The Soldier's Song (10 page)

‘Stephen! Stephen!’

And he turned to see his friend beaming at him.

‘Do come back, there’s a good chap.’

Stephen said something in reply, but she couldn’t catch it over all the cheering and noise.

‘Mr Ryan!’ She called out, waving, but she was at the back of the crowd, almost against the railings, and she knew he couldn’t hear. The order was passed to reform ranks and the lines of men were straightened and some semblance of military order was restored. It was only as he took his place in front of his platoon that his eyes met hers and he smiled. Feeling her heart beating harder, she raised her hand.

‘Good luck!’ she called out, louder, and he bowed his head and touched the brim of his cap. He shouted something in return, but once again his words were lost in the rolling of drums and blaring of trumpets as the band struck into a march and was answered with a deafening burst of cheering and applause that saw them off to their ship.

7
August
1915

At last I have the chance to use my notebook. I bought it in Basingstoke with the intention of keeping a journal of my Mediterranean travels, but the voyage out was far too bloody tedious to bother with. However, that all changed this morning.

We sailed from Limnos last night, the whole battalion packed like sardines into a tiny minesweeper. It was an uncomfortable trip, what with the heat and seasickness and all the tension because we knew we were finally going into battle. I thought we’d have further to travel, but when the sun came up the Turkish coast was less than a mile away and we lay off a shallow bay packed with ships. But it was Terra Incognita to us. We hadn’t been issued with maps, and had to borrow the ship’s chart to put names to the features on shore. Did I say names? I meant tongue-twisters – more like something out of a fairy tale. We eventually learned that the little round hill on our right was Lala Baba, and the high cliffs straight ahead of us were called Kazlar Dagh. The bay was called Suvla Bay.

It was certainly a noisy spot. The battleships were bombarding the shore from further out to sea and their shells sounded like trains thundering overhead. Orders had to be shouted over the din, and it was pandemonium when our time came to go ashore and we had to get everybody over the side into steam launches. Luckily, many of the men in my platoon worked on the docks before the war, so we managed it without anybody falling into the sea.

The launch was a bit like a charabanc, with the little steam engine chugging away and the men laughing like excited schoolboys as we weaved through all the shipping to get to the shore. Then something exploded in the sea right beside us, and a big spout of foam collapsed into the boat, drenching us all. Everybody cheered. Abdul will have to do better than that if he wants to put us off.

There was less laughing after we landed. Another launch was grounded on the beach and it had clearly suffered a direct hit. The planking in the bow was all splintered and the water around it was red with blood. Men were being lifted out, arms hanging loosely, heads lolling. Then, almost the moment we splashed into the shallows, a stream of walking wounded appeared from between two small hills and started to fill our boat.

And so far, that’s all I can report. We’ve been ashore for four hours now, but all we are doing is sitting in the sand, waiting for orders. The beach smells of thyme and guncotton. We can hear fighting going on a bit further inshore, but nobody knows when we’ll get into it. We have no maps and no orders, and I’m getting a bit worried because we are drinking so much water and I think my legs are getting sunburned. It was a long night and I’m tired now. If I can
fi
nd a bit of shade I might try to get some sleep.

7
August
1915
(Night)

Well, I didn’t get much sleep earlier on. I’d no sooner rigged myself a little awning with my groundsheet than a runner came look for Colonel Downing. At last, after half the day was gone! Soon the order was passed to form in threes and we set off around the bay, the old boy at the front with his blackthorn stick, and everybody sweating and grunting along under the blazing sun. It was clearly too hot to be marching with full packs so, to lighten the load, we dumped all our kit except ri
fl
es and a day’s rations. Then it was on again, past piles of stores and men lying on the beach or bathing in the sea.

After about a mile we reached a deep gully cutting down to the sea. It was a natural choke point, and the Turks were shelling it sporadically. It was here that I lost my first man: a shell landed in the gully as he was scrambling out and he toppled back in. His name was Kelly. The blast must have killed him because I could see no wound, but the MO pronounced him dead and we had to leave him and keep marching.

