Leon Uris (53 page)

“The gaffer squad now takes on a very key position in the coming operations. You men will be dealing head-on with staff officers, battalion and company commanders, etcetera, etcetera. Commensurate with your duties and so that you will not be bullied about by rank, I have been authorized to issue field commissions. Goodwood, Yurlob, Tarbox, and Landers—you are now subalterns…second lieutenants.”

The men that greeted the first news with such noise, greeted this with drop-jawed, stunned silence. When it sank in, they began to laugh and punch one another in the shoulders.

“Dr. Pearlman, as the vet of the Anzac Expeditionary Forces, you are commissioned as a first lieutenant.”

“But how? I don’t officially exist!”

“You are on detached duty from the Czar’s Army. Russia is an ally.”

“Lieutenant Pearlman?”

“Lieutenant Pearlman?”

“Hey, Lieutenant Pearlman.”

“This puts us all on a first-name basis,” Christopher said. “Landers…Rory, you’re off to Lemnos in twenty-four hours. Lieutenant Modi, you’re off on a buying mission, at once. I’ll explain in a moment. Tarbox and Goodwood will work with Jeremy on the logistics of breaking down the battalion and getting it moved. Jiggle things around to get maximum speed and efficiency.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Yurlob.”

“Sir.”

“You’re in charge of all mule gear. Pick a work party from B Company.”

He turned to Rory again. “You are to take a platoon from A
Company to Lemnos and fence the paddocks, and what support buildings will be needed, blacksmith shop, medical shack, etcetera, etcetera. At the same time you will scout out the terrain of Lemnos and track out a three to five mile training run. Your orders state that the commanding officer on Lemnos is to give you top priority. After we break here, make up a rough plan of what you’ll need and bring it to my office.”

“I’ve got it.”

“Doctor Modi. We have commandeered a cattle boat and have it on hold at Alexandria. You will locate four to five hundred tiptop mules and open up sources to keep reinforcements coming, as required. Get the first batch to Lemnos, yesterday.”

“Questions, Major Chris. I am utterly beyond certain that I can come up with a couple hundred mules at once.”

“Lord, where?”

“Cyprus. The Cyprus mules are renowned. They are even in Shakespeare.”

“You don’t say? Which play would that be?”

“
Othello
.”

“Bully. Well, we are in good fortune. Cyprus has been annexed and is directly under control of British forces.”

“I know the mule dealers from my years in Palestine. Because of the urgency, I need a few things.”

“Shoot.”

“Greeks are Greeks. I’ll have to bargain hard. If I know I can pay a premium, they will sell me all the mules we need and their daughters as well.”

Chris stopped to consider. It flashed through his head that he didn’t quite trust the Jew and was hesitant to give him carte blanche. What the hell. One had to trust.

“Can you work around the traders?”

“You don’t change two thousand years of doing business. If a dealer can be worked with a bribe, then let him get us the mules. He’ll find them in a minute.”

“Rather hate doing business that way, but, considering
the circumstances, pay what you must and get them to Lemnos.”

“Good,” Modi said. “In that case I would like to take the best negotiator with me, a man from the Zion Mule Corps. He speaks Greek. I have been on many trips with him. Cyprus has Greeks, Turks, and Arabs. He knows, first rate, how to deal with them.”

“That sounds reasonable. What is this chap’s name.”

“Ben Gurion. David Ben Gurion. No rank like the rest of the Zion Mules.”

“Odd name, what?”

“It is an ancient Hebrew name. Many Zionist settlers changed to such names. And, one more thing. I need Yurlob to come with me. I can verify the health and physical condition of the mules. However, I must have an expert to make judgments on habits and temperament. Even some of the best mules do not train well. I must have a man with the perfect eye.”

“It’s a good suggestion,” Rory said.

“All right, then, it’s the two of you…and this Ben…something fellow.”

“Believe me,” Yurlob said in agreement, “they will not sell us any three-legged mules.”

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Among the precious gifts my beloved uncle, Conor Larkin, bestowed upon me was knowing the luxury of bending my face into an open book and sopping up its pages until my eyes were more red than white.

