the weekly school newspaper. Over lunch in the cafeteria, Jimmy scanned the names and quickly saw a mistake.

“I didn't sign up for the show,” he told the President of the Crusader Club who also served as Regent Hall's resident proctor. “Someone made a mistake.” The older boy looked up from his book without moving and surveyed the nervous freshman standing at the foot of his bed.

“Buckman, third floor with the pothead and the psycho, right?” Jimmy nodded. “No problem. I'll take you off.” Relieved, Jimmy turned to leave. “Kid across the hall signed you up.” Jimmy stopped.

“Who?”

“Royce, from Massena, New York.”

“I don't know him.”