We were headed for a little hill that the CO called Chocolate Hill. We could see it by now, and we could also see the Turkish trenches criss-crossing the top. To reach it, we had to cross the bed of a dry lake. I suppose when it rains this is a real lake, but now it was just dry mud with a salty crust that broke under us as we marched across. At every step we sank up to our ankles in a dusty mixture of salt and sand. The dust clogged our throats and worsened the thirst, but I was grateful for the cover it gave because the Turks had spotted us and opened fire. This was something I hadn’t heard before: the crack of a shot passing overhead, and the thud as another hit the ground nearby. The urge to lie down was very strong.

It was a relief to reach the scrubby ground on the far side. As we closed on the hill, the Turkish
fi
re got heavier. A man was shot in front of me, but I stepped over him with little more than a glance. We had to keep moving and we were soon advancing by rushes through the long grass. It felt safer now that we were shooting back, and at least directing my men gave me some sense of control.

With one last dash we tumbled into the Turkish trench at the foot of the hill as the former tenants ran away under cover from their friends at the top. They left a few corpses behind, which we tried to ignore – though it was hard to avoid walking on them. While we waited for the navy to shell the top of the hill I decided to have a bite to eat. The hard tack was very dry in my mouth and the warm water tasted gritty and stale. My stomach was closed with nerves and I was surprised to see the sun already setting behind Kazlar Dagh.

Suddenly the shelling started. The whole top of Chocolate Hill was covered in smoke and flame and the noise was tremendous. It went on for about half an hour and then, just as suddenly, it stopped. The command was passed to fix bayonets and I reloaded my revolver. Many of the men blessed themselves as the CO jumped up on the parados, waving his stick, and called for three cheers for the Dublins. At the last hurrah he pointed up the hill with his stick, and the whole battalion charged out of the trench, howling and screaming like savages.

We went flying right over the summit of the hill, hurdling empty trenches like thoroughbreds. When at last we stopped, puffed out and laughing, we had chased the Turks halfway across the grassy saddle between this hill and the next. We trudged back and found the CO looking hungrily at the other hill – Green Hill on his map. The Turks had vanished down the other side and for all we knew they were still running. We reckoned we could take it with another charge, but Downing was more prudent. It was almost dark and he had strict orders not to push too far forward for fear of being cut off.

So here we stay – in shallow scrapings and shell holes, the remains of the Turkish trenches. We have lifted the corpses out and laid them on the parapet. Apart from the sentries, everybody is trying to sleep, but the excitement of the charge is still coursing through our veins and most are talking quietly or sharing food. I’m writing by the light of a Turkish candle I found in the trench. I see I’ve half filled my notebook already, so I’ll have to be less long-winded if it’s to last me past the end of the week.

* * *

The scream brought him snapping awake. But when he opened his eyes there was silence, nothing but the whispering breeze. And yet he was sure he had heard a scream; there was anguish in it, real pain. What would make somebody scream like that?

He cocked his ear and strained his eyes into the darkness. Still nothing. Maybe it was in his head. But the smell was real enough; there was no getting away from that. Even though the fire was long out, there was still smoke wafting into the trench and sometimes an eddy in the breeze brought the sweeter stench of burning flesh that turned his stomach. The sights and sounds he remembered were all nothing to that. That was the stink of war and he’d have it with him for as long as he lived. He had known those men, talked to some of them, but now they were just blackened lumps lying out there in the burned grass.

It had been such a perfect morning that they’d had no inkling of what was to come. As the night faded over the Anafarta plain, the rocky hills rose like islands out of the gloom and the sky gradually turned pink and then blue. The men were scattered around the hilltop, lying in crevices and corners, sleeping with the sun on their faces. All silent save the clink of a tin mug, or the rattle of stones as a sentry shifted his weight. And all around them dry grass rustled as the night breeze slithered down to the sea. It was peaceful until a hoarse docker’s voice broke out.

