The Anzac Book

By C. E. W. Bean

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Title: The Anzac Book

Author: Various

Release Date: April 2, 2023 [eBook #70441]

Language: English

Produced by: Bob Taylor, Tim Lindell and the Online Distributed
             Proofreading Team at (This file was
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  Transcriber’s Note
  Italic text displayed as: _italic_
  Bold text displayed as: =bold=

The Anzac Book

[Illustration: “The Australian and New Zealand troops have indeed
proved themselves worthy sons of the Empire.”


  Anzac Book

  Written and Illustrated in Gallipoli by
  The Men of Anzac

  _For the benefit of Patriotic Funds
  connected with the
  A. & N. Z. A. C._

  Cassell and Company, Ltd
  London, New York, Toronto and Melbourne

  The Copyright in all
  the Contributions, both
  pictures and writings,
  contained in THE
  strictly reserved to the



  INTRODUCTION. BY LIEUT.-GEN. SIR W. R. BIRDWOOD                   ix

  EDITOR’S NOTE                                                   xiii

  (A. R. PERRY, 10th Batt. A.I.F.)                                   1


  AN AUSTRALIAN HOME IN 1930. BY “SOLDIEROO” (2nd Field Co., Aust.
  Engrs.)                                                            9

  NON NOBIS. BY C. E. W. B.                                         11

  THE ÆGEAN WIND. BY H. B. K.                                       14

  OUR FATHERS. BY CAPT. JAMES SPRENT, A.M.C. (3rd Field Amb.)       14

  GLIMPSES OF ANZAC. BY HECTOR DINNING (Aust. A.S.C.)               17

  PARABLES OF ANZAC.                                                23

  THE YARNS THAT ABDUL TELLS. BY A. P. M.                           24

  THE GRAVES OF GALLIPOLI. BY L. L.                                 25

  TO A LYRE-BIRD. BY H. J. A. (8th Batt. 2nd Infantry Brigade)      26

  THE NEVER-ENDING CHASE. BY AM. PARK                               30

  ANZAC DIALOGUES. BY N. ASH                                        31

  FROM QUINN’S POST. BY PTE. V. N. HOPKINS, A.M.C.                  32

  THE HAPPY WARRIOR. BY M. R.                                       33

  HOW I SHALL DIE. BY PTE. CHARLES LOWRY (9th Aust. Batt.)          34

  BEACHY. BY TED COLLES (3rd L.H. Field Amb.)                       35

  Yeomanry)                                                         41

  FLIES AND FLEAS. BY A. CARRUTHERS (3rd Aust. Field Amb.)          44


  1. WALLABY JOE. BY W. R. C. (8th Aust. L.H.)                      45

  2. THE DAG. BY E. A. M. W.                                        47

  3. BOBBIE OF THE NEW ARMY. BY “TENTMATE” (11th London Regt.)      49

  THE INDIAN MULE CORPS. BY B. R.                                   50

  HILL 60. BY C. J. N.                                              50

  JENNY. BY LANCE-CORP. F. C. DUNSTAN (B Depot, 6th A.A.S.C.)       53

  MARCHING SONG. BY C. J. N.                                        54

  FURPHY. BY Q. E. D.                                               56

  FROM MY TRENCH. BY CORP. COMUS (2nd Batt. A.I.F.)                 57

  ABDUL. BY C. E. W. B.                                             58


  OUR FRIEND THE ENEMY. BY H. E. W.                                 60

  ARMY BISCUITS. BY O. E. BURTON, N.Z.M.C.                          61

  THE LOST POEM. BY R. A. L. (1st Aust. Stat. Hosp.)                65

  A LITTLE SPRIG OF WATTLE. BY A. H. SCOTT (4th Battery, A.F.A.)    67

  THE TRUE STORY OF SAPPHO’S DEATH. BY M. R.                        68

  (11th Aust. A.S.C.).                                              68

  THE UNBURIED. BY M. R. (N.Z. Headquarters)                        69


  ANZACS. BY EDGAR WALLACE                                          95

  TO MY BATH. BY H. H. U. (Northamptonshire Regt.)                  96

  ANZAC LIMERICKS. BY C. D. MC.                                     96

  HOW I WON THE V.C. BY “CROSSCUT” (16th Batt. A.I.F.)              98

  ICY. BY E. A. M. W.                                              102

  THE TROJAN WAR, 1915. BY J. WAREHAM (1st Aust. Field Amb.)       104

  THE PRICE. BY CORP. COMUS (2nd Batt. A.I.F.)                     104

  KILLED IN ACTION. BY HARRY MCCANN (Headquarters, 4th Aust. Light
  Horse)                                                           105

  A GREY DAY IN GALLIPOLI. BY N. ASH (11th A.A.S.C.)               106

  MY ANZAC HOME. BY CORP. GEORGE L. SMITH (24th Sanitary Sect.,
  R.A.M.C.T.)                                                      107

  WHAT FRANK THOUGHT. BY A. J. BOYD (A.N.Z.A.C.)                   108

  ARCADIA. BY BOMBARDIER H. E. SHELL (7th Battery, A.F.A.)         110

  THE CAVEMAN. BY J. M. COLLINS (9th Batt.)                        113

  AN ANZAC ALPHABET. BY J. W. S. HENDERSON (R.G.A.)                115

  THE KAISER TO HIS SECRETARY. BY H. B. C.                         119

  (21st Aust. Batt.)                                               122

  SENSE OR ——? BY C. D. MC. (SERGT.)                               123


  POSSIES. BY “BEN TELBOW”                                         125

  MR. AEROPLANE. BY H. G. GARLAND (16th Aust. Batt.)               126


  1. MAHOMED—AND AUSTRALIA. BY C.                                  127

  2. ANZAC IN ALEX. BY L. J. IVORY (4th Howitzer Battery,
  N.Z.F.A.)                                                        128

  GREY SMOKE. BY R. G. N. (11th Aust. A.S.C.)                      131


  “DINKUM OIL”                                                     134


  1. THE FLOOD. BY “GENESIS GALLIPOLI”                             135

  2. THE BOOK OF JOBS. BY W. R. WISHART (No. 1 Aust. Stat.
  Hosp., Anzac)                                                    136

  ALCORN (No. 1 Aust. Stat. Hosp.)                                 138

  THE SILENCE. BY PTE. R. J. GODFREY (7th Aust. Field Amb.)        141

  THE GROWL. BY E. M. SMITH (27th Batt.)                           142

  MY LADY NICOTINE. BY H. G. GARLAND                               142

  THE RAID ON LONDON. BY “PRIVATE PAT RIOT”                        143

  SING!                                                            145

  Indian Mtn. Battery)                                             146

  TO SARI BAIR. BY “BEN TELBOW” (10th Aust. Batt.)                 148


  WHEN IT’S ALL OVER.... BY HARRY MCCANN (4th A.L.H)               151


  1. THE LANDING                                                   152

  2. THE BATTLES OF AUGUST                                         152

  “SOUTHLAND”                                                      153

  4. LORD KITCHENER’S MESSAGE                                      153


  6. THE EVACUATION OF ANZAC                                       154

  7. TELEGRAMS                                                     156

  FOUR DESIGNS FOR “THE ANZAC MAGAZINE” COVER                      159

  CORRESPONDENCE                                                   161

  ANZAC FASHIONS: SUMMER                                           162

  ”     ”         WINTER                                           163

  ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS                                        164

  ADVERTISEMENTS                                                   165


  A.N.Z.A.C. BY W. OTHO HEWETT. (_Colour_)              _Frontispiece_

                                                           FACING PAGE

  LIEUT.-GEN. SIR W. R. BIRDWOOD                                     x

  (_Colour_)                                                        22

  “KITCH.” BY C. LEYSHON-WHITE. (_Colour_)                          32

  ABDUL. BY TED COLLES. (_Colour_)                                  58

  ANZAC SKETCHES. BY DAVID BARKER. (_Colour_)                       66

  SOMETHING TO REMEMBER US BY. BY TED COLLES. (_Colour_)            70


  THE NEW STAR. BY TED COLLES, AFTER F. J. LEIGH. (_Colour_)        96

  THE SILVER LINING. BY C. E. W. BEAN. (_Colour_)                  122


  “APRICOT AGAIN!” BY DAVID BARKER. (_Colour_)                     142

  EACH ONE DOING HIS BIT. BY W. OTHO HEWETT. (_Colour_)            164



It is my privilege to have been asked to write an Introduction
for THE ANZAC BOOK, and to convey the cordial thanks of all the
inhabitants of our little township here to those who have so kindly
given us the free use of their brains and hands in writing and
illustrating this book in a way which does as much credit to them as
the fighting here has done to the Force. We all hope that readers of
our book will agree in this, while those who are more critical will
perhaps remember the circumstances under which the contributions have
been prepared, in small dug-outs, with shells and bullets frequently
whistling overhead.

It may be of interest to readers to hear the origin of the word

When I took over the command of the Australian and New Zealand Army
Corps in Egypt a year ago, I was asked to select a telegraphic code
address for my Army Corps, and then adopted the word “Anzac.” Later
on, when we had effected our landing here in April last, I was asked
by General Headquarters to suggest a name for the beach where we had
made good our first precarious footing, and then asked that this
might be recorded as “Anzac Cove”—a name which the bravery of our men
has now made historical, while it will remain a geographical landmark
for all time.

Our eight months at “Anzac” cannot help stamping on the memory
of every one of us days of trial and anxiety, hopes, and perhaps
occasional fears, rejoicings at success, and sorrow—very deep and
sincere—for many a good comrade whom we can never see again.

I firmly believe, though, it has made better men of every one of us,
for we have all had to look death straight in the face so often, that
the greater realities of life must have been impressed on all of us
in a way which has never before been possible. Bitter as has been my
experience in losing many a good friend, I, personally, shall always
look back on our days together at “Anzac” as a time never to be
forgotten, for during it I hope I have made many fast friends in all
ranks, whose friendship is all the more valuable because it has been
acquired in circumstances of stress and often danger, when a man’s
real self is shown.

In days to come I hope that this book will call to the minds of most
of us incidents which, though they may then seem small, probably
loomed very large before us at the time, and the thought of which
will bring to mind many a good comrade—not only on land, but on the
sea. From the day we were put ashore by Rear-Admiral Thursby’s
squadron up till now we have had the vigilant ships of His Majesty’s
Navy watching night and day, in all weathers, for any opportunity
to help us. We will all of us look back in years to come on _Queen
Elizabeth_, _Prince of Wales_, _London_, _Triumph_, _Bacchante_,
_Grafton_, _Endymion_, as well as such sleuth-hounds of the ocean
as _Colne_, _Chelmer_, _Pincher_, _Rattlesnake_, _Mosquito_, and
many others, as our best of friends, and will think of them, their
officers and ship’s company, as the truest of comrades, with whom it
has been a privilege to serve, and as the best of representatives of
the Great Fleet and Service which carries with honour and ensures
respect for the British flag to the uttermost parts of the earth.

Boys! Hats off to the British Navy.

It may be that, in thinking of old “Anzac” days, the words of the
Harrow school-song will spring to one’s mind:

    “Forty years on, growing older and older,
      Shorter in wind, as in memory long,
    Feeble of foot, and rheumatic of shoulder,
      What will it help you that once you were strong!”

But it has indeed helped us all to have been with strong men at
“Anzac,” and whatever the future may have in store, I, personally,
shall always regard the time I have been privileged to be a comrade
of the brave and strong men from Australia and New Zealand, who have
served alongside of me, as one of the greatest privileges that could
be conferred on any man, and of which I shall be prouder to the end
of my days than any honour which can be given me.

No words of mine could ever convey to readers at their firesides in
Australia, New Zealand and the Old Country, one-half of what all
their boys have been through, nor is my poor pen capable of telling
them of the never-failing courage, determination and cheerfulness of
those who have so willingly fought and given their lives for their
King and country’s sake. Their deeds are known to the Empire, and
can never be forgotten, while if any copy of this little book should
happen to survive to fall into the hands of our children, or our
children’s children, it will serve to show them to some extent what
their fathers have done for the Empire, and indeed for civilisation,
in days gone by.

I sincerely hope that every one of my old comrades may meet with all
the good fortune his work here has deserved, and live to a ripe old
age, with happiness, and be occasionally reminded of old times by a
glance at THE ANZAC BOOK.


  W R Birdwood (signature)]

  _December 19, 1915_.


Has been the soul of Anzac. Not for one single day has he ever
quitted his post. Cheery and full of human sympathy, he has spent
many hours of each twenty-four inspiring the defenders of the front
trenches, and if he does not know every soldier in his force, at
least every soldier in the force believes he is known to his chief.”

  _Sir Ian Hamilton’s dispatch._]


This book of Anzac was produced in the lines at Anzac on Gallipoli in
the closing weeks of 1915. Practically every word in it was written
and every line drawn beneath the shelter of a waterproof sheet or of
a roof of sandbags—either in the trenches or, at most, well within
the range of the oldest Turkish rifle, and under daily visitations
from the smallest Turkish field-piece. Day and night, during the
whole process of its composition, the crack of the Mauser bullets
overhead never ceased. At least one good soldier that we know of, who
was preparing a contribution for these pages, met his death while the
work was still unfinished.

THE ANZAC BOOK was to have been a New Year Magazine to help this
little British Australasian fraternity in Turkey to while away
the long winter in the trenches. The idea originated with Major
S. S. Butler, of the A.N.Z.A.C. Staff. On his initiative and that
of Lieutenant H. E. Woods a small committee was formed to father
the magazine. A notice was circulated on November 14th calling for
contributions from the whole population of Anzac. Any profit was to
go to patriotic funds for the benefit of the Army Corps.

