The Soldier's Song (11 page)

‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph. It’s on fire,’ Kinsella shouted in his ear, and he pointed to the right.

‘What?’ Stephen was in the middle of reloading a magazine and found the brass cartridges greasy and slippery with sweat. It didn’t help that his hands were shaking.

‘The grass is after catching fire. Look!’

His eyes followed the pointing hand towards the centre of the saddle. The Turks had concentrated their mortar and artillery fire there, and some of the shells had set the dry grass on fire. Fanned by the hot wind, the flames were spreading quickly, covering everything with thick smoke. Stephen watched with a mixture of dread and hope. If the flames spread over here they would be cooked alive. On the other hand, the wind was blowing the smoke in this direction. He waited, waited, watching the black pall spread across the spotless blue sky, and then scrambled to his feet.

‘Fall back,’ he shouted, and he could hardly see the men in front as they ran through the smoke. In minutes they were back in their own lines, Turkish bullets flying high and wide. Small comfort to the hard-pressed men, most of them terrified and shaking. It took grim determination to pull together the remains of his platoon and make them dig in and prepare for a Turkish counterattack. After half an hour it was plain that the Turks wouldn’t come, but lying there doing nothing was almost worse. Fuelled by the fitful breeze, the fire consumed the whole saddle, smelling like the stubble burning in the fields back home. They could see nothing, but as the flames spread they could hear the screams of the wounded men who had been left lying in the grass. Terrible sounds, wrenching at already strained nerves, and more unbearable because there was not a thing they could do to help them . . .

Stephen’s head nodded forward again and he snapped awake in the dark. Still quiet, but that seemed even more ominous. Sitting curled up in a corner of the trench, he felt completely alone, bereft; no human voice for comfort, no friendly light, and after a while he found himself stumbling over a prayer. He hadn’t prayed in years, and he could hardly remember the words, but they came to him after a while and he mumbled them fervently. He felt a hypocrite, praying to keep from falling asleep, but anything was better than hearing those screams in his head.

* * *

Dublin,

15 August 1915

Dear Stephen,

You really must write more! There was such a hiatus between your last two letters that I thought you’d fallen off the edge of the world, or worse. But I mustn’t complain. I was so delighted to receive your last letter that it put a spring in my step. I am amazed that you have finally landed in Turkey. I never thought I’d see the day. We’ve been fighting our wars in Flanders and Picardy for centuries, and this sudden change to an away fixture is quite beyond me.

To be serious, the thought of your fighting over there chills me to the bone. It seems that every day another familiar name is added to the roll of honour. The latest was Ernest Julian – my old law professor – and as I know he was in your battalion, I hope and pray you are doing everything you can to stay out of danger.

You asked for news of home. Well, you will be shocked and amazed to learn that I have graduated with a second-class degree. After many broad hints from my father I have taken up the family trade and I am to become a barrister. I have just started devilling for a KC called Percival Barton, who is a terribly clever old chap, though exceedingly fond of a drink. You will probably laugh when you read this, but I am very much the sober half of the firm. Apart from my other duties, I am responsible for retrieving the gaffer from the pub after lunch, nudging him awake during the long afternoon sessions, and checking him if he seems about to say something he will come to regret.

Which reminds me – who did I see last week, only your brother. We were just going into court when a group of militia came marching down the quays – you can spot the Citizen Army a mile off because their uniforms are a very dark green – and there was young Joseph, marching at the head and giving it the old left, right, left. Unfortunately, old Barton (who is a dreadful Unionist, particularly after a few brandies) let fly at them with a torrent of abuse that would make your hair stand on end, the gist of it being that they should be in France fighting for King and Country instead of prancing about like a troop of Boy Scouts. The last time I saw them, the Boy Scouts weren’t armed to the teeth with rifles and revolvers so, needless to say, I took a firm grip and ushered him off stage before Joe and his friends could get in a reply.