Because of this, I have been able to attain a measure of coherent thought when I put words on paper. Conor taught me that the most ancient of human compulsions, one that sets man apart from all other creatures, is an insatiable desire to leave behind him the story of his times, from drawings on cave walls to the masterpieces of literature and, in this case, one soldier’s memory of a battle that should never have taken place.

This urge to remember began the day the
Wagga Wagga
entered the ship-filled port of Mudros on the Greek Aegean island of Lemnos.

Some of the campaign returns to me in snatches. Some of the things I heard or learned. All is branded onto my soul. Events become intertwined, as the dead bodies of Turks and Anzacs lay intertwined in on-man’s-land, each man’s bayonet having done its stick and then they die together, falling to their knees, then sleeping forever in one another’s arms.

Lemnos, a browned-out outcrop of some ancient volcano, arose from the sea sixty miles from Gallipoli and was to be our expedition’s forward base.

In the Mudros harbor and on its beaches we went on constant maneuvers trying to refine the clunky business of getting down the ship’s rope ladders and into landing boats, then rowing onto the beach.

The Seventh Light Horse was fortunate to get in three solid weeks of hard training with Janets and jacks. Yurlob and Modi had purchased well. Like the final rehearsal of a scattered enterprise, everything fell into place at Mudros.

In the third week of April of 1915 we reboarded the
Wagga Wagga
feeling dreadful about Yurlob Singh’s orders to remain on Lemnos, assigned to train new packers and mules and send them on to us as our losses required.

Yurlob Singh broke his life-long military posture and fell weeping into Modi’s arms as we boarded ship. He had been the nonperson of the gaffers until the incident at the Hotel Aida. We had no realization of the deep, abiding bonds we had made. We now knew this venture would mean camaraderie for life. Well, that’s longer than many marriages.

A magnificent armada of more than a hundred ships, led by a half-dozen powerful dreadnoughts, sailed forth resolutely to cross the sixty miles of sea to the Gallipoli Peninsula.

General Darlington’s message was read to us, a rather schoolboyish charge, I thought.

Promoted to Lieutenant General, Sir Llewelyn Brodhead, the Anzac commander was a bit less zippy. He related his longstanding fondness for Australians and New Zealanders and vowed he considered us equal to the task ahead.

We received a third message from Major General Sir Alexander Godley, who commanded the New Zealand forces but had remained an enigma to us. Story goes that he was an Anglo-Irish opportunist leftover from the Boer War and hired by the New Zealand government to build up our armed forces. The glimpses I got of him conveyed something like an ice sculpture.

Johnny, Chester, and myself went into the wardroom a bit smugly for the officers’ briefing. Maps were passed out and a larger one rolled down over a blackboard.

Gallipoli.

There was a smattering of laughter and applause.

“I see that no one here seems surprised,” Major Chris said, continually testing his new penchant for humor. “First, the overall scheme. A French division, mostly North African colonials, Moroccans and such, will land on the eastern, or Asian, side of the straits at Kum Kale. This is the site of ancient Troy, Homer, and the
Odyssey
and all that rot crammed into us by our wicked schoolmasters. There is not much of a Turkish military presence in the entire Anatolian province and not much is anticipated in the way of Turkish counteractivity. So, the French will hold open their half of the door.

“What is considered the main invasion thrust will take place at Cape Helles, here at the tip of the peninsula. A number of British brigades will land at Helles, principally to create a diversion for the British Twenty-ninth Division, which will drive inland up to this hill here, Achi Baba. So far so good?”

Everyone nodded.

“Anzacs,” Chris went on. “As the British Twenty-ninth hits Cape Helles, the Aussies will simultaneously land ten miles north above this land protrusion called Gaba Tepe. Our site has been designated as Brighton Beach. As you can see, the Aussies will be landing in soft, gently rising hilly terrain.”

“Resistance?” someone asked.