‘Stand to arms! Stand to arms! Come on, you lazy buggers, let’s be having you.’

Men stretched and yawned and stood up to look over at Green Hill. Then a bullet cracked off a rock and went zinging away in an angry ricochet, and they remembered where they were and bolted for cover. The reality of their situation robbed the scene of all its beauty as the first privations made themselves felt. Breakfast was a few dry biscuits and a sup of water. Yesterday’s sunburn was starting to sting.

It was obvious that they were going to have to attack Green Hill, but the night had stolen their appetite for a fight and the impetus of the last evening had evaporated entirely. More worrying, it was clear that the Turks had brought up reinforcements. They had grown bolder and were sniping at the carrying parties bringing up ammunition and water. A clever stroke, since most of the men had exhausted their canteens and as the sun got higher and hotter it was hard to think of anything but a long cool drink.

Colonel Downing went down to the beach after breakfast and didn’t return until lunchtime, puffing back up the hill under a hail of fire from the Turks.

‘Those saucy buggers were shooting at
me
,’ he exclaimed, when all his officers had been assembled, but there was a wild gleam in his eye as he went on: ‘Well, gentlemen, the time has come. We’re going to put a stop to Abdul’s capers for once and all. Division’s finally got the finger out, and we shall be attacking this afternoon. That bloody hill,’ he pointed at Green Hill with his blackthorn stick, ‘that’s the key to this whole place. If we can clear them off there, then we’ll finally have secured our beachhead. So the honour falls to us, gentlemen, with the Munster Fusiliers supporting us on the right. We’ll have to move damned quickly, so it’ll be rifles only. Leave the haversacks, but make sure your chaps have got plenty of ammunition. I have a feeling they won’t give up that hill as easily as they did this one.’

After lunch, the battalion formed up just below the crest of the hill. Stephen lay with his men, feeling the heat of the sun through his shirt and weighing his heavy revolver in his hand. Kinsella was grinning at him from a few feet away, his face already burned red by the sun, but the rest of the men seemed distracted. Some of them were looking at the ships in the bay, some at the Munster Fusiliers forming up on the eastern side of the hill. When everybody was in position, a whistle shrilled at the far end of the line and they scrambled out of their trench and set off across the broad grassy saddle.

Even the first few yards seemed harder than the night before, the ground rougher and the going slower. But not a shot was fired, and only the swishing of the long brown grass around their bare knees broke the uneasy silence. Then, when they were about halfway across, the Turks hit them hard. Mortars, artillery, machine guns. Men fell like ninepins and the rest instantly dropped flat, crawling and twisting like rabbits through the grass. Stephen scrambled behind a rock not much bigger than his head, and a bullet cracked into it, fragments flying into his eye. Half-blinded, he looked around for his men; there were khaki lumps scattered through the grass, whether dead or alive he couldn’t tell.

‘Pull back! Pull back!’ he shouted, crawling towards a shallow gully a few yards behind. Bullets were whipping through the grass and it was a queer feeling to be crawling like that, head down, back exposed. Then he slid into the gully and found it already full of men cowering down under the solid thatch of bullets snapping overhead.

‘Don’t just lie there!’ he burst out, unsettled by the fear that was plain on their faces, ‘Shoot back! Fire, for Christ’s sake!’ And he snatched up a rifle from a wounded man, drove home the bolt and emptied the magazine at Green Hill. He couldn’t see a thing, but it had the desired effect. Stung into action, the men followed his lead and soon they were lining the edge of the gully, shouting and cursing and blazing away.

If it was only bravado, at least it distracted them from the danger they were in. Their shelter wasn’t more than a foot deep and every inch of it was covered in khaki; some men living, some dead, many wounded. One shell in there would kill them all, but they were pinned down and they would be cut to pieces if they tried to get back to their trenches on Chocolate Hill. Their only chance was another naval bombardment to give them cover, but they might all be dead before anybody thought of that.