More recently, I bumped into your old pal Lillian Bryce. Did you hear she got a gold medal in the senior mods and won a studentship? So next year she’ll be doing postgrad work, as well as giving lectures and tutorials. More luck to her, I say. In a few years she could well be the first-ever woman fellow. And she’s such a charming girl; I don’t know why she’s got a reputation for being a bit peculiar. We had a good old chinwag and she made a particular point of asking after you. (Hint: I shan’t be too upset if your next letter heads in her direction.)

Nevertheless, I can’t help thinking she is stealing your thunder. That medal would have been yours for the taking if only you hadn’t gone off to play soldiers! But there it is; you have gone off and I can only hope you will not take as long as Odysseus to return home from those parts.

Please write again soon, to let me know you are alive and well. I remain,

Your Friend,

William Standing (BL!)

16
August
1915

I don’t know what I can write about last night. I’ve been staring at the page for an hour, but I’m still not sure where to begin. The sun is up and I can see the rocks of Kiretch Tepe Sirt as I sit with the handful of men I have left – the rest are still lying up there.

We lost a lot of men but the officers were nearly wiped out. Colonel Downing was hit in the foot by a sniper before we even got to the top of the ridge and Major Harrison, who took over from him, was blown to pieces by a Turkish bomb. The list goes on and on: in my own company, Hamilton and Leschalles were both killed, and Robinson badly wounded. That means I’m the only officer left in B Company, so the command has fallen to me. Captain Fitzgibbon from A Company is the senior surviving officer and has taken temporary command of the battalion. He has gone off, shaking with anger, to see why we were never given the order to withdraw.

It is hard to describe the fighting itself because it was all just flashes in the dark. I had a bad feeling about it from the start. The sky was clear and there was a full moon and I was reminded of the first time Granda took me out hunting at night. We hid ourselves down low in a hollow, and when the moon rose he touched my shoulder and pointed up the valley. The crest of the hill was cut sharp and black against the moon, and even as I watched I saw a fox dart out from cover and trot across the sky, so clear I could see his legs and his head as he raised his snout to sniff at something on the air.

We must have shown as clearly to the Turks as we crept along the ridge past the Pimple. When we got as far as the knobbly peak of Karakol Dagh the machine guns on Kidney Hill opened up on us and we had to crawl forward, hugging the sharp rocks for cover, chips flying around our ears. We should have turned back – all surprise was lost, they could see us plain as day – but still we crept doggedly on. Then, just as we reached the extremity of our lines, the Turks counterattacked, working their way along the ridge below us. Below us, for God’s sake! Our height should have given us the advantage, but instead it was killing us. We were silhouetted against the sky while they were hidden in the moon shadow – and doubly protected by the overhanging cliff, they could get right in and lob their bombs up among us.

These were wicked little things about the size of a cricket ball, with a fuse that they lit with a cigarette. They came fizzing out of the void a dozen at a time and we had no cover against them and no bombs of our own to reply with. Sometimes we threw the Turkish bombs back down on top of them; Wilkins threw down
five but the sixth blew up in his hand. Some men pushed rocks down onto them – it was fatal to try to shoot, as you had to lean out and show yourself against the moon. I found a notch where I could fire down with my revolver without exposing myself, but it was difficult to see; I had to wait for the glow of the cigarette, and by then the bomb was already on the way up.

A couple of hours of this and the Turks were starting to wear us down. Far from achieving our objective of pushing them off the end of the ridge, we were in danger of losing the whole thing. Dead and wounded men littered our position and the air was thick with the stink of gunpowder and blasted rock. Major Harrison scrambled about, calling for men to mount a charge down the side of the ridge to clear out the bomb throwers. They disappeared over the edge and that was the last we saw of them. A gallant act, but it cost us dear; I have a vivid picture in my head of Harrison silhouetted in the blinding flash of a bomb. Three more officers were killed in the same charge and a fourth shot through the head as he crawled up to see if any of them had survived.