“Not too much, we think. The Turks will concentrate on Cape Helles and we believe our landing ten miles away is not going to give them time to organize. Considering everything, the Anzac should be on the Plain of Maidos, here, within an hour of landing. From there it should be clear sailing to drive to the Dardanelles just above the Narrows, keeping Turkish reinforcements from reaching Cape Helles.

“Second day,” Chris went on. “The New Zealand Brigades, the Aucklands, Otagos, Wellingtons, will land at Brighton Beach and move up alongside the Aussie units in their push across the peninsula. Landers, Jeremy, Goodwood, Tarbox, and Subaltern Richards and your platoon will split into two boats. Jeremy, you will take half the platoon in your boat along with half the barbed wire. Unload and secure the supplies on the beach.

“Tarbox,”

“Sir.”

“You’ll be in the second boat with Landers and Goodwood. You are to take over as beach master using the other half of the platoon. The Anzac assault troops will be carrying three to five days of ammunition, food, and water. New supplies will be landing right behind you. The beach will belong to you and Jeremy, get it organized.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Landers and Goodwood. Second wave, second day. You two find us our paddock area, stake it out, get back to the beach, and have Jeremy bring the platoon up to lay out barbed wire perimeters. Obviously, we want as much
cover as we can for the paddock, and get it as close to the beach as is safely possible.

“I will land late on day two or early on day three and set up battalion headquarters. The mule barges will land on day five. Questions, gentlemen?”

“The British Twenty-ninth drives up from Cape Helles, while we drive across the peninsula,” I said. “I take it we hook up.”

“Yes, here, below Chunuk Bair Plateau. Chunuk Bair is the key bastion on Gallipoli. We hope to consolidate our forces by the sixth or seventh day, organize an attack, and take Chunuk Bair Plateau, say, on the eighth or ninth day. Once that strongpoint falls, the peninsula is ours and the way to Constantinople is open. So, in fact, the Anzac is to act as a diversion, a thorn in the Turk’s side.”

“What is north of Brighton Beach?” the Company C Captain asked. “The map is terribly vague.”

“I agree we haven’t gotten the best of intelligence. We’ve also tried to photograph from aircraft. I have a set of pictures here but find them hard to understand. I can say this much. North of Brighton Beach and inland to Chunuk Bair is very difficult terrain-ravines, gullies, cliffs, etcetera, etcetera. This is where the bulk of the Turkish defenses are expected. That is precisely why we are landing south, in relatively flat ground, to catch the Turks by surprise.”

There were many questions, and most answers fell into the “We don’t know for certain,” “Our best estimates,” “We feel confident.” How many Turks? Perhaps four divisions. They are not considered to be first-rate troops.

I personally did not like the underestimation of the Turks. Maybe that’s what they always say of one’s enemy before battle. The Turks were experienced. Except for a few of our units, we were all untried, green, raw, without a day of combat. The Turks would be fighting on Turkish soil. They were up there and we would be down here and
no matter…sooner or later Chunuk Bair plateau had to be taken.

Maybe I worry too damned much, I don’t know. I used to drive the Squire crazy with my mania for detail.

When I finally got to stretch out and think, the unreality of what we are about to do hit me. It would be easy enough for a Frenchman to say why he was in a trench on the Western Front, but why were people going wild with war fever in Auckland and Sydney? It was because of the Empire that we became enemies of the Turks, yet our kinship with Empire, our love of King, was mild stuff.

The big adventure, that’s the ticket. Get off our wee islands and see the big world. There was a war to go to, so why not go while the going is good.

Georgia had had enough of war. She knew war. We only imagined war. Maybe you go to war just because it’s there to go to and you haven’t the slightest idea what it’s really all about.

One thing was for certain. All of us—Jeremy, Johnny, Chester—had to show one another that we were capable of what might come. This became an ultimate goal—to come through clean for your mates. That’s the mesh that makes the machine go, belief in the man on your right and your left.

Men had been caught up in this queer phenomenon in this very place three thousand years ago or some such. An armada launched by the face of a woman—but who owned the Trojan horse this time, us or the Turks?