Between November 15th and December 8th, when the time for the sending
in of contributions closed, THE ANZAC BOOK was produced. As drawings
and paintings began to come in, disclosing the whereabouts of some
of the talent which existed in Anzac, a small staff of artists
was collected in order to produce head- and tail-pieces and a few
illustrations; and a dug-out overlooking Anzac Cove became the office
of the only book ever likely to be produced in Gallipoli.

It was after the contributions had been finally sent in, and when the
work of editing was in full swing, that there came upon most of us
from the sky the news that Anzac was to be evacuated. Such finishing
touches as remained to be added after December 19th were given to
the work in Imbros. The date for the publication was necessarily
delayed. And it was realised by everyone that this production, which
was to have been a mere pastime, had now become a hundred times more
precious as a souvenir. Certainly no book has ever been produced
under these conditions before.

Except for this modification in the scheme of its production, THE
ANZAC BOOK remains to-day exactly the same as when it was planned
for the Australian and New Zealand Army Corps still clinging to the
familiar holly-clothed sides of Sari Bair.

The three weeks during which this book was being produced will be
remembered by the men of Anzac as being the period during which
we were visited by the two fiercest storms which descended upon
the Peninsula. During the afternoon of November 17th the wind from
the south-west gradually increased to more than half a gale, and
brought with it, after dark, a most torrential thunderstorm. A day
or two later this subsided, leaving a dishevelled Anzac. But the
wind swung slowly round to the north, and by November 27th it was
blowing a northerly blizzard; and the next day five out of every six
Australians, for the first time in their lives, woke to find a white
countryside and the snow falling. How deeply that snow impressed them
can be seen in these pages—for dust, heat and flies were much more
typical of Gallipoli.

The book was composed from first to last in the full prospect of
Christmas at Anzac, and it remains a record, perhaps, all the more
interesting on that account. The Printing Section of the Royal
Engineers, especially Lieutenant Tuck and Corporal Ashwin, and
Lieutenant G. L. Thomson, R.N.A.S., and certain Naval Officers helped
us with some drawing-paper, ink and paints, and the Photographic
Section with some excellent panoramas; but for the rest, the
contributors had to work with such materials as Anzac contained:
iodine brushes, red and blue pencils, and such approach to white
paper as could be produced from each battalion’s stationery.

The response to the committee’s request for contributions was
enormous, and in consequence the editors have been able to use
only portions, even if they be a half or a quarter, of the longer
articles and stories submitted to them—but they have done this
without hesitation, rather than reject the articles altogether.
The competitions for certain contributions resulted as follows:
COVER—Private D. Barker, _5th Australian Field Ambulance_;
DRAWING—Trooper W. O. Hewett, _9th Australian Light Horse_; DRAWING
(_Comic_)—Private C. Leyshon-White, _6th Australian Field Ambulance_;
PROSE SKETCH—H. Dinning, _9th Co., Australian A.S.C._; PROSE
(_Humorous_)—Second-Lieutenant J. E. G. Stevenson, _2nd Field Co.,
Australian Engineers_; VERSES—Captain James Sprent, _3rd Australian
Field Ambulance_; VERSES (_Humorous_)—T. H. Wilson, _A Co., 16th
Battalion A.I.F._ The greater number of the contributors were private
soldiers in the Army Corps. The sole “outside” contribution is Mr.
Edgar Wallace’s poetic tribute to the Australian and New Zealand
Force, which is included in these pages with the consent of the

The thanks of those particularly concerned in the production are
especially due to General Birdwood, for his close and constant
interest; to Brigadier-General C. B. B. White, who, though at the
time burdened with most anxious duties, never failed to give some of
his few spare moments to the solving of difficulties incidental to
this publication; to the Commonwealth authorities and the Publicity
Department in London; and particularly to Mr. H. C. Smart, for his
untiring assistance, invaluable advice, and for the help of his
outstanding ingenuity in organisation, and of the splendid business
system and abundant facilities which he has created in the Australian
Military Office in London; to the War Office and the Admiralty, and
the Central News for permission to use valuable photographs; and
to many others, both in the A. and N.Z. Army Corps and outside it,
who have given their best help to make this book a success. For
the Staff—C. E. W. Bean, editor; Privates F. Crozier, T. Colles,
D. Barker, W. O. Hewett, C. Leyshon-White, artists; A. W. Bazley,
clerk—the work has been a labour of love for which only they realise
how little thanks they deserve.


  _December 29, 1915_.

[Illustration: The Ideal

And the Real.]




The Anzac Book


_By a Man of the Tenth_

Come on, lads, have a good, hot supper—there’s business doing.” So
spoke No. 10 Platoon Sergeant of the 10th Australian Battalion to his
men, lying about in all sorts of odd corners aboard the battleship
_Prince of Wales_, in the first hour of the morning of April 25th,
1915. The ship, or her company, had provided a hot stew of bully
beef, and the lads set to and took what proved, alas to many, their
last real meal together. They laugh and joke as though picnicking.
Then a voice: “Fall in!” comes ringing down the ladderway from the
deck above. The boys swing on their heavy equipment, grasp their
rifles, silently make their way on deck, and stand in grim black
masses. All lights are out, and only harsh, low commands break the
silence. “This way No. 9—No. 10—C Company.” Almost blindly we grope
our way to the ladder leading to the huge barge below, which is
already half full of silent, grim men, who seem to realise that at
last, after eight months of hard, solid training in Australia, Egypt
and Lemnos Island, they are now to be called upon to carry out the
object of it all.

“Full up, sir,” whispers the midshipman in the barge.

“Cast off and drift astern,” says the ship’s officer in charge of
the embarkation. Slowly we drift astern, until the boat stops with
a jerk, and twang goes the hawser that couples the boats and barges
together. Silently the boats are filled with men, and silently drop
astern of the big ship, until, all being filled, the order is given
to the small steamboats: “Full steam ahead.” Away we go, racing and
bounding, dipping and rolling, now in a straight line, now in a
half-circle, on through the night.

The moon has just about sunk below the horizon. Looking back, we can
see the battleships coming on slowly in our rear, ready to cover our
attack. All at once our pinnace gives a great start forward, and away
we go for land just discernible one hundred yards away on our left.

[Illustration: —North flank—

Suvla from Anzac.]

Then—crack-crack! ping-ping! zip-zip! Trenches full of rifles upon
the shore and surrounding hills open on us, and machine-guns,
hidden in gullies or redoubts, increase the murderous hail. Oars
are splintered, boats are perforated. A sharp moan, a low gurgling
cry, tells of a comrade hit. Boats ground in four or five feet of
water owing to the human weight contained in them. We scramble out,
struggle to the shore, and, rushing across the beach, take cover
under a low sandbank.

“Here, take off my pack, and I’ll take off yours.” We help one
another to lift the heavy, water-soaked packs off. “Hurry up, there,”
says our sergeant. “Fix bayonets.” Click! and the bayonets are fixed.
“Forward!” And away we scramble up the hills in our front. Up, up we
go, stumbling in holes and ruts. With a ringing cheer we charge the
steep hill, pulling ourselves up by roots and branches of trees; at
times digging our bayonets into the ground, and pushing ourselves up
to a foothold, until, topping the hill, we found the enemy had made
themselves very scarce. What had caused them to fly from a position
from which they should have driven us back into the sea every time?
A few scattered Turks showing in the distance we instantly fired on.
Some fell to rise no more; others fell wounded and, crawling into the
low bushes, sniped our lads as they went past. There were snipers
in plenty, cunningly hidden in the hearts of low green shrubs. They
accounted for a lot of our boys in the first few days, but gradually
were rooted out. Over the hill we dashed, and down into what is
now called “Shrapnel Gully,” and up the other hillside, until, on
reaching the top, we found that some of the lads of the 3rd Brigade
had commenced to dig in. We skirted round to the plateau at the head
of the gully, and took up our line of defence.

As soon as it was light enough to see, the guns on Gaba Tepe, on our
right, and two batteries away on our left opened up a murderous hail
of shrapnel on our landing parties. The battleships and cruisers were
continuously covering the landing of troops, broadsides going into
the batteries situated in tunnels in the distant hillside. All this
while the seamen from the different ships were gallantly rowing and
managing the boats carrying the landing parties. Not one man that is
left of the original brigade will hear a word against our gallant
seamen. England may well be proud of them, and all true Australians
are proud to call them comrades.

[Illustration: South Flank—

Gaba Tepe from Anzac.]

Se-ee-e-e ... bang ... swish! The front firing line was now being
baptised by its first shrapnel. Zir-zir ... zip-zip! Machine-guns,
situated on each front, flank and centre, opened on our front line.
Thousands of bullets began to fly round and over us, sometimes barely
missing. Now and then one heard a low gurgling moan, and, turning,
one saw near at hand some chum, who only a few seconds before had
been laughing and joking, now lying gasping, with his life blood
soaking down into the red clay and sand. “Five rounds rapid at the
scrub in front,” comes the command of our subaltern. Then an order
down the line: “Fix bayonets!” Fatal order—was it not, perhaps, some
officer of the enemy who shouted it? (for they say such things were
done). Out flash a thousand bayonets, scintillating in the sunlight
like a thousand mirrors, signalling our position to the batteries
away on our left and front. We put in another five rounds rapid at
the scrub in front. Then, bang-swish! bang-swish! bang-swish! and
over our line, and front, and rear, such a hellish fire of lyddite
and shrapnel that one wonders how anyone could live amidst such a
hail of death-dealing lead and shell. “Ah, got me!” says one lad
on my left, and he shakes his arms. A bullet had passed through
the biceps of his left arm, missed his chest by an inch, passed
through the right forearm, and finally struck the lad between him
and me a bruising blow on the wrist. The man next him—a man from
the 9th Battalion—started to bind up his wounds, as he was bleeding
freely. All the time shrapnel was hailing down on us. “Oh-h!” comes
from directly behind me, and, looking around, I see poor little
Lieutenant B——, of C Company, has been badly wounded. From both
hips to his ankles blood is oozing through pants and puttees, and
he painfully drags himself to the rear. With every pull he moans
cruelly. I raise him to his feet, and at a very slow pace start to
help him to shelter. But, alas! I have only got him about fifty
yards from the firing line when again, bang-swish! and we were both
peppered by shrapnel and shell. My rifle-butt was broken off to the
trigger-guard, and I received a smashing blow that laid my cheek on
my shoulder. The last I remembered was poor Lieutenant B—— groaning
again as we both sank to the ground.

When I came to I found myself in Shrapnel Gully, with an A.M.C. man
holding me down. I was still clasping my half-rifle. Dozens of men
and officers, both Australians and New Zealanders (who had landed a
little later in the day), were coming down wounded, some slightly,
some badly, with arms in slings or shot through the leg, and using
their rifles for crutches. Shrapnel Gully was still under shrapnel
and snipers’ fire. Two or three platoon mates and myself slowly
moved down to the beach, where we found the Australian Army Service
Corps busily engaged landing stores and water amid shrapnel fire
from Gaba Tepe. As soon as a load of stores was landed, the wounded
were carried aboard the empty barges, and taken to hospital ships
and troopships standing out offshore. After going to ten different
boats, we came at last to the troopship _Seang Choon_, which had the
14th Australian Battalion aboard. They were to disembark the next
morning, but owing to so many of us being wounded, they had to land

And so, after twelve hours’ hard fighting, I was aboard a troopship
again—wounded. But I would not have missed it for all the money in
the world.

  A. R. PERRY,

  10th Battalion A.I.F.

[Illustration: One for Chanak.]


  _Photograph by C. E. W. BEAN_


The small boats taking troops to the shore can be seen beside the
transports and close to the land]


  [It may be necessary to explain that wood—for the roof-beams
  of dug-outs and the shoring up of trenches in wet weather—was
  priceless in Gallipoli. But whilst this book was being compiled
  Providence sent a storm. In the morning the beach was littered
  with portions of a wrecked schooner, stranded lighters, pieces of
  pier—all strictly the property of H.M. Government as represented
  by the officer commanding the Royal Engineers. “A gift from
  Heaven,” one Australian was heard to remark as he looked at the
  desolate scene next morning. Nor were his British brethren less

  The storm had ceased, the sea was calm, the wind a trifle raw,
  And miles and miles of wreckage lay upon the sandy shore;
  And every time the waves came up they brought a little more.

  The Sergeant and the Junior Sub. in contemplation stood.
  They wept like anything to see such quantities of wood—
  And then they smiled a furtive smile which boded little good.

  The wood lay round in lovely heaps and smiled invitingly.
  “Do you suppose,” the Sergeant said, “that this is meant for me?”
  “I doubt it,” said the Junior Sub. “Here comes the C.R.E.[1]

  “If fifty kings and fifty queens and fifty C.-in-C.’s
  Presented fifty indents and bowed low upon their knees,
  I hardly think that they would get more than a few of these.”

  The Sergeant and the Junior Sub. walked on a mile or so,
  Until they found a shelving bank conveniently low;
  And there they waited sadly for the C.R.E. to go.

  “Oh, timbers,” quoth the Junior Sub., who spoke with honeyed speech,
  “I hardly think it _safe_ for you to lie upon the beach.”
  And as he spoke he stroked the backs of those within his reach.

  The timbers leapt beneath his touch and hurried plank by plank;
  They crowded round to hear him speak, and lined up rank on rank—
  But one old timber wagged his head and hid behind a bank.

  “The time has come,” the Sergeant said, “to talk of many things—
  Of bully beef and dug-outs, of Kaisers and of Kings,
  And why the rain comes through the roof, and whether shrapnel stings.

  “Some good stout planks,” the Sergeant cried, “are what we chiefly
  And four by fours and spars besides are very good indeed—
  So if you’re ready, sir, I think we may as well proceed.”

  “Oh, C.R.E.!” remarked the Sub., “I deeply sympathise.”
  With sobs and tears they sorted out those of the largest size,
  While happy thoughts of days to come loomed large before their eyes.

  Next morning came the C.R.E. to see what could be done;
  But when he came to count the planks he found that there was none—
  And this was hardly odd, because they’d collared every one.

  Lieut. A. L. PEMBERTON,



  C. E. W. B.

Study of a battalion in Repose.]


[1] C.R.E.—Officer commanding Royal Engineers.


When you come to an old spotted gum right on the saddle of Sandstone
Ridge, after an eighteen-mile ride from Timpanundi, you’re very close
to Freddy Prince’s war selection. There’s a well-made gate in the
road fence on your left, and it bears the legend, “Prince’s Jolly.”
Through that the track will lead you gently uphill into a wide and
gradually deepening sap, until you think you’ve made some mistake.
Then look to your left, and behold the front entrance to Freddie’s

An old shell-case hangs near by, and when you strike it you’ll hear
an echo of children’s voices, and a small platoon of youngsters
charge you at the double. First time I blew in it was just on
teatime, and my first glance in at the well-lit gallery and the smell
of the welcome food are worth the recollection. Fred came out and led
my cuddy round to the stable sap, where he was given what had been
on his mind for some hours past. I didn’t lose much time in settling
down to tea—it was already too dark to look around outside. Besides,
as Fred explained, there was nothing to see of the homestead bar the
inside, and by the third year of excavation most of that had been
dumped into the gully and pretty well all washed away.

The meal finished, we played games with the kids. Fred seldom read
the papers—he said he didn’t want to strain the one eye that was
left to him—so Mrs. Prince retired to absorb the news I had brought
in their mail-bag, and to prepare herself to issue it to her husband

Long after the children went to burrow, he and I smoked and pitched
away about the past. He told me how he and many others had come to
adopt the underground home. It had been the case of making a penny do
the work of a pound, and Fred himself had done the work of a company.
It had been a hard struggle, but the missus was a treasure, and never
growled except when things were going well—as some people will do.
It was just a case of dig in, dig up, and dig down. Anything in the
way of iron or steel was prohibitive. Timber was too expensive, and
in any case the timber that stood on the selection he had been forced
to sell in order to stock the farm. It had been a problem of years,
but he had made a job of it; and when he showed me round the house I
didn’t grudge him his little bit of pride.

The main gallery opened to the surface at the front and back, and
was about forty-five paces long. It was driven through hard ground,
and was well arched so that it required no timber. On one side there
was a branch to the pantries and the galley, and on the other side
the dining-room and the bedrooms, which were really one big chamber
with solid pillars of earth left at intervals, forming a group of
rooms each with a dome roof and canvas partitions. A borehole had
been put through to the surface at the centre of every room for
ventilation and light, a device of reflectors enabling one to bring
the sunlight in at all hours of the day.

Once, as we sat and smoked, a subdued chattering came from the
adjoining room. I looked up and saw the top of a periscope over the
partition. Instantly it disappeared with a noise like the scattering
of furniture. Then a voice: “Oh, daddy, do you know what?”

“What’s happened, Kit?” replied the father.

“Two of your biscuit photo-frames are smashed.”

“Oh, never mind, old girl,” said Fred; “it’s time they began to break
up after fifteen years. Go to sleep, both of you.”

As I lay awake next morning I overheard some homely details. How the
baldy steer had hopped over O’Dwyer’s parapet into his lucerne patch;
and Jimmy ought to have widened the trench last week when he was told
to; and the milking sap hadn’t been cleaned out the previous day
because Georgie had forgotten he was pioneer; and Jerry O’Dwyer had
shot two crows from the new sniper’s pozzy[2] down at the creek—and
so on.

When we sat down to breakfast Mrs. Prince was primed with news. “I
told Fred,” she said, “I didn’t believe we’d taken Lake Achi Baba;
the latest cable says it’s still occupied by the German submarines.”
Fred nodded as if he didn’t care much.

“Achi Baba used to be a hill once, wasn’t it, daddy?” chipped in one
of the youngsters.

“Yes, it used to be one time,” replied his father, looking into
the blue puffs that drifted away from his pipe and out past the
waterproof sheet of the dug-out door. In those blue mists of the past
what he saw was the bald pate of the great hill, with the howitzers
tearing earth out of the crest of it by the hundredweight, while the
Turkish miners ever heaped the outside of it with the spoil from
their tunnels. “Yes, it was a hill once.”

Thus Freddy and his wife and family live their life as happily as if
there were no war.

  2nd Field Co., Aust. Engrs.


[2] Pozzy or Possie—Australian warrior’s short for “position,” or

[Illustration: F. R. CROZIER]


    Not unto us, O Lord, to tell
      Thy purpose in the blast,
    When these, that towered beyond us, fell
      And we were overpast.

    We cannot guess how goodness springs
      From the black tempest’s breath,
    Nor scan the birth of gentle things
      In these red bursts of death.

    We only know—from good and great
      Nothing save good can flow;
    That where the cedar crashed so straight
      No crooked tree shall grow;

    That from _their_ ruin a taller pride—
      Not for these eyes to see—
    May clothe one day the valleyside....
      Non nobis, Domine.

                              C. E. W. B.



  C. M^cCRAE

New Arrival (as something hums past the parapet): “’Strewth! Wot’s

Officer: “Only a ricochet.”

N.A.: “An’ d’we use ’em, too, sir?”]


_Drawn by GILBERT T. M. ROACH_]


    The winter winds of Lemnos,
      They blow exceeding fast;
    There’s nothing quite so stiff on earth
      As that persistent blast.

    It ducks around the corners,
      Through all the hills it shoots;
    It blows the milk from out your tea,
      The laces from your boots.

    Is this the soft Ægean wind
      Which Byron raved about,
    That whirls across the ridges
      And turns you inside out?

    Or is it some invention
      Which Providence has made
    To give a breezy welcome to
      The Third Brigade?

                          H. B. K.

[Illustration: OUR FATHERS]

  Wandering spirits, seeking lands unknown,
  Such were our fathers, stout hearts unafraid.
  Have we been faithless, leaving homes they made,
  With their life’s blood cementing every stone?
  Nay, when the beast-like War God did intone
  His horrid chant, was our first reckoning paid
  For years of ease. Their restless spirits bade
  Us fight with those whose Homeland was their own.

  Rest easy in your graves, the spirit lives
  That brought you forth to claim of earth the best.
  Ours it is now, and ours it shall remain;
  Mere jealous greed no honest birthright gives.
  Shades of our fathers, hear our faith confessed,
  We shall defend your Empire or be slain.


  A.M.C. (3rd Field Amb.).


  _Drawn by F. R. CROZIER_

  “Wandering spirits, seeking lands unknown,
  Such were our fathers, stout hearts unafraid.”]


  C. E. W. B.

·Picture of a battalion Resting·]


It’s the monotony we revile, not—to a like degree—hard work or hard
fare. To look out on the same stretch of beach or the same patch of
trench wall and the same terraces of hostile black and grey sandbags
day after day is to be wearied. There is the same sitting in the same
trench, shelled by the same guns, manned, perhaps (though that we
endeavour to avert), by the same Turks. Unhappily it is not the same
men of ours that they maim and kill daily.

And if one’s dug-out lies on a seaward slope there is, every morning,
the same stretch of the lovely Ægean, with the same two islands
standing over in the west.

Yet neither the islands nor the sea are the same any two successive
days. The temper of the Ægean at this time changes more suddenly and
frequently than ever does that of the Pacific. Every morning the
islands of the west take on fresh colour, and are trailed by fresh
shapes of mist.

To-day Imbros stands right over against you; you see the detail
of the fleet in the harbour, and the striated heights of rocky
Samothrace reveal the small ravines. To-morrow, in the early morning
light, Imbros lies mysteriously afar off like an Isle of the Blest, a
delicate vapour-shape reposing on the placid sea.

Nor is there monotony in either weather or temperature. This is
the late autumn. Yet it is a halting and irregular advance the
late autumn is making. Fierce, biting, raw days alternate with the
comfortableness of the mild late summer. This morning, to bathe is as
much as your life is worth (shrapnel disregarded); to-morrow, in the
gentle air, you may splash and gloat an hour and desire more. And
you prolong the joy by washing many garments.

Here in Anzac we have suffered the tail-end of one or two autumn
storms, and have had two fierce and downright gales blow up. The wind
came in the night, with a suddenness that found us most unprepared.
In half an hour many of us were homeless, crouching about with our
bundled bedclothes, trespassing tyrannically upon the confined
space of the stouter dug-outs of our friends—a sore tax upon true
friendship. They lay on their backs and held down their roofs by mere
weight of body until overpowered. Spectral figures in the driving
atmosphere collided and wrangled and swore and blasphemed. The sea
roared over the shingle with a violence that made even revilings

The morning showed a sorry beach. There were—there had been—three
piers. One stood intact; the landward half of the second was clean
gone; of the third there was no trace, except in a few splintered
spars ashore. A collective dogged grin overlooked the beach that
morning at the time of rising. The remedying began forthwith; so did
the bursting of shrapnel over the workmen. This stroke of Allah upon
the unfaithful was not to go unassisted.

With misgiving we foresee the winter robbing us of the boon of daily
bathing. This is a serious matter. The morning splash has come to
be indispensable. Daily at six-thirty you have been used to see the
head of General Birdwood bobbing beyond the sunken barge inshore; and
a host of nudes lined the beach. The host is diminishing to a few
isolated fellows, who either are fanatics or are come down from the
trenches and must clear up a vermin-and-dust-infested skin at all

Not infrequently “Beachy Bill” catches a mid-morning bathing squad.
There is ducking and splashing shorewards, and scurrying by men clad
only in the garment Nature gave them. Shrapnel bursting above the
water in which you are disporting raises chiefly the question: “Will
it ever stop?” By this you mean: “Will the pellets ever cease to whip
the water?” The interval between the murderous lightning flash aloft
and the last pellet-swish seems, to the potential victim, everlasting.

The work of enemy shell behind the actual trenches is peculiarly
horrible. Men are struck down suddenly and unmercifully where there
is no heat of battle. A man dies more easily in the charge. Here he
is wounded mortally unloading a cart, drawing water for his unit,
directing a mule convoy. He may lose a limb or his life when off
duty—merely returning from a bathe or washing a shirt.

One of our number is struck by shrapnel retiring to his dug-out to
read his just delivered mail. He is off duty—is, in fact, far up
on the ridges overlooking the sea. The wound gapes in his back.
There is no staunching it. Every thump of the aorta pumps out his
life. Practically he is a dead man when struck; he lives but a few
minutes—with his pipe still steaming, clenched in his teeth. They lay
him aside in the hospital.

That night we stand about the grave in which he lies beneath his
groundsheet. Over that wind-swept headland the moon shines fitfully
through driving cloud. A monitor bombards off shore. Under her
friendly screaming shell and the singing bullets of the Turks the
worn, big-hearted padre intones the beautiful Catholic intercession
for the soul of the dead in his cracked voice.


[Illustration: Transport in Trouble, November 17]

[Illustration: After the Blizzard of November 29]

[Illustration: Anzac Pier in the Storm of November 17]

_Photographs by C. E. W. BEAN_


  _Photograph by Central News_

General Birdwood taking a Dip]


  _Photograph by C. E. W. BEAN_

Shrapnel over Anzac Beach

The shrapnel cloud can be seen, and also the water off the beach
whipped up by the pellets from the shells]

At the burial of Sir John Moore was heard the distant and random gun.
Here the shells sometimes burst in the midst of the burial party.
Bearers are laid low. A running for cover. The grave is hastily
filled in by a couple of shovel-men; the service is over; and fresh
graves are to be dug forthwith for stricken members of the party. To
die violently and be laid in this shell-swept area is to die lonely
indeed. The day is far off (but it will come) when splendid mausolea
will be raised over these heroic dead. And one foresees the time when
steamers will bear up the Ægean pilgrims come to do honour at the
resting places of friends and kindred, and to move over the charred
battlegrounds of Turkey.

Informal parades for Divine Service are held on Sabbath afternoons
for such men as are off duty. Attendances are scanty. The late
afternoons are becoming bleak; men relieved from labour seek the
warmth of their dug-outs.

The chaplain stands where he can find a level area and awaits a
congregation. When two or three are gathered together he announces a
hymn. The voices go up in feeble unison, punctuated by the roar of
artillery and the crackle of rifle fire. The prayers are offered.
The address is short and shorn of cant. This is no place for
canting formula. Reality is very grim all round. There is a furtive
under-watchfulness against shrapnel. One almost has forgotten what it
is to sit in security and listen placidly to a sermon at church.

The chaplains have come out to do their work simply and laboriously.
They are direct-minded, purposeful men. One is a neighbour in a Light
Horse regiment—a colonel. He flaunts it in no sandbagged palace. His
dug-out is indistinguishable from those of the privates between whom
he is sandwiched—mere waterproof sheet aloft and bed laid on the
Turkish clay; a couple of biscuit boxes with his oddments—jam, and
milk, and bread: writing materials and toilet requisites. A string
line beneath the roof holds his towel and lately washed garments. He
is a simple parson, hard-worked by day and night in and about the
trenches, careful for such comforts as can be got for his men in
this benighted land; lying down at nights listening to the forceful
lingo of his neighbours, and confessedly admiring its graphic if
well-garnished eloquence. He sees his duty with a direct gaze—a
faithful Churchman at work in the throes of war.

In a land of necessarily hard fare a regimental canteen in Imbros
does much to compensate. Unit representatives proceed thence weekly
by trawler for stores. One feels almost in the land of the living
when so near lie tinned fruit, butter, cocoa, coffee, sausages,
sauces, chutneys, pipes, tobacco, and chocolate. Such a repertoire,
combined with a monthly visit from the paymaster, removes one far
from the commissariat hardships of the Crimea.

