Gallipoli (74 page)

On, and on, and on.

‘It was one continuous roaring tempest,' Bean would recount. ‘One could not help an involuntary shiver – God help anyone that was out in that tornado. But one knew very well that men were out in it – the time put the meaning of it beyond all doubt.'
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John Monash and his soldiers of the 4th Brigade are also within earshot at the time, less than 2000 yards away, lost in the kind of steep, narrow gully that this part of the Gallipoli Peninsula so specialises in.

Even closer are Johnston and the men of the Right Assault Column. Of course, they are supposed to have already taken Chunuk Bair and by now be advancing south from there, along the crest of the range over Battleship Hill and towards Baby 700 from the rear. Alas, they have not yet taken that summit, and rather – at Johnston's order – are waiting, many of them slumped in the scrub taking rest and sucking on pebbles to wet their parched whistles.

How many could live in that roaring tempest?

Very, very few.

Most of the Australians, including Colonel White and Major Redford, are cut down within just ‘ten paces' of the trenches
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– as if, in the words of one eyewitness, ‘the men's limbs had become string'
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– their bodies and heads riddled with bullets, and still shaking long afterwards as yet more bullets thud into them.

As if that isn't enough, the Turks are also hurling bombs at them, and now Turkish shells are exploding over no-man's-land.

In the middle of all the carnage, Redford is still alive. Just as he lifts his noggin to look, however … another bullet hits him in the head. ‘He died with a soft sigh and laid his head gently on his hands as if tired,' Major William McGrath of the 8th Light Horse Regiment would later tell the others.
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Of the 150 Australian soldiers who have gone out, just one, Lieutenant Cyril Godfrey Marsh, a 22-year-old clerk from Victoria, manages to get close to the Turkish trenches, his body visible just before their parapet and the mass of guns that have brought him down. Well, maybe there is one more, though it will forever be unclear. But both at the time, and since, the reports are confused, with poor light, billowing smoke and raining destruction meaning there are few certainties beyond death for the vast majority.

Only in a small dip on the left-hand slope of the Nek are there Australian soldiers who have gone to ground in no-man's-land, not easily seen from the Turkish trenches. Of the rest, the luckiest are those who have been hit and only wounded as soon as they rose, falling straight back into the trenches. They are now joined by others who manage to crawl back – on their bellies, because all who get to their knees are instantly shot – who also fall back into the trenches. Everywhere now there is blood, screams, death rattles, spilling intestines, severed legs, men missing arms with blood pouring forth, cries of anguish, yelling, and still the noise of the bullets and exploding shells … all while the second wave starts to takes its place on the fire-step, trying not to put their feet on the dead and dying men who are now thick all around at the bottom of the trenches.

Stretcher-bearers! STRETCHER-BEARERS, NOW!

Who can stop it? Or at least who, with sufficient authority to actually make an impact, can
call
for it to be stopped?

Certainly not Colonel White, who now lies dead, his brain shattered.

By this time, a battery of French three-inch field guns – captured by the Turks from the Serbians in the Balkan War – is pouring shells at the rate of one every ten seconds into the no-man's-land of the Nek.
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The affair has taken on a mad, military momentum all its own. For, just as planned, less than two minutes later the whistles blow again, and out charges the second wave, led by Major Arthur Vivian Deeble – with not a single man wavering, though all know their likely fate.

Their only concession to what has happened to the first wave is that many of them now run doubled up, hoping to present a smaller target, their eyes fixed on the massed specks of flame coming from the many muzzles straight in front of them in the near-darkness, as bullets kick up spurts of dirt all around them.

If possible, this time the roar is even greater, the fire and bombs even more concentrated, the devastation even more catastrophic, as the few survivors hurdle the dead and dying and charge forward … until, following the lead of Major Deeble, who has miraculously survived, they throw themselves at ‘the nearest depression in the ground',
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as the bullets continue to whine over their heads. There are almost a dozen survivors near to Deeble, and to those who can hear him over the roar, the Major yells, ‘Scratch a little cover and wait for the next line!'
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And yet, though the official brigade history will record, ‘There was no hesitation or falter amongst our officers and men especially of the 8LH,' the fact remains, they ‘were practically wiped out'.
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Again, it is not even certain that anyone made it to the Turkish trenches to strike a blow, although some would say that out on the right flank, carrying his yellow-and-red marker flag, Sergeant Roger Palmer – who had been wounded shortly after the landing but had escaped from the hospital and stowed away to rejoin the 8th Light Horse – did make it and was even able to wave his flag, before being cut down by a forest of bayonets.

Back in the Australian trenches, chaos reigns. More death, more destruction, more attempts to retrieve those who have been fearsomely wounded within a few yards and are incapable of getting back into the trenches themselves. Further out, some lucky ones are marginally protected by small folds in the ground, others shielded by the bodies of their dead comrades and even Turks killed as much as six weeks earlier. And yet they daren't move, for to do so would instantly bring trained fire upon them. All they can do is lie face-down and hope to be mistaken for the dead. To get up and keep charging would be completely pointless. (No less pointless than it had been to charge in the first place, across that open ground, into that mass of guns, but still …)

All around now, the earth is soaked with blood, and the air filled with bullets and shrapnel, wafting smoke and the sound of dying men. Is this not enough?

No. Not for the defenders. To make absolutely sure that there is no chance of any of the attackers getting through, two Turkish field guns from nearby Hill 60 are now brought into play, exploding shells and sending scything shrapnel all over no-man's-land. Many a man who has miraculously survived to this point is now no more than warm flesh getting colder by the second.

Those still surviving, somehow, wait – ready to rise again, should the third wave get to them and go forward from there.

Of the 300 men of the 8th Light Horse Regiment who had charged at the enemy over the last five minutes, there are just 90 left now unscathed. While only 13 would be immediately recorded as ‘killed', the 3rd Light Horse Brigade Diary states, ‘Probably all those marked “missing” – some 134 brave and true – “were all killed”.'
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And now the men of the 10th Light Horse start to take their positions, coughing through the thick Lyddite fumes of the exploding shells and making their way forward to the starting line, past streams of their fearfully wounded comrades, and over the dead and dying in the clogged trenches, now muddy with blood. At least this delays their getting to the starting line, allowing a little precious time.

Through the fog, Colonel Brazier raises his periscope to see the devastation on an unimaginable scale. Dead men, dying men, everywhere, all ‘lying prone in line in front of the trench about 10 yards away at most'.
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And, needless to say, no evidence that he can see that any of the men have made it to the enemy trenches. It is hopeless, completely hopeless. And sheer insanity to send the men of the 10th Light Horse to add to the dead.

And there will be no relief from General Birdwood and Lieutenant-Colonel Skeen. When informed of the situation, Skeen comments, ‘It is not the Light Horse I am anxious about. I think they will be all right. What I hope is that they will help the New Zealanders.'
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Alas, the worthy New Zealanders at this point are still climbing towards Chunuk Bair.

One of the Wellington Mounteds, however, who had reached the heights of Table Top in the middle of the night and dug in, is in a position to see what is happening at the Nek, but powerless to do anything. He would write in his diary the next day, ‘I saw the whole thing … and don't want to see another sight like it. They were fairly mown down by machine guns.'
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The appalled Brazier is contemplating just what he should do to stop this obscene and useless slaughter of his men, when he feels a presence at his shoulder. It proves to be a young staff officer from Brigade Headquarters, with a rather terse query.

‘Why have you not sent your men over?'
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Brazier is equally terse in his reply. ‘In view of the scene in front of the trenches and the fire of the enemy machine-guns not having been affected by our artillery,' he barks, ‘I do not propose sending my men over until I have reported this fact to H.Q., and I have my orders confirmed.'
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And so the hell with it. On the spot, Brazier, who can be as prickly as barbed wire wrapped around a thorn bush, decides to go to Brigade HQ himself and ask General Hughes to call off the attack.

But when Brazier breathlessly arrives, Hughes is not there.

Hughes is not there!

Seeking to witness the charge from a different point, the General has gone across to a bombing emplacement, from where he can safely observe their progress. It leaves Brazier face to face with the man he hates with a passion, who is, nevertheless, the only man who can give the order he needs: Brigade-Major Jack Antill, the Bullant. He is alone.

In clipped tones, straining for calm, Brazier quickly relays what he has seen. ‘Nearly all the 8th Regiment did not advance ten yards beyond the trenches. It is possible that they have all been killed …'

The Bullant barely blinks.

Brazier spits it out, his words military but his manner mutinous: ‘Will you confirm the order to advance?'
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Ah, but Antill, out of his depth and desperately clinging to orders in the madness, will not buckle. ‘There is a flag on the Turks' trenches,' Antill insists,
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before giving the command that makes Brazier red with rage. ‘Push on and carry enemy's trenches!'
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Straining for control and only just managing it, Brazier implores Antill to listen. ‘There is no flag now on the enemy's trenches,' he rasps. ‘It is murder to push on!'

‘Push on!' Antill roars.
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Exasperated, Brazier says, ‘Will you please write it on the message …' He then adds, through gritted teeth, ‘Don't forget I told you.'
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With ponderous tread, Lieutenant-Colonel Brazier trudges back to the frontline, where a small posse of officers and men await the decision, one that they know is a matter of life or death …

Their own.

‘I am sorry, boys,' Brazier tells them heavily, upon arriving, ‘but the order is to go.'
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The order is to go …

The order is to go …

And orders are orders.

They are the 10th Light Horse Regiment, you see? These are the orders they have been given to follow, and follow them they must. And they know what it means, all right.

Down in the frontline of the third group to charge, Trooper Harold Rush – a softly spoken farmer from Western Australia, just 23 years old – has fixed his bayonet, steeled himself and put one foot on the firing step ready to spring forward at the whistle. He has time for one last thing. Turning to his mate beside him, he offers his hand and says, ‘Good-bye cobber, God bless you.'
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His cobber takes his hand, and then the two turn, put their feet on the firing step, and start to pray together.
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Other men are equally looking each other in the eyes, embracing, shaking hands and wishing each other all the best. ‘For bravery,' Brazier would record, ‘each line was braver than that which went before. Death stared them in the face and not a man wavered.'
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Though Major Tom Todd will be in overall charge of this third wave, out on the right Hugo Throssell steadies and readies, addressing his own men. ‘Boys. I am to lead you in a charge. It is the first time I have ever done such a thing, and if any man among you has any misgiving he may go with someone more experienced.'
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No one makes the slightest move. If Throssell is to lead them, not a man among them can ask for better than that.

They, too, ready themselves, with Lance-Corporal Sid Ferrier, a 36-year-old building contractor from Western Australia, placing himself right beside Throssell. This time, they will have to climb even more over the parapets, as there is the additional height of an entire layer of dead Australian soldiers that lies before them.

It is 4.45 am.

Now, from the Turkish lines, comes a strange …
pleading …
call.

‘
Dur! Dur! Dur!
'
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(Stop! Stop! Stop! Do not keep running into our guns, slaughtering yourselves.)

Too late. The whistle blows, and with a cheer for the ages … for all eternity … the vast wave of Australian humanity rolls out, eager to crash upon the enemy trenches, even as the five Turkish Maxim machine-guns start chattering at the oncoming wave, and some 500 Turkish soldiers all around keep loading again and again the five-bullet magazines into their Mausers and firing into the throng. They just cannot miss.