I went over my coming day’s work one more time. Maybe I was overdoing it, but I put a pair of semaphore flags and a Very pistol and a pair of flares in my combat pack. Just a hunch that if I’m out alone scouting an area, I want the folks on the beach to know where I am. I felt good about Johnny and Jeremy, real good. I was a little worried about Chester. Chester had done everything we’d
asked of him and a hell of a lot more, but something about him was so fragile. I’d get him through the first day and he’d be fine. I promised myself not to let him panic….

I’m sleepy…and she is lying on the bed in the ship’s cabin, all so white and rounded and the green silk shining and weaving in and out of her body, between her legs…. How’s that now? With all that’s on my mind, there’s a stirring for her between my legs. Jesus, do you know how I loved you, Georgia. Oh Lord, why can I never tell you?

It seemed as though I had just closed my eyes when a predawn burst shook the
Wagga Wagga
. We rushed outside to see the warships cannonading. Orange bursts and flames were visible several miles off.

The light of day was so inundated with smoke from the gunfire we could not see the land.

The bos’n’s whistle pierced the din.

“First wave assemble!”

A large lighter pulled up shipside. Reels of barbed wire, machine-gun ammo, water cans, were lowered and set in the boat.

Major Chris pulled us back away from the railing.

“The Aussies hit heavy resistance yesterday,” he said.

“We’re pushing up our landing schedule. The Otagos and Wellingtons will hit shore at 0515. Move your time up to 0545.”

“How far inland are our people?”

“Don’t know. Keep your men as near to the beach as you can. Set up your own perimeter. Landers, Goodwood, you’d better take a light machine-gun squad with you when you go scouting. See you later.”

“All right,” Jeremy called twenty yards down the deck, “over the side.”

“Webbing open! If anything falls off you, let it go.”

My lighter signaled they had our gear stowed.

“Let’s go, lads!” I called.

Oh Jesus! Two steps down the ladder I got my first true view of the water. It was foaming from shrapnel and bullets! The chop of the water slammed our lighter against the side of the
Wagga Wagga.
The man below me fell from the ladder and was crushed between the boat and the ship.

“Keep those fucking lines tight against the ship!”

I jumped into the boat, and began pulling men into the lighter and shoving them into their places. Johnny Tarbox was in last. We let go of the ropes and a wave hurled us away from the ship.

As the
Wagga Wagga
did a sweeping turn and retreated to rendezvous with the other troopships, a dozen destroyers bore down on us and tossed lines to our lighters, then maneuvered so that we were behind them. Our destroyer, HMS
Greenport,
was already towing a pair of pontoon piers. With a group of lighters hooked onto her stern, the
Greenport
waited for the remaining destroyers to ready their tows, and we all moved in a deliberate line for the shore.

The wake from the destroyers, the shells, and a sea gone angry rolled and pitched us without mercy. Vomiting broke out.

“Puke between your legs!”

Suddenly our line moved underneath the curtain of smoke and there she was, Gallipoli! My first reaction was, it was like New Zealand in a drought season. Rolling hills and…

Our boat went into shock as everybody dove to the bottom. As we inched toward land the racket grew. Now the
Greenport
and other destroyers dropped anchor and began slamming shells into the hills.

We needed to transfer one more time, from the lighters into lifeboat-size skiffs. Fortunately the lighter was higher than the boats and we could hurl ourselves over.

Johnny pointed. “That’s the first wave, Rory. The Otagos. They’re ashore!”

I saw Subaltern Richards, our platoon commander, working his way to the back of our boat. Shrapnel had torn off his arm and part of his shoulder. How in the hell he remained conscious I don’t know. There was no place to put a tourniquet on him. He’d be gone in a few minutes.

“Platoon Serjeant Amberson has my command,” he said, and he went down fast, twitched, screamed, and was still.

“Take off his pips, half his identification tag. Get his wallet to send home,” Johnny said in utter calm.

Chester did what Johnny ordered as I called for Platoon Serjeant Amberson to show his hand. He signaled back that he was in control up front.