The visualising of unstinted civilian meals is a prevalent pastime.
Men sit at the mouths of their dug-outs and relate the minutiæ of
the first dinner at home. Some men excel in this. They do it with
a carnal power of graphic description which makes one fairly pine.
One has heard a colonel-chaplain talk for two hours of nothing but
grub, and at the end convincingly exempt himself from any charge of
carnal-mindedness. Truly we are a people whose god is their belly.
But that we never admitted until this period of enforced deprivation.

Those comforts embraced by the use of good tobacco and deliverance
from vermin at night are the most desired; both hard to procure.
There is somehow a great gulf fixed between the civilian quality of
any tobacco and the make-up of the same brand for the Army. Once
in six months a friend in Australia dispatches a parcel of cigars.
Therein lies the entrance to a fleeting paradise—fleeting indeed when
one’s comrades have sniffed or ferreted out the key. After all, the
pipe, given reasonably good tobacco, gives the entrée to the paradise
farthest removed from that of the fool.

Of the plague of nocturnal vermin little need be said explicitly. The
locomotion of the day almost dissipates the evil. But it makes night

The tendency is to retire late and thus abridge the period of
persecution. One’s friends drop in for a yarn or a smoke after tea,
and the dreaded hour of turning-in is postponed by reminiscent
chit-chat and the late preparation of supper. One renews, here,
a surprising bulk of old acquaintance. Old college chums are dug
out, and one talks back and lives a couple of hours in the glory of
days that have passed. Believe it not that there is no deliverance
possible from the hardness of active service. The retrospect, and
the prospect, and the ever-present faculty of visualisation are
ministering angels sent to minister.

Mails, too, are an anodyne. Their arrival eclipses considerations of
life and death—of fighting and the landing of rations. The mail-barge
coming in somehow looms larger than a barge of supplies. Mails have
been arriving weekly for six months, yet no one is callous to them.

Of incoming mail, letters stand inevitably first. They put a man at
home for an hour.

But so does the local newspaper. Perusing that, he is back at the
old matutinal habit of picking at the news over his eggs and coffee,
racing against the suburban business train. Intimate associations
hang about the reading of the local sheet—domestic and parochial
associations almost as powerful as are brought by letters.

And what shall be said of parcels from home? The boarding-school
home-hamper is at last superseded. No son, away at Grammar School,
ever pursued his voyage of discovery through tarts, cakes and
preserves, sweets, pies and fruit with the intensity of gloating
expectation in which a man on Gallipoli discloses the contents of his


_Drawn in Blue and Red Pencil by DAVID BARKER_]

“’Struth! a noo pipe, Bill!—an’ some er the ole terbaccer. Blimey!
Cigars, too!—’ave one, before the mob smells ’em.... D——d if there
ain’t choclut! Look ’ere.... An’ ’ere’s some er the dinkum[3]
coc’nut-ice the tart uster make.... Hallo! more socks! Nev’ mind:
winter’s comin’. ’Ere, ’ow er yer orf fer socks, cobber?... Take
these—bonzer ’and-knitted. Sling them issue-things inter the sea....
I’m d——d!—soap for the voy’ge ’ome.... ’Angkerch’fs!—orl right
w’en the —— blizzards come, an’ a chap’s snifflin’ fer a —— week
on end.... Writin’ paper!—well, that’s the straight —— tip, and no
errer! The beggars er bin puttin’ it in me letters lately too. Well,
I’ll write ter-night on the stren’th of it. Gawd! ’ere’s a shavin’
stick!—’andy, that! I wuz clean run out—usin’ carbolic soap, ——
it!... Aw, that’s a dinkum —— parcel, that is!”


  Aust. A.S.C.


[3] Dinkum—Australian for “true.”

[Illustration: Decoration]




_From a Correspondent in Australian Field Artillery, “Sea View,”
Boltons Knoll, near Shell Green._

I was looking out from the entrance of my dug-out, thinking how
peaceful everything was, when Johnny Turk opened on our trenches.
Shells were bursting, and fragments scattered all about Shell Green.
Just at this time some new reinforcements were eagerly collecting
spent fuses and shells as mementoes. While this fusillade was on, men
were walking about the Green just as usual, when one was hit by a
falling fuse. Out rushed one of the reinforcement chaps, and when he
saw that the man was not hurt he asked: “Want the fuse, mate?”

The other looked at him calmly.

“What do you think I stopped it for?” he asked.



_The same Correspondent writes:_

I am sure that wherever the old 5th Light Horsemen, who put in such a
warm spell at “Chatham’s”[4] some time ago, congregate after this war
the following incident will be told and retold:

Bill Blankson was a real hard case, happy-go-lucky, regardless of
danger. Bill was put on sapping for over a fortnight, and at the end
of that time had a growth of stubble that would have brought a flush
of pride to his dirty face if he had seen it. But he hadn’t seen
it—one does not carry a looking-glass when sapping.

At the end of the fortnight he was taken off sapping and put on

Anyone who has used a periscope knows that unless the periscope is
held well up before the eyes, instead of the landscape, one sees only
one’s own visage reflected in the lower glass.

Bill did not hold the periscope up far enough, and what he saw in it
was a dark, dirty face with a wild growth of black stubble glaring
straight back at him. He dropped the periscope, grabbed his rifle,
and scrambled up the parapet, fully intending to finish the Turk who
had dared to look down the other end of his periscope.

He had mistaken his own reflection for a Turk’s.


[4] Chatham’s Post at the southern end of the line was attacked by
the Turks for several days in November.

[Illustration: Decoration]


One of the chief pastimes of the Turks who live behind the black and
white sandbags opposite (writes an officer who knows them intimately)
is that of listening to stories told by the storytellers in the cafés
of the Asia Minor villages. The hero of these stories is very often
a certain Nastradi Hodja (who really existed at one time, and made a
reputation by his wit as well as through his stupidity). Here is an
example of the sort of story about Nastradi which especially pleases
the Turk:

Nastradi Hodja’s wife woke up one night through hearing a noise. She
got up, and going out on to the landing on the upper floor, outside
her bedroom, called out:

“Nastradi, what was that noise?”

Nastradi’s voice came up from below. “Don’t pay any attention to it,”
he said. “It was only my shirt that tumbled down the stairs.”

“Does a shirt make such a noise?” she asked.

“No,” was the reply; “but I was in it.”

  A. P. M.

[Illustration: Grave site]


    The herdman wandering by the lonely rills
      Marks where they lie on the scarred mountain’s flanks,
    Remembering that wild morning when the hills
      Shook to the roar of guns and those wild ranks
          Surged upward from the sea.

    None tends them. Flowers will come again in spring,
      And the torn hills and those poor mounds be green.
    Some bird that sings in English woods may sing
      To English lads beneath—the wind will keep
          Its ancient lullaby.

    Some flower that blooms beside the Southern foam
      May blossom where our dead Australians lie,
    And comfort them with whispers of their home;
      And they will dream, beneath the alien sky,
          Of the Pacific Sea.

    “Thrice happy they who fell beneath the walls,
      Under their father’s eyes,” the Trojan said,
    “Not we who die in exile where who falls
      Must lie in foreign earth.” Alas! our dead
          Lie buried far away.

    Yet where the brave man lies who fell in fight
      For his dear country, there his country is.
    And we will mourn them proudly as of right—
      For meaner deaths be weeping and loud cries:
          They died pro patria!

    Oh, sweet and seemly so to die, indeed,
      In the high flush of youth and strength and pride.
    These are our martyrs, and their blood the seed
      Of nobler futures. ’Twas for us they died.
          Keep we their memory green.

    This be their epitaph. “Traveller, south or west,
      Go, say at home we heard the trumpet call,
    And answered. Now beside the sea we rest.
      Our end was happy if our country thrives:
    Much was demanded. Lo! our store was small—
      That which we had we gave—it was our lives.”

[Illustration: Decoration]


    Oh, Lyre-bird! tethered to the earth,
      Thou envy’st not the skylark in the sky,
    But pour’st a thousand mocking notes of mirth,
      Drowning the ravished songsters singing nigh.
    If wing’d—so pure thy voice—thou might’st aspire
      To drown indeed the whole seraphic choir!

    And, listening to thee—captive in thy chains—
      I think me of a singer such as thou
    Who captured Nature’s notes for lovely swains,
      And echoed them behind a mountain plough;
    And moiled and sang, to prove to Gods above
      The charm of earthly singing and of love.

    Leave to the soaring minstrel of the sky
      Her privilege of song at heaven’s gate;
    Leave to the nightingale the charms whereby
      She lights the grove and hushes strife and hate.
    As great a boon—oh, blessed bird!—is thine,
      Gyv’d to the soiling earth, yet singing still divine!
                                  8th Batt., 2nd Infantry Brigade.


[Illustration: The Cemetery in Shrapnel Valley]

[Illustration: The Grave of a Brigadier—Col. H. N. Maclaurin, killed
April 27, 1915]

[Illustration: A Cemetery by the Beach

_Photographs by C. E. W. BEAN_]



  Gallipoli, 15.

“STANDING TO!”—4.30 a.m.]




  Whilst seated one day in my dug-out,
    Weary and ill at ease,
  I saw a gunner carefully
    Scanning his sunburnt knees;

  I asked him why he was searching,
    And what he was looking for,
  But his only reply was a long-drawn sigh
    As he quietly killed one more.



It was a fine day, and they were standing by waiting for instructions
from the warrant officer to commence unloading and loading; and in
the general murmur of voices one noted the broad tones of the British
Tommy and the harsher ones of Tommy Kangaroo, the latter less careful
of his grammar than the other; also the loud-voiced directions of
the Indian Tommy, or rather Johnny, who condescended now and then to
break into pidgin-English (with a smile).

Presently from amongst a group sitting in the shelter of a stack of
bully beef came the request: “Give us a light, mate,” in the blunt
style which belongs to Tommy Kangaroo.

“Aw, yes,” replies Tommy Atkins, or “Kitch,” as he is beginning to be
called. “Aw, yes.” And while the other is pulling at his fag: “Have
you got any baadges, choom?”

“No, I gave mine to a little nipper who used to sing on the stage at
the El Dorado in Cairo.”

“Did you now! She must have a fine stack of baadges now, that ’un.
You’re about the fifteenth lad that I know has given his baadges
to ’er. Aw, thanks”—taking back his cigarette. “I see you’re from
Austra-alia. What State did you live in?”

“Vic,” is the reply.

“I wonder if you knew my brother? He went to Victoria a couple of
years ago. Got a job on the ra-ailways, he did, and wanted me to come
out too. I’ll go when this is over; but ’ee’s married now, ’e is, and
got a couple of pet lambs that ’e said was given to ’im by a chap
named Drover; ’is name is Dobbs.”

“Never met him, matey, but he is all right, you bet. A Pommy[5] can’t
go wrong out there if he isn’t too lazy to work.”

“Ah, yes, he tells me they called ’im Pommy, but that they was
good lads. I could not understand them slinging off at ’im and ’im
thinking they were treatin’ ’im like as ’e was one of themselves.”

“Oh, well, yer see, mate, we don’t call the like of ’im ‘Pommies’
because we dislike ’em, but just as a matter of description. Of
course, sometimes one of ’em gets ’is back up and calls us sons of
convicts in return for us chuckin’ off at ’im, and then he’s told
lots of things—sometimes true and very often untrue; but Australia’s
all right, mate. You need not be ashamed to be called a ‘Pommy’ out

“Blime, there’s old ‘Beachy’[6] at it again,” breaks in another.
“’Ee’s a fair cow, ’e is. Made me spill two buckets er water this
mornin’, and our flamin’ cook told me I was too lazy to go down for
it. I’ll give ’im ‘Beachy’ after this job is over if ’e don’t look
out. Hallo, Johnny, Beachy catch-em mule, eh?”

“Beachy no good—mule good,” replies the tall spare Indian, with a
smile, as he tries to bring his pair of mules under the shelter of
the stack. “Mule very good,” he says, as he squats in front of his

“’Ow long yer been ’ere, choom?” asks Kitch of Kangaroo.

“Nearly six munce now. Blime, I could do with a spell now, too. I’m
beginnin’ to get a ’ump like a camel from carryin’ these flamin’

“Aw, yes, but it’s better than bein’ in the trenches, ain’t it?” asks

“Blime, no,” is the reply. “A man’s got a chance to hit back there,
but down ’ere it’s up to putty. It’s bad enough to be eatin’ bully
beef, but carryin’ it as well is rotten. I couldn’t look a decent
bullock in the face now for what I’ve said about ’im when ’e’s

“Did yer ’ear wot was doin’ up at Narks Post larst night, Bill?”

“Yes; some d——d gobblers thought they would catch our mob nappin’ but
missed the bus, and some of ’em are still runnin’ yellin’ to Aller
to stick to ’em. Blast ’em! I’ll give ’em Aller when I get a chance.
Keepin’ a man stuck on ’ere when ’e might be havin’ a good time
somewhere else. I’ll bet——”

“Come on, Bill, ’ere comes the W.O.,”[7] says his mate.

“D—— ’im—see yer later, matey; and I’ll try to get a badge for yer.”

“Don’t forget, choom. Ah want it to send to my married sister’s
little lass. She thinks youm lads be prime boys.”

“Prime boys,” mutters Bill, as he grabs his case of bully. “Yes,
prime boys jugglin’ Best Prime Bully Beef.”

“D—— it—shut up, Bill,” says his mate. “You’re always growlin’—you’ll
want flowers on your grave next.”

  N. ASH.


[5] Pommy—short for pomegranate, and used as a nickname for

[6] “Beachy”—a battery of Turkish guns, well known on Anzac Beach.

[7] W.O.—Warrant Officer.


    Celestial star that crossed my path,
      Leaving fair visions in my soul;
    Oh! why did you e’er leave your realm
      And break my heart? With mournful dole
    Now restless night doth me pursue,
      And fiends do tempt my soul to hell.
    Ah! gentle maid, if you but knew
      My inner shrine, and it could tell
    My hidden love, as deep, as true,
      As gentle as sweet birds at play;
    Drift back, bright star, and comfort me
      In this unending, dreary day.

                        V. N. HOPKINS,
                   Pte., A.M.C., att. 17th Aust. Bn.




_Drawn With an Iodine Brush by C. LEYSHON-WHITE_]

[Illustration: The Happy Warrior]

_The Happy Warrior_



  In my sandy dug-out by the sea
    Of Saros beyond Samothrace,
  I’m as happy as happy can be,
    And I’m bent upon washing my face
  Before I go into my tea;
    But the water’s so scarce in this land
    That we do all our washing with sand—
  And we _always_ have sand in our tea.

[Illustration: D. B.]

[Illustration: D. B.]


  In my fly-filled dug-out by the sea
    Near Anzac, beyond Samothrace,
  Both the cook and colonel agree
    That you _must_ have some semblance of grace
  At breakfast, at dinner, and tea,
    To prevent you from damning the eyes
    Of the savage and pestilent flies—
  For you _always_ have flies in your tea!


  In my shell-swept dug-out by the sea
    Of Saros, beyond Samothrace,
  I’m as happy as happy can be,
    Tho’ the shrapnel comes flying apace
  Over moorland and mountain and lea—
    For I wish you to quite understand,
    Tho’ the hens have vacated the land,
  Yet we _always_ have shells with our tea!

[Illustration: D. B.]

[Illustration: Decoration]


    I only wait the eventide,
      The rising of the moon—
    My little barque I’ll gently slide
      Into the still lagoon.

    Here storms are fierce and nations wage
      Across the seas their strife,
    And death’s wild billows break their rage
      Against the rocks of life.

    I only wait the last, long call—
      Perchance a short farewell—
    Then gently for the mists to fall
      O’er silent hill and dell.

                 Private CHAS. LOWRY,
                          9th Aust. Battalion.

[Illustration: Ships near shore]


Outside was a cold, dark, windy and cheerless night, and the world
seemed cowering under the black, threatening rain-pall above, which
could be felt rather than seen. Inside my host’s diggings we were
lounging back in the warmth and light, smoking and yarning of other
times and places, while the partner of his home brewed the warm,
fragrant, comforting decoction which seemed to contribute so much
to the mood and proper appreciation of such friendly comfort in the
midst of the audible turmoil of unfriendly outer circumstances.

Once again from outside there came a whir and rattle past the door,
and I smiled significantly and glanced in that direction.

“Oh, don’t go until after the next one,” urged my host’s companion,
seeing my attention diverted to things outside of our present cheery

With this my friend seemed to concur, and drew himself closer to the
fire. “Yes, there’s plenty of time yet,” he said. “There’ll be a lot
more of ’em. So you might as well sit tight in, safely and comfy, and
try another cup.”

I didn’t need much coaxing, and thrusting the thought of the long,
unpleasant journey home out of my mind, I settled down to further
cheery chat and the enjoyment of stimulating internal comforts.

The conversation seemed to have progressed but a little further when
above the wind outside could be heard again the warning roar and
rumble, fading away and terminating in a muffled clang and clatter
in the distance. “That settles it, Billo, old chap,” I said, half
rising. “Pass over my coat. If I hurry off now I’ll be just in time.”

But my friend didn’t move to oblige. “Now, what’s the use of
hurrying?” he urged once more. “They’ll be passing every minute now
for a long time yet. So why not settle down and enjoy yourself a bit
longer? ’Taint very often you come this way.”

By the time I had finished my reply to his persuasions I found,
again, that my chance had gone—and I would have to wait now, anyhow.

And so the time passed. We talked and talked, while a useful youth
who lived near by, and had attached himself to my friend Billo, made
three reappearances with hot water for the cups that cheered as the
night went on.

“I wonder where ‘Razzy’ is?” presently remarked my host; “the jug
wants refilling.”

Just then the disturbing rumble passed the door again, and I rose
to my feet. “Don’t bother to disturb him,” I said. “I suppose he’s
retired to his digs. Besides, now’s my chance to scoot too; I’ve a
long way to walk. Throw me that coat.”

Finding that all protestations were useless, my friends reluctantly
allowed me to go, but not without wilily expressed forebodings as to
what unpleasantness might await me outside now that I had refused to
enjoy their society and comforts any longer.

They accompanied me to the door, and a cold blast of wind met us.
There were ominous thunder rumbles in the murky distance.

“A boshter[8] night for a walk,” I remarked, buttoning my coat about

“Yes,” grinned my friend, peering out into the darkness. “And they’re
running to a peculiar sort of time-table to-night—passing about every
seven minutes. You’d better get a wriggle on. There’s a short cut
that way,” he added, pointing to the right, “just past the corner of
the cemetery. That’s where they stop. So for God’s sake shake it up;
if you don’t, they won’t see you home at all. It’s an unhealthy night
to be out.”

I asked them to say good night to the youth “Razzy” for me, and to
thank him for his comforting ministration, then bade them farewell
and moved off.

I blundered along the sloppy, unpaved footway, peering tensely
into the uncanny blackness about me, and hurried uneasily in the
direction of a patch of faint pale blotches that I hoped and took to
be the monuments in the little burying-ground down beyond. I found
that my direction was right, and presently I was hurrying past it
as fast as I could manage in the wind and darkness. From somewhere
behind me—it sounded miles and miles away through the noise of the
wind—a faint low moaning sound reached my ear. I stepped forward
uneasily, but before I had advanced a yard it had become more
prolonged, and growing ever louder and closer until I seemed to
feel it coming—coming with tremendous and ever-increasing speed:
a horrible, nerve-shattering, deafening, wailing shriek. I stood
dazed and paralysed—rooted to the spot. With a scream of hellish
intensity—it was all within a second, really—it was on me. There was
a flash of blinding light, then everything ended so far as I was

My next interest in life was a feeling that I had just been hurled
up at the moon, over it, and had descended slowly, ever so slowly,
like a feather, to earth again. In fact, I wasn’t quite sure that I
was not a feather; and I opened my eyes carefully and tried to feel
myself. “’Ssh-sh-sh! Don’t disturb yourself—remain quiet and comfy,”
said a persuasive voice beside me. I looked around as far as I could
move, and knew that I was in a hospital, but where or of what kind
I could not think for the moment. I lay awhile gazing blankly and
unthinkingly at a low white ceiling above me. Presently I fell to


(The dug-outs and paths of Anzac are seen in the foreground. Above
them on the sky line is the massive Kilid Bahr plateau, the near
promontory in the centre is Gaba Tepe, and above is the peak of Achi
Baba. The British position at Helles comprised the distant coast up
to a point a little astern of the destroyer.)

_Drawn by G. T. M. ROACH_]


_Drawn by H. C. WIMBUSH_]

In what suburb, in what town (it seemed to have been hundreds of
years ago that it had happened), and what part of Australasia could
it be that a peaceful citizen, walking a darkened street, homeward
bound, could be violently assailed, near the resting-place of its
harmless sleeping dead, by an awful uncanny horror descending from
the black unknown? Was I cursed, haunted, bewitched—or what? Then
there came to me the vague memory of a friend, one whom I familiarly
knew as “Billo,” and in some way associated with my terrible,
mysterious experience. But somehow it didn’t seem to fit in with the
slowly gathering evidence of my returning senses, for it seemed to me
that “Billo” had long before quitted suburban civilisation for some
great adventure—perhaps—yes, it was a war somewhere—in which I, too,
had later resolved to follow his example and do my share. Then how
came it that this terrible experience had befallen me in the midst of
the enjoyment and comforts of civilisation?

I had a positive though hazy memory of a comfortable, warm room,
pleasant drinks, cheery conversation; “Billo” and his companion, the
latter a rough, kindly sort of being—no, it could not have been a
woman; besides, “Billo” was a bachelor. I remembered that distinctly.

Suddenly it became clear to me, and I remembered a silent, rugged man
facetiously dubbed “’Enery” by my friend—a kindly chap, of very few
words, with whom I had not been long acquainted. Where had “Billo”
picked him up? There also came before me the memory of a small,
dilapidated man or youth, dark complexioned; somehow also attached
to “Billo.” His name was—yes, that was it.... Who the deuce was
“Razzy”? My mind here became dazed, and speculation drifted off into
a confusion of reflections: that “Razzy” was a foreigner of some
sort, living with us under the same conditions, yet in some way very
different and in a degree inferior; that the hour at which I left my
friend “Billo’s” home and his inexplicable associates was quite early
in the night—perhaps only nine-thirty. This latter fact seemed to
linger in my mind, for presently—with a hazy conviction that there
were sure to be other pedestrians abroad on a suburban street at that
hour—I heard my own voice asking no one in particular: “Was there
anyone else there?”

It came as no surprise to hear a man’s rough voice reply:

“Only a Maltese—at least, we think he was. He was blown to
smithereens. But don’t let ’em see you talking too much, mate.”

The room seemed to rock. I opened my eyes, and with difficulty caught
sight of the speaker. He was in khaki and wore an A.M.C. badge on his
arm. I was on a hospital ship.

“Then that _must_ have been poor ‘Razzy,’” I muttered at last. Before
my mind’s eye there seemed to unfold a dissolving scene. The cosy
rooms of my friend “Billo” became a dug-out in a hillside, lit by
a slush lamp made from bacon fat. “Billo” and his rugged, silent
companion were wearing the familiar time-tattered uniform that I knew
so well ages and ages ago (actually it was five days back); the door
through which I had passed into the unpleasant night was an oilsheet
tied down to keep the weather out; and the frequent rumbling roar was
not that of a passing suburban train which I was timing myself to
catch. On the contrary, it was the _intervals_ between that sound
which interested me. For each of those rushes past the door of my
friend’s dug-out was a hurtling Turkish shell, and I wanted to make
my escape at a reasonably safe moment. Also, the place where “they”
chiefly lobbed was the cemetery at the foot of the rugged track (I
had dreamed of it as the unpaved footpath of a new suburb), where
rest a score or more game Australian lads who had taken part in
the landing on Gallipoli. The unfortunate “Razzy,” by the way, was
but one of a gang of Maltese labourers brought by the authorities,
at a later and safer period, to help in the landing of stores from
the transports in the bay at Anzac. He had become friendly with my
luxury-loving friend “Billo,” and, in gratitude for various kindly
considerations, was willing to provide the hot water to make our
hot-rum drinks on that memorable night at “Billo’s” station on our
right wing. (I was quartered miles away on the extreme left.)

So it was near the cemetery that the unexpected shell got me; and
apparently “Razzy” also, who was returning to his camp a hundred
yards away. There seemed something so droll about the whole strange
illusion that, although in a state of dazed depression, I might have
laughed but for an indescribable pain in my left side. I saw that my
left arm was supported on something and lay above the bedclothes and
seemed very heavy.

“Feel comfortable?” said the A.M.C. man.

“Yes, except for the pain in my left hand,” I answered.

He looked down, and I followed his gaze.

“You haven’t got no left hand,” he said quietly.

I saw that he was right, and this new illusion struck me as being
about the last straw.

With a dazed sort of conviction I muttered: “Well, it’s a rummy
world”—and promptly lay back and drifted out of it for the time being.

  3rd L.H. Field Ambulance.



Portrait of an Australian soldier returning from the field of glory
at Helles. May 11th 1915]


[8] Bosker, boshter, bonzer—Australian slang for splendid.


I am sitting, at the moment of writing, in a dug-out, one of those
dismal, dark, damp holes cut into the clay of the Dardanelles,
serving us as a haven of refuge by day and by night from the
ubiquitous Turkish bullet.

The proportions of this extemporised dwelling resemble those of an
exceedingly small family tomb—one which might belong to a family too
proud not to possess a family tomb at all, but too poor to possess
one of adequate size and comfort (if one can speak of comfort in such
a connection). Its dimensions should be about ten feet by four, but I
am not enthusiastic enough at the moment to ascertain them precisely.
Its three walls are of crumbling clay. Where the fourth wall strictly
should be is an exit which lets in the draught. Over my head are
stretched waterproof sheets which let in the water. On the floor, in
fine weather, is an inch of dust, and in bad weather a proportionate
amount of slimy mud. A few sandbags ranged round the parapet threaten
to tumble in and annihilate my existence. I am sitting on a roll of
bedding. My haversack, water-bottle, field-glasses, webbing, pistol,
gas helmet, and india-rubber basin are arranged round my feet like so
many pet dogs begging for biscuit; and in such an entourage I think
of my room at home—and that is where this matter of contrast comes in.

It was the same at dinner. We—that is to say, my brother officers
and I—sat in another variety of dug-out; this time an open one—open
to all that blows and falls. Our repast consisted of an exceedingly
stringy rabbit, extracted from a tin of an ominous purple hue—an
evil-looking dish eked out with somebody or other’s baked beans,
which are all very well in their way, but when used as an unvarying
vegetable at all meals begin to pall; bread, with the crust like a
cinder, to which fondly cling bits of sacking and mules’ whisker; the
corpse of a cheese; and the whole washed down with tea made in the
stew dixie, and tasting more of dixie and stew than of tea.

As I lean back against the clay wall of my dug-out, and innumerable
particles of dust cascade down my neck, a soft reverie steals over my
senses. It seems to me to be about six or seven o’clock on a murky
November afternoon in London. I have splashed home from my work in
the wind- and rain-swept streets—the motor-buses have covered me with
black mud—my umbrella has afforded me the most inadequate shelter.
But these things seem of little account to me here in Gallipoli. I
see myself reaching my home in the best of spirits, entering the
hall, and shutting off the outer darkness. My sense of contrast gives
me a lively notion of dry clothes, of a comfortable room, of a genial
fire, and of an absorbing book. In future I shall be grateful for the
rain and the mud and the murky streets for making these good things
seem by contrast so much more valuable.

Think of it! To sink into a great arm-chair in front of my library
fire, after a hard and anxious day’s work, and contemplate the near
approach of an excellent evening meal. How comfortable and warm and
hospitable my room appears as I lean back and listen to the rather
depressing, smothered rumble of the traffic in the street below.
Thick curtains hide away the melancholy November London atmosphere.
Sweet-smelling logs crackle cheerily on the hearth; a reading-lamp by
my side sheds subdued lustre on the immediate vicinity of my chair.
My servant glides into the room noiselessly over the soft carpet, and
places the evening paper by my side. I choose a cigar from my case,
light it, and then I am perfectly content—and my contentment is due
to contrast between my content with the existing situation and my
past discontent with other situations at other times and in other

After a refreshing siesta I go upstairs, exchange my workaday clothes
for a smoking-suit. Two or three bachelor friends are due to dine
with me, and by the time I have dressed and descended again to the
sitting-room they are there ready for my greeting.

And what a pleasant evening it is with their company. We talk of old
times, old acquaintances, and old places. We talk of our big-game
shoots, of our campaigns, and of our travels, the recollection of
which seem so delightful now that distance lends enchantment to the
view. Dinner is over; a glass of brandy and old port, some smokes,
and we are just adjourning to the next room——

“Wake up, old chap—three o’clock. Your turn for the trenches. It is
snowing hard and the Turks are very active.”

Contrasts indeed!

  1/1 Suffolk Yeomanry.


its not what you were.—]


but what you are to-day—]



The Ass: “Are you wounded, mate?”

The Victim: “D’yer think I’m doing this fer fun?”]


Regarding these two particular pests, my attitude in the past has
been characterised by the utmost forbearance; I tolerated them and
looked upon them as harmless and possibly of some usefulness to the
community. The Gallipoli specimens, however, have changed my state of
“benevolent neutrality” into one of most deadly warfare. No “Hymn of
Hate” has yet been composed which would give expression to the hatred
which has possessed me.

Do you but go into the trenches in the endeavour to perform your duty
to your country, and the flies immediately try to dissuade you by
getting into your eyes, ears, nose and mouth. Nothing will drive them
away; they delight in this; they are entirely without pity. Retire
to your dug-out in the hope of escaping their attentions, and they
are sure to follow you. Smoke till you all but asphyxiate yourself,
and you find them as active as ever. Nothing that human ingenuity can
devise will cause them to retreat; they defy our puny efforts. You
may imitate the Kaiser and “strafe” them for all you are worth, but
it is only waste of breath; they glory in this and come back all the

What we frequently distrust in the way of tucker holds no terrors
for the Gallipoli flies; they delight in taking risks if only to
impress us with their fearlessness. Stepping boldly on the edge of
a syrup-covered biscuit, they immediately get their feet entangled;
but they will not retreat—that would be against all their traditions.
Instead, they will struggle their way towards the centre, where they
gladly give up the contest and die.

They are born conquerors. I doff my hat to them in spite of my hate.

With the setting sun the flies retire, but operations are simply
handed over to their allies, the fleas; and no worthier ally could
be found than those pilgrims of the night. You may feel beat to the
world, but there is no rest for you; as soon as you lie down to enjoy
a well-earned rest the attack commences. Advancing in open or close
formation, according to circumstances, the enemy attacks on every
flank with fixed bayonets, in the handling of which his units are
experts. If driven off, they come again in still greater numbers;
they appear to have unlimited reserves of reinforcements which can
be mobilised on the shortest notice. Their organisation is perfect.
Counter-attacks in the dark are all in the favour of the enemy, and
morning finds that they have withdrawn their forces to advantageous
cover in the blankets, from which it is impossible to dislodge them.
Keating’s Powder is of no avail against the Gallipoli fleas; it
requires a still higher explosive to have any effect.

The honours have so far fallen to the enemy. Personally, I would
be inclined to discuss terms of peace, but I doubt not he is too
depraved to accept my advances.

  3rd Australian Field Ambulance.

[Illustration: C LEYSHON-WHITE ’15]



His real name matters little; suffice it that he was known among his
comrades as “Wallaby Joe.”

He came to Gallipoli via Egypt with the Light Horse. Incidentally,
he had ridden nearly a thousand miles over sun-scorched,
drought-stricken plains to join them.

Age about 38. In appearance the typical bushman. Tall and lean, but
strong as a piece of hickory. A horseman from head to toe, and a dead
shot. He possessed the usual bushy beard of the lonely prospector
of the extreme backblocks. Out of deference to a delicate hint from
his squadron commander he shaved it off, but resolved to let it grow
again when the exigencies of active service should discount such
finicking niceties.

His conversation was laconic in the extreme. When the occasion
demanded it he could swear profusely, and in a most picturesque vein.
When a bursting shell from a “75” on one occasion blew away a chunk
of prime Berkshire which he was cooking for breakfast, his remarks
were intensely original and illuminative.

He could also drink beer for indefinite periods, but seldom committed
the vulgar error of becoming “tanked.” Not even that locality
“east of Suez,” where, as the song tells us, “There ain’t no Ten
Commandments and a man can raise a thirst,” could make his steps

He was very shy in the presence of the softer sex. On one occasion
his unwary footsteps caused him some embarrassment. Feeling thirsty
he turned into one of those establishments, fairly common in
Cairo, where the southern proprietors try to hide the villainous
quality of their beer by bribing sundry young ladies of various
nationalities and colours to give more high-class vaudeville turns.
The aforementioned young ladies are aided and abetted by a coloured
orchestra, one member of which manipulates the bagpipes.

A portly damsel had just concluded, amidst uproarious applause, the
haunting strains of “Ta-ra-ra boom-de-ay.” She sidled up to Joe with
a large-sized grin on her olive features.

“Gib it kiss,” she murmured, trying to look ravishing.

But Joe had fled.

Henceforth during his stay in Egypt he took his beer in a little
Russian bar, the proprietor of which could speak English, and had
been through the Russo-Japanese War.

When the Light Horse were ordered at last to the front, Joe took
a sad farewell of his old bay mare. He was, as a rule, about as
sentimental as a steamroller, but “leaving the old nag behind hurt

On the Peninsula and under fire his sterling qualities were not long
in coming to the surface. Living all his life in an environment in
which the pick and shovel plays an important part he proved himself
an adept at sapping and mining. At this game he was worth four
ordinary men. No matter how circuitous the maze of trenches, he could
find his way with ease. He could turn out all sorts of dishes from
his daily rations of flour, bacon, jam, and of course the inevitable
“bully” and biscuits. An endless amount of initiative showed itself
in everything he did. His mates learned quite a lot of things just by
watching him potter about the trenches and bivouacs. His training at
the military camps of Australia and, later, in Egypt, combined with
the knowledge he had been imbibing from Nature all his life, made him
an ideal soldier.

He was used extensively by his officers as a scout. As the Turkish
trenches were often not more than twenty yards from our own, needless
to say the scouting was done at night, the Turks’ favourite time
to attack being just before dawn. Often during these nocturnal
excursions a slight rustle in the thick scrub would cause his mate to
grasp his rifle with fixed bayonet and peer into the darkness, with
strained eyes and ears and quickened pulse.

“A hare,” Joe would whisper, and probably advise him to take things
easy while he himself watched.

This went on for some time until one night his mate came in alone,
pale-faced and wild-eyed. Interrogated by the officer on duty, he
informed him that Joe had been shot.

We brought the body in. He had been shot through the heart—a typical
affair of outposts.

Tucked away in one of the innumerable gullies, a little grave, one
among hundreds, contains the body of one of Nature’s grand men. On
the wooden cross surmounting it is the following:

  |  No. 008 TROOPER J. REDGUM,       |
  |   20th Australian Light Horse.    |
  |         Killed in Action.         |

  W. R. C.,
  8th A.L.H.


Yes; ’Enessy was a dag if ever there was one! I remember the day ’e
came into camp at Liverpool ’e was wearin’ ’is best Sunday grin, and
when some bloke wot was in the mob yelled out “Marmalade,” ’e turns
round and says to ’im: “Wot’s your complaint, mate?” The bloke ’e
repeats “Marmalade.” And ’Enessy says: “Ah! That’s wot I thought it
was. You’d better see a doctor, and ’ave it operated on right away,
me man!”

’E could eat like a ’orse. Blime! The way ’e used ter stoke up on
ther bread and jam was a treat for sore eyes. ’E always used ter ask
to be put on the job of picket round the quartermaster’s store, and
they never tumbled to ’is game for a long while. ’E used ter watch
’is chance, and every night would slip in and pinch a loaf of bread
and a tin of jam, and as ’is job consisted of keeping the cook’s fire
a-going all night, ’e always ’ad a cup of coffee ready when ’e wanted
it. One night ’e nips into the store to git ’is usual bit of supper,
and ’e bangs right into the bloke wot was just put in new at the Q.M.
that day.

“Wot are you doin’ ’ere?” asks the bloke.

“Blime! I thought I ’ad a fair cop,” says ’Enessy, quick as
lightning. “I ’eard someone moving about in ’ere, and thought it was
a chap pinchin’ stuff.”

“And who are you?” says the bloke.

“Me! I’m the bloomin’ picket,” says ’Enessy.

“Oh! Alright, picket,” replies the bloke. “I sleep in here, so you
needn’t worry about the store while I’m here.”

“Alright, mate!” says ’Enessy. “Can yer give us a bit of grub? Fair
dinkum, I’m ’ungry!”

So ’e gets ’is grub after all, but ’e couldn’t come the double no
more after that.

When ’e came over the water and first sees the Turkish trenches, ’e
says: “Strike me pink! But where’s them Turks they talk about?”

Says I: “They’re right there behind them sandbags, old cock! And
don’t you forget it, neither!”

“And don’t they come out and show themselves?” ’e asks.

“Wot for?” says I.

“Why, for us blokes to shoot at, of course!” ’e says.

One mornin’ early while we was standin’ to arms ’e lights up a
bumper, so I tells ’im not to let the officer cop ’im or there’d
be trouble. Just then along comes the bloomin’ officer, so ’Enessy
sticks ’is lighted bumper down south into ’is overcoat pocket, and
’olds it there out of sight. The officer sniffs about a bit, then ’e
asks ’Enessy: “Are you smoking?”

“No, sir!” says ’Enessy.

“Well, I can smell smoke!” says the officer. Then ’e looks pretty
’ard at ’Enessy and says: “What’s your name?”

“’Enessy, sir.”

“Well, Henessy, your pocket’s on fire!”

’Enessy looks, and hang me if that bloomin’ cigarette ’adn’t set fire
to ’is coat pocket. But the officer only says: “Don’t do it again!”
and whips off.

It was when we came out of the firin’-line for a week’s spell that
’Enessy met ’is Waterloo. ’E was detailed for guard down at the
drinkin’ water, and ’e was to take all his nap and camp down there.
The first night, when ’e was doin’ ’is shift ’e sees a dark shape
movin’ along and challenged it three times, but never gets no answer.
So ’e ups with ’is gun and lets fly. When the corporal rushes along
to know what the blazes was the matter, ’Enessy ups and tells ’im,
so they goes forward together pretty careful, and soon they sees a
black heap lyin’ on the sand ahead of them. Gor blime! If ’Enessy
’adn’t gone and shot one of them poor little Indian donkeys which ’ad
strayed along the beach. Well, ’e was chaffed pretty considerable by
’is cobbers,[9] and got fairly sick of hearin’ about it.

Next night when ’e was doin’ ’is shift again, ’e sees another black
shape movin’ along the beach, so thinkin’ ’is cobbers were ’avin’
a joke with ’im, ’e picks up a big stick and goes forward with it.
’E ’ad gone about twenty yards, when suddenly there was a flash and
a report, and ’Enessy drops down with a bullet through ’is chest.
Strike me pink! A real Abdul ’ad come up this time, and it wasn’t no
bloomin’ donkey, neither! ’Enessy was ’it pretty bad, but ’e grabs
’is rifle and lets fly, and one more bloomin’ Abdul ’ad gone to join
’is Prophet. Next day ’Enessy was taken away on a ’ospital ship, but
that was near three months ago. I ’ear that the blighter is back on
the beach now, and you will be able to see him yourself when ’e comes
back to the squadron. But strike me! ’E’s a bloomin’ dag!

  E. A. M. W.


“Remember that little grey mare of Gumtree Flat....”]


Bobbie’s gone sick.

This probably doesn’t interest you. But, oh, how _we_ miss him.

So we must tell somebody.

Bobbie, the ever-smiling embodiment of breezy youth; the spirit of
cheerfulness; the Beau Brummell of the trenches.

Bobbie landed with the regiment, and went through thick and thin with
it. But always with a smile and never a scratch. Bullets flew off
Bobbie at a tangent.

Of our officers, three only of the original arrivals were left when
Bobbie went. He had watched the others go away one by one, some
wounded, some sick, and some—well, just left,

    “Where the foe and the stranger will tread o’er their heads
     When we’re far away on the billow.”

Bobbie had grown quite proud of his staying powers, which carried him
through three months of real hardship and trying work night and day.
But for Bobbie’s smile in adversity and his way—for he has a way with
him—many of his brave boys would have given up. But Bobbie’s bright
example spurred them on and they “stuck it,” like their idol.

Bobbie’s only a youngster, but he is made of the real “stuff that’s
bred in the army.” When he found himself exalted to the command of
a company his head didn’t swell. The added responsibilities were
not too heavy for Bobbie’s shoulders, which really were not broad
relatively when compared with his broad smile. Bobbie acted like a
tonic to a man run-down.

But, at last, Nature (in collusion with the M.O.) asserted her
imperious will, and Bobbie just had to go to hospital. So Bobbie
bowed to the inevitable, and, still smiling, went away.

Bobbie in hospital! What a picture! His bright smile, his rosy
cheeks, and his immaculately parted hair, framed in snowy-white
pillows. Bobbie—the irresistible!

Bobbie, we were loath to lose you; Bobbie, we miss you; but, Bobbie,
won’t there be a weeping and a wailing when the nurses have to let
you go?

Still, “it’s an ill wind that blows nobody good.” Bobbie’s chocolate
sweetened the bitterness of parting; Bobbie’s tinned fruit sustains
us in his absence; Bobbie’s cigarettes sooth our sorrow.

  11th London Regt.


[9] Cobbers—mates.

[Illustration: Decoration]


My work in the A.S.C. has brought me very much in touch with the
Indian Mule Corps; and I don’t think “The Anzac Book” would be
complete without some mention of that admirable body of men.

What should we at Anzac have done without “Johnnie” and his sturdy
little mules? Horse or motor transport could not have faced the
difficulties of Anzac. The mules are sometimes stubborn and
unmanageable, but we knew that before. And the drivers are—most of
them—hard workers, intelligent and anxious to please. I often marvel
on a rough day, when the loaded carts, nearly up to their axles in
mud or sand, are beached on that wild seashore, on the watery edge of
which they are kept during the day; and wonder still more when, after
standing there for a few hours, the mules draw them out when the
convoy leaves at night. For the mules do not like the sea, and when
the weather is rough it is very difficult to get the little beasts
anywhere near it.

One thing, however, really does hang up work for a time, and that is
“Beachy Bill” in action. Even then some of the “Johnnies,” who are
less fearsome than the rest, go on with their work, and have from
time to time been hit.

Therefore, all praise to the Indian Mule Corps.

  B. R.

[Illustration: Decoration]


  As some far swimmer, turning, views once more
  England’s white cliffs, and strongly cleaves t’ward shore,
  But, tide-encumbered, faints; so far and dear
  Thy crystal arms and pillared throat appear,
  Love, to thy soldier who makes earth his bed
  In this grey catacomb of unnamed dead.
  Thy voice, o’er tossing seas of eves and dawns,
  Comes like dim music heard on magic lawns;
  And, when in prayer thou kneelest, this grim brow
  Feels the cool benison of hands which thou
  Wouldst often grant. Now know I ’twas not vain
  Our love, whose memory softens present pain.

  C. J. N.


  _Drawn by F. R. CROZIER_

“HILL 60”]


For the delightful diversion which little Jenny, with her frolics
and gambols, provided for the A.S.C.’s when they really had a moment
to spare another medium will have to be sought. Though of short
duration, her life appeared a charmed one whilst it lasted. Her
freedom of action was the envy of every soldier along the beach. Her
disregard for the enemy’s bullets and shells commanded our unbounded
admiration. But whether her immunity for six months was due to
the kindness of the Turks or their bad shooting, or her own good
judgment, who can say?

Jenny’s origin is enveloped in some obscurity; but it is said that
with her parents, Murphy of Red Cross fame and Jenny Senior, she
toddled into our lines when quite a mite; and, once having crossed
over the border into civilisation, the three emphatically refused to
return whilst the objectionable Hun element obtained in their native

Jenny the younger was no mere mystic mascot for the humouring of
an especially created superstition. Her congenial company and high
spirits, her affectionate ways and equable temperament, were the
factors which gained for her the obvious rank of “Camp Pet.” Her
friendly regular visits will be missed, and the picture of her
patrician head and dark-brown shaggy winter’s coat. Her refined voice
was music compared with the common “hee-haw” which characterises her
kind, or the peremptory foghorn of the sergeant-major.

But now she is no more. Our sorrow is immeasurable. The mother never
left the babe whilst it suffered excruciating agony through a deadly
shrapnel pellet. Skilful, indefatigable attention, innumerable
applications of the “invincible iodine,” proved futile. Jenny Senior
is grief-stricken, and now lies upon the neat little grave in which
her infant was placed by the big Australian playmates who now mourn
their irreparable loss.

  F. C. DUNSTAN, L.-C.,
  B Depot,
  6th A.A.S.C.


[10] This origin is a myth. The parents landed with the troops
on April 25, 1915. Murphy, who bore a red cross between his two
long ears, is said (in company with his master, Pte. Simpson, 3rd
Australian Field Ambulance) to have carried 72 wounded men from the
firing line through Shrapnel Gully, at the time when that valley
thoroughly earned its name, before his master met his death on one
of these errands of mercy. Murphy himself was subsequently hit by a
shell, but happily survives, and was, we believe, brought safely away
from Anzac.—EDS.


    Boots, belt, rifle, and pack—
    All you’ll need till you come back;
    All you’ll doff when you lie down to sleep;
    All they’ll take off when they bury you deep.
            Boots, belt, rifle, and pack.

    Boots that went light down the Suffolk lane
    Will shuffle and drag ere they tread it again.
    Nails that rang gay on the cobbled street
    Will have pierced through the sock into somebody’s feet.
            Boots, belt, rifle, and pack.

    Belt—for water-bottle and sword:
    One to save life; the other—oh, Lord!
    ’Fore you’ve finished with them, you bet,
    One will be dry and the other wet.
            Boots, belt, rifle, and pack.

    Rifle—the soldier’s only friend—
    True, if you treat her well, to the end:
    Feed her with five, and the tune she’ll play
    Will reach the heart of a Turkish Bey.
            Boots, belt, rifle, and pack.

    Pack—that holds what a man most wants:
    A shirt, an overcoat, socks and pants,
    A Bible, a photo of heart’s desire;
    But you’ll throw it away when you charge—or retire.
            Boots, belt, rifle, and pack.

    Leather and canvas, steel and wood,
    They’ll stand by you if you’re good;
    Keep them oiled and keep them dry,
    They’ll see you home safely—by and by.
            Boots, belt, rifle, and pack.

                                            C. J. N.

[Illustration: TRANSPORT



It was the colonel who propounded the theory first, on hearing some
rumour more optimistic than reliable. “These furphies[11] are the
very devil,” he said.

Now, I had a theory about Furphy. I was waiting for an opportunity of
following it up, and it came this way:

I was on the beach one day when a friend met me and asked if I had
heard the latest dinkum. On learning that I hadn’t, he informed me
that Greece had declared war on Turkey, and was going to land 100,000
men within the next few days on the Peninsula. I inquired for the
source, and he said he got it from a fellow who had just gone along
the beach towards the left. I asked what the man was like. That sort
of puzzled him. He said he was a tall man—no, he thought he was
only middle height or perhaps a bit on the small side. His hair was
dark—no, now that he thought a bit, he fancied it was fair. In fact,
the more he tried to describe him the less could he remember him.
“He’s my Moses,” I said, and hurried off in in the direction he had

Passing through the sap to Shrapnel Gully, I met another friend.

“Heard the latest?” he inquired.

I said “No.”

“Four Italian staff officers seen on the beach to-day,” he said
breathlessly. “Two hundred thousand Italian troops being sent here.”

“Who told you?” I asked.

“Fellow just going into White’s Valley.”

“What was he like?” I inquired excitedly.

“An ordinary fellow—not tall, and not short.”

“His hair?”

“Well, it wasn’t dark—yes, it was—no, I don’t know.”

“How did he walk?”

“I never noticed,” he said; “in fact, he didn’t seem to walk at all.”

I left him standing, and got down the sap and over into White’s
Valley in a record time, and bumped into another acquaintance.

“Heard the news?” he said.


“Why, three hundred thousand Italians have landed at Helles, and Achi
Baba is to be taken to-night.”

I asked who his informant was, and he began to flounder into
contradictions. I rushed off, knowing that I was well on the track of

In Victoria Gully I heard that Roumania had declared war, and 400,000
troops were marching through Bulgaria to Constantinople.

“Who told you? What was he like?” I gasped at the teller.

“Just a bloke,” was the answer. “’E ’ad two legs, two arms, and a
’ead, two eyes——” Then he added in a puzzled fashion: “But, dammit,
did ’e?”

I didn’t wait any longer, but was off again. At Shell Green I heard
that a man—just a feller, rather—had told them that the Russians had
surrounded and captured Hindenburg’s army, and that 500,000 Russians
were to make a landing in Turkey. The Russian officers were here
already. The man who had seen them had just passed five minutes
before. I wasn’t far from Furphy now.

At Chatham’s Post they were buzzing with excitement over the news
that 600,000 French were going to be landed between Kaba Tepe and

I asked if they thought it was true, and they assured me that they
had heard it from a man who looked as if he knew. No two descriptions
of him, however, agreed. I was getting closer to Furphy.

I hurried along the trenches as fast as I could, but got no
information till near Lone Pine, where I heard that a big mob of
Turks was expected to surrender that night. It was said they could
not face the prospect of the coming landing of the whole Italian
army. Besides, they were short of food and water, they were being
badly treated by their officers, and their guns had hardly any
ammunition left. A 75 just then knocked a portion of parapet over
me. I remarked that anyone could see the information was right about
Abdul being short of ammunition, but where did the information come

“A fellow that just went by,” they said; “looked like a staff

Getting near Steele’s Post, I saw in front of me a man with an
indescribable gait. He seemed to float along instead of walk. It was

I hurried, but seemed to make no gain on him. I began to run. Near
Courtney’s Post I was twenty yards from him, and called to a man to
stop him. My quarry brushed past. I put on a spurt. I was within
about five yards of him when, all of a sudden, he sank into the
earth. As his head disappeared he smiled an oily grimace at me.

And I noticed that there were small horns behind his ears.

  Q. E. D.


[11] Furphy was the name of the contractor which was written large
upon the rubbish carts that he supplied to the Melbourne camps. The
name was transferred to a certain class of news item, very common
since the war, which flourished greatly upon all the beaches.—EDS.


    A clear, cold night, and in the southern air
    Those far-off thunderings so often there;[12]
    A Turkish moon is shining fitfully—
    My thoughts are ’neath another moon where we
    Paced slowly through the tree stems—you and I.
    And, looking back at yon farewell, I sigh
    And wonder whether then I cared as much
    As now I do when far beyond your touch.

                      Cpl. COMUS, 2nd Bat., A.I.F.


[12] Cape Helles is about 12 miles south of Anzac, and the distant
rumble of the guns there was constantly in the air at Anzac.—EDS.


    We’ve drunk the boys who rushed the hills,
      The men who stormed the beach,
    The sappers and the A.S.C.,
      We’ve had a toast for each;
    And the guns and stretcher-bearers—
      But, before the bowl is cool,
    There’s one chap I’d like to mention,
      He’s a fellow called ABDUL.

    We haven’t seen him much of late—
      Unless it be his hat,
    Bobbing down behind a loophole ...
      And we mostly blaze at that;
    But we hear him wheezing there at nights,
      Patrolling through the dark,
    With his signals—hoots and chirrups—
      Like an early morning lark.

    We’ve heard the twigs a-crackling,
      As we crouched upon our knees,
    And his big, black shape went smashing,
      Like a rhino, through the trees.
    We’ve seen him flung in, rank on rank,
      Across the morning sky;
    And we’ve had some pretty shooting,
       And—he knows the way to die.

    Yes, we’ve seen him dying there in front—
      Our own boys died there, too—
    With his poor dark eyes a-rolling,
      Staring at the hopeless blue;
    With his poor maimed arms a-stretching
      To the God we both can name ...
    And it fairly tore our hearts out;
      But it’s in the beastly game.

[Illustration: ABDUL

_Drawn by TED COLLES_]

    So though your name be black as ink
      For murder and rapine,
    Carried out in happy concert
      With your Christians from the Rhine,
    _We_ will judge you, Mr. Abdul,
      By the test by which _we_ can—
    That with all your breath, in life, in death,
      You’ve played the gentleman.

                                C. E. W. B.

[Illustration: Decoration]


    Who would remember me were I to die,
      Remember with a pang and yet no pain;
    Remember as a friend, and feel good-bye
      Said at each memory as it wakes again?

    I would not that a single heart should ache—
      That some dear heart will ache is my one grief.
    Friends, if I have them, I would fondly take
      With me that best of gifts, a friend’s belief.

    I have believed, and for my faith reaped tares;
      Believed again, and, losing, was content;
    A heart perchance touched blindly, unawares,
      Rewards with friendship faith thus freely spent.

    Bury the body—it has served its ends;
      Mark not the spot, but “On Gallipoli,”
    Let it be said, “he died.” Oh, Hearts of Friends,
      If I am worth it, keep my memory.

                       Capt. JAMES SPRENT,
                  A.M.C. (attached 3rd Field Amb.).


(_A Sketch by One who knows him very well_)

In a shady spot beneath the scarlet-blossomed Judas trees, Abdul
sat sipping his coffee, contemplating the busy scene in the small
marketplace. There were happy fishermen hanging their nets to dry on
the lime trees for which the village is famous, after their night’s
toil in the Black Sea. Their catch was a good one, and was even now
being put up for sale in the narrow alleys by the Jews. The village
barber was a hard-worked man that day, for the Turk is vain and also
dignified, and was it not the eve of the Bairam festival! Groups of
gaily coloured villagers among the fruiterers’ baskets were busy
haggling over their bargains. The word “Cauzaum” (my lamb) would
often be flung by an infuriated vendor at stalwart Kurds, workers
in the neighbouring quarry, who fingered his luscious grapes whilst
cavilling at his prices. From a latticed window a veiled woman with
a shrill voice called to a little red-fezzed boy escaping from his

The _Mouktar_ (mayor), with a jasper-handled stick, was pointing to
the new fountain, its gilded inscription of extracts from the Koran
shining in the sun. Had not the _Mouktar_ sat day after day outside
the door of the great _Dahlié Naziri_ (Minister of Interior) waiting
to obtain a credit for the construction of the fountain whose waters
were from the Beicos bends?

“God is great, and Mahomet is His prophet,” murmured Abdul, as he
slowly counted off another bead from his amber rosary. “I am a happy
man,” he murmured to himself. “Was not my Kismet good; when lifting
the veil of my wife at the marriage ceremony I found that she was
beautiful? She is a good housekeeper; her coffee resembles that of
the creamy Arabian coffee bean. Is not the gilled ram that I bought
for to-morrow’s sacrifice worthy of her cooking?”

Abdul wandered along homewards to his cottage near the shore; for it
was drawing close to the midday call to prayer, and his heart was
full of thanksgiving to Allah.

       *       *       *       *       *

Abdul is struggling along the main road leading to Stamboul with many
others. He no longer hearkens to the beating of the tom-toms, and to
the patriotic exhortations of a straggling mob following behind with
green banners. “It is Kismet,” he murmurs, as he turns once more for
a last look at the silvery winding thread below—the Bosphorus, on
whose shores lies his home, his all. He has been told there is a war.
He does not question; he knows not the cause. It is fate. He trudges

       *       *       *       *       *

The fighting has been fierce. He is hard pressed. Sweating with
blood he draws back. His regiment is hard put to it, and, like sheep
without a master, the men are preparing to disperse. Already German
machine-guns from their rear are on to them. The road home means
death. Like a man he faces the rush of his opponents.

       *       *       *       *       *

He sees strange faces—the pain from his wounds is calmed. Once more
there swim before his eyes his home, his wife, his plantation of
maize so promising.

Allah was great—it was Kismet.

  H. E. W.,
  A. & N. Z. A. C.


Biscuits! Army biscuits! What a volume of blessings and cursings have
been uttered on the subject of biscuits—army biscuits!

What a part they take in our daily routine: the carrying of them, the
eating of them, the cursing at them!

Could we find any substitute for biscuits? Surely not! It is easy
to think of biscuits without an army, but of an army without

Biscuits, like the poor, are always with us. Crawling from our
earthly dens at the dim dawning of the day, we receive no portion
of the dainties which once were ours in the long ago times of
effete civilisation; but, instead, we devour with eagerness—biscuit
porridge. We eat our meat, not with thankfulness, but with biscuits.
We lengthen out the taste of jam—with biscuits. We pound them to
powder. We boil them with bully. We stew them in stews. We fry them
as fritters. We curse them with many and bitter cursings, and we
bless them with few blessings.

Biscuits! Army biscuits! Consider the hardness of them. Remember the
cracking of your plate, the breaking of this tooth, the splintering
of that. Call to mind how your finest gold crown weakened, wobbled,
and finally shrivelled under the terrific strain of masticating
Puntley and Chalmer’s No. 5’s.

Think of the aching void where once grew a goodly tooth. Think
of the struggle and strain, the crushing and crunching as two
molars wrestled with some rocky fragment. Think of the momentary
elation during the fleeting seconds when it seemed that the molars
would triumphantly blast and scrunch through every stratum of the
thrice-hardened rock. Call to mind the disappointment, the agony of
mind and body, as the almost victorious grinder missed its footing,
slipped, and snapped hard upon its mate, while the elusive biscuit
rasped and scraped upon bruised and tender gums.

Biscuits! Army biscuits! Have you, reader, ever analysed with
due carefulness the taste of army biscuits? Is it the delicious
succulency of ground granite or the savoury toothsomeness of powdered
marble? Do we perceive a delicate flavouring of ferro-concrete with
just a dash of scraped iron railings? Certainly, army biscuits,
if they have a taste, have one which is peculiarly their own. The
choicest dishes of civilised life, whether they be baked or boiled,
stewed or steamed, fried, frizzled, roasted or toasted, whether they
be composed of meat or fish, fruit or vegetable, have not (thank
Heaven!) any like taste to that of army biscuits. Army biscuits taste
like nothing else on the Gallipoli Peninsula. It is a debatable
question indeed whether or not they have the quality of taste. If
it be granted that they possess this faculty of stimulating the
peripheral extremities of a soldier’s taste-buds, then it must also
be conceded that the stimulation is on the whole of an unpleasant
sort. In short, that the soldier’s feeling, apart from the joy,
the pride, and the satisfaction at his completed achievement in
transferring a whole biscuit from his outer to his inner man without
undue accident or loss of teeth, is one of pain, unease, and

It may seem almost incredible, wholly unbelievable indeed, but armies
have marched and fought, made sieges, retired according to plan,
stormed impregnable cities, toiled in weariness and painfulness, kept
lonely vigils, suffered the extremes of burning heat and of freezing
cold, and have, in the last extremity, bled and died, laurel-crowned
and greatly triumphant, the heroes of legend and of song, all without
the moral or physical, or even spiritual aid of army biscuits.

Agamemnon and the Greeks camped for ten years on the windy plains of
Troy without one box of army biscuits. When Xerxes threw his pontoon
bridge across the Narrows and marched 1,000,000 men into Greece, his
transport included none of Teak Green and Co.’s paving-stones for
the hardening of his soldiers’ hearts and the stiffening of their
backs. Cæsar subdued Britons, Gauls, and Germans. Before the lines of
Dyrrhachium his legions lived many days on boiled grass and such-like
delicacies, but they never exercised their jaws upon a rough, tough
bit of—army biscuit.

Biscuits! Army biscuits! They are old friends now, and, like all old
friends, they will stand much hard wear and tear. Well glazed, they
would make excellent tiles or fine flagstones. After the war they
will have great scarcity value as curios, as souvenirs which one can
pass on from generation to generation, souvenirs which will endure
while the Empire stands. If we cannot get physical strength from army
biscuits, let us at least catch the great spiritual ideal of enduring
hardness, which they are so magnificently fitted to proclaim.

The seasons change. Antwerp falls, Louvain is burned, the tide of
battle surges back and forth; new reputations are made, the old
ones pass away; Warsaw, Lemberg, Servia, the stern battle lines of
Gallipoli, Hindenburg, Mackensen, each name catches our ear for brief
moments of time, and then gives way to another crowding it out; but
army biscuits are abiding facts, always with us, patient, appealing,
enduring. We can move to other theatres, we can change our clothes,
our arms, and our generals, but we must have our biscuits, army
biscuits, else we are no longer an army.


[Illustration: “Gawd help the first bloomin’ Turk I see to-night.”]



  Gallipoli ’15

“Do they think we’re on a bloomin’ pic-nic?”]


I called to see our regimental poet last evening. He had previously
told me that he intended to “write something” for “The Anzac
Book.” Our poet is also Q.M. Sergeant, and when he is not writing
requisitions or taking “baksheesh” out of our rations, and watering
our rum, he writes poetry.

When I called on him he was in his dug-out, surrounded by bully-beef
tins, empty cases, and his ill-gotten shares of our daily issues.
He has many callers, and I am afraid their inquiries rather spoilt
his verses. When I arrived the Q.M.S. was already in a poor humour
for writing poetry. The O.C. had been worrying him about galvanised
iron for cover for some dug-outs; three men had complained about the
scantiness of their rum issue—which somehow always annoys the Q.M.S.;
and he had received no letters in the day’s mail except a bill from
a chap he had borrowed a pound from in Charleville two years ago.
Still, our Q.M.S. is a sticker, and he read me the covering letter
which he was sending to the Editor.

He said he thought it would be as well to get the letter off his mind
first. That would make the writing of the verses necessary, and he
would have to complete the job in order to keep faith.

Before I arrived he had written:

  Yes, Mr. Editor, I will try to “write something” for your book.
  ’Tis a glorious day, bright with sunshine, and the snow has melted
  away from the sides of the hills—snow that so many Anzacites saw
  fall for the first time. I know a state where no snow falls. And,
  to-night, being rum issue night, I would sing to you of black soil
  plains and wheat-fields, of warm comfy boundary riders’ huts, and
  of holidays where plump maids join you in surf-bathing excursions.
  But you see I am a Q.M.S., and at other times when I have tried to
  versify I have been disturbed. We have a Quartermaster, but, of
  course, I do all the work. Well, let’s rhyme. Boy, bring me the
  lyre. The Quartermaster? No, I don’t want the Quartermaster. I want
  a harp that I may sing to my muse....

He had just read this much out when the sergeant came in and reported
that the C.O. insisted on the galvanised iron being procured
to-morrow. Then a corporal called and wanted to know could six men in
his section have new boots, and when would the rubber boots be ready
for the coves in the trenches?

“How can a man write when he is interrupted like this?” asked our
poet. “I had a lovely inspiration, too, about surf bathing. It ran
like this——”

But again there was an interruption. The sergeant cook was the
caller, and he was angry and hostile. “How the —— can I cook seventy
beef teas, forty puddings and two hundred milk diets with the
bloomin’ quarter issue of water I get? Love me, when I was cooking
for shearing sheds out on the Barcoo, where it never rained, I could
get as much water as I wanted. If you want them bloomin’ milk diets
you got to get me water—or cook them yourself.”

I don’t know whether our poet had a rod with which he taps the rock
and brings forth water, but he mollified the sergeant cook by getting
water from somewhere. It tasted well in the rum, too. I would have
heard the first line of the poem if one of the sergeants in our
hospital had not called down for three hot-water bottles, a tin of
Bovril, and some brandy for a sick soldier. I wonder how sick you
have to be before you get brandy? Before the sergeant had gone the
orderly officer came in. He bullied the Q.M.S. about not getting some
tents repaired.

“It’s hard work trying to write a poem here,” said the Q.M.S. sadly,
when the orderly officer departed. “For two pins I’d chuck writin’,
but that idea about the surf girls is too good to lose. I was going
to start with this line——”

“Those patients up in Number Three Ward must have more blankets. And
you will have to get another forty beds ready to-night,” yelled a
voice at the door.

“Excuse me a bit,” said the poet. He was gone about an hour. When he
returned there were five men waiting to interview him. The corporal
wished that the Q.M.S. would explain how men were to keep their boots
on without laces, and whether socks were supposed to be everlasting.
The second caller came on a more peaceful mission. He simply wished
to know if the Q.M.S. had heard anything about a consignment of
Christmas billy-cans that good people in Australia are supposed to
be sending us. I don’t know why, but this query made my friend very
angry. “Do you think I’ve got your bloomin’ billy-cans?” he yelled.
Why should a Q.M.S. say a thing like that? And he seemed so indignant
about it, too. The third chap wanted some paper and an envelope to
write to his girl; the fourth wanted an old blanket and some twine to
make a shroud for a man who had died; and the fifth asked whether the
Q.M.S. knew what was the latest war news. When he was told to go to a
place warmer than Port Darwin, he asked quietly if either of us could
tell him if sheep would do well around Adrianople after the war.

It was growing late, but I thought I would wait a bit and hear that
first line about the surf bathers. Two men came in for soap; a doctor
chap called to ask whether there was any fruit to make a fruit salad
for a sick man; a lance-corporal said his boots hurt, and got a
bigger pair; the cook came back and complained that somebody had
pinched six tins of condensed milk; and an officer’s servant inquired
whether his boss could have an old box and a ground-sheet to make a

Then the Q.M.S. had another rum and took up his pencil again. He
spread out a piece of paper and commenced to write. “I’ll get that
first verse off and read it to you,” he said. He would have done it,
too, but for the sergeant-major. Our sergeant-major is a—well, he is
just a sergeant-major, and he does not write verse.

[Illustration: THE HOSPITAL CAMP]

[Illustration: WATER CARRIERS]

[Illustration: A Y.M.C.A. CANTEEN QUEUE]



“What about those great-coats?” he roared. “Didn’t I tell you to get
them to-day? And they are not here. Weeks ago I ordered you to get
them. I don’t suppose you ever requisitioned for them. What’s that
you’re writing now—requisitions?”

“No, sir,” said the Q.M.S. “It’s a poem.”

Then the ’major saw red. “What the blazes have I got here?” he
yelled. “Men dying from cold because they’ve got no coats, and you
writing poems. What the——”

He fainted away, and I was present when the doctors came out of the
hospital tent to which they carried him. One of the doctors said
the sergeant-major was a splendid soldier, but he had received a
tremendous shock from some unknown cause, and they don’t think he can

When the Q.M.S. heard that he became very despondent. “I won’t
write that poem now,” he said; “but it would have been a splendid
thing. All about a pretty girl in the surf who met a fellow from the

  R. A. L.
  1st Australian Stat. Hosp.

[Illustration: Decoration]


    My mother’s letter came to-day,
    And now my thoughts are far away,
    For in between its pages lay
        A little sprig of wattle.

    “The old home now looks at its best,”
    The message ran; “the country’s dressed
    In spring’s gay cloak, and I have pressed
        A little sprig of wattle.”

    I almost see that glimpse of spring:
    The very air here seems to ring
    With joyful notes of birds that sing
        Among the sprigs of wattle.

    The old home snug amidst the pines,
    The trickling creek that twists and twines
    Round tall gum roots and undermines,
        Is all ablaze with wattle.

                      A. H. SCOTT,
                              4th Battery, A.F.A.


_Deciphered—with much labour—by a bomb-thrower of the New Zealand
Infantry Brigade from a very old tablet dug up in the trenches at
Quinn’s Post_

    The Isles of Greece! The Isles of Greece!
      Where burning Sappho sang,
    Both day and night, without surcease—
      She didn’t care a hang!

    She sang so much by night, by day—
      She couldn’t sing at all.
    Her manager he docked her pay:
      She didn’t fill the hall!

    At length, distraught, in fiendish glee,
      From cliffs that I have seen,
    She flung herself into the sea,
      One mile from Mitylene!

    ’Twas thus that Sappho bold did end
      Her gay, voluptuous days;
    And monks, who never can unbend,
      Press-censored all her lays!

    The moral of this tale is that
      You guard what Deus sends:
    You cannot burn the candle-fat
      At both the candle ends!

                                M. R.

  [NOTE.—The epic loses much of its beauty through a hurried
  translation from the Ancient Greek during a Turkish attack.]

[Illustration: Decoration]


    Said Pat Malone to a big, brown Sick,
    “They say at fighting you’re mighty slick.”
    Said Jock McNab, “Have you noticed the Seeks?
    They wear their shirts outside their breeks.”
    