After that, I don’t know how we held on. I think the only reason the Turks didn’t overrun us was because it was easier to leave us there while they cut us to bits. We had no relief or reinforcement, no orders, no objective. We just lay there losing men by the hour, until eventually we were relieved and crawled away as the sun was coming up. It was the worst night I have ever endured.

But I would be lying if I said it has not had another effect on me. I have survived, and there is a little sense of triumph there. I have survived, and the sky never looked so blue, nor the ground felt so firm.

16
August
1915
(Afternoon)

Captain Fitzgibbon came back from Brigade HQ in a terrible state. He was cursing General Mahon – calling him a f—ing murdering bastard and wishing him to hell. I had to lead him out of earshot before somebody heard him. A mug of tea calmed him down a bit, but still his hands were shaking and there were tears of rage in his eyes. Eventually, he explained to me why we weren’t allowed to withdraw last night.

It starts with General Hamilton, who is in charge of the Turkish campaign. Unhappy with how things are going, he sacked a few of his subordinates, including General Hammersley our corps commander. General Mahon, who commands our division, was next in line to replace him, but Hamilton promoted DeLisle from the Twenty-Ninth Division instead. Mahon resented being superseded and resigned, marching out of his headquarters in a sulk just as the Turks launched their counterattack against us. This meant there was nobody to answer our calls for help or to send support until DeLisle arrived a few hours later. The moment he realized what was happening, he pulled us back, but by then the damage was done.

As Fitzgibbon finished his story, I looked at the top of the ridge. There are a lot of men rotting up there for the sake of Mahon’s pride. I hope they haunt him to the end of his days.

* * *

They were led down to the shore in the dead of night. There was no moon and lights were forbidden for fear of betraying their withdrawal – for fear of betraying their failure, because from here to Cape Helles hundreds of boats were plying back and forth, gradually thinning the ground they had fought so hard to take.

Stephen felt no regret that they were leaving, but no elation either – he was too sick and exhausted for that. He simply felt hollowed out, and it took all his strength just to walk down to the beach, invisible hands as weak and trembling as his own steadying him when he stumbled against the guide rope. When he finally reached the beach he collapsed onto the still-warm sand and listened to the sighing of the surf. It seemed very peaceful, until an electric white flash lit up the whole horizon, and he saw the men scattered around him; a hundred of them covered in scabs and suppurating sores, weakened and wasted with dysentery. Then the ground trembled and the sky shrieked as the naval shells thundered over.

As his eyes grew accustomed to the dark, he noticed sailors moving about the beach with shaded lanterns, counting heads. They looked fit and strong in the dim light, towering over the soldiers like giants as they handed out cigarettes and chocolate. We must look like scarecrows to them, he thought – husks of men, sick and broken. When his group was called forward they climbed painfully to their feet, helping one another stand on swollen joints, and stumbled out along the jetty, led like cattle. There had been no jetty here when they came ashore at the beginning of August, but that seemed so far away now he might have dreamed it. His head swam when he thought of that first day, when the warm air was heavy with the scent of thyme. Then a wave of nausea washed over him and he felt faint, weak, white patches flaring in front of his eyes.

‘Easy there, mate,’ a sailor whispered, catching him before he stumbled into the inky water. He felt himself being lifted into the boat and tried feebly to help, but his arms had no strength and his two legs knocked together like dry sticks. He slumped onto a seat and weariness washed over him, his head drooping with fatigue. He needed to sleep; two hours a night was all he’d had these last weeks, and that had only been a light stupor with bad dreams and night sweats. The daytime was worse; even in a rest area there was still the unbearable heat and the stink of shit and corpses, the stomach cramps and diarrhoea. No rest, no relief, and it soon started to tell. The strain had been building up inside him for weeks, winding tighter and tighter like a clock spring, and after he shot the sniper it overpowered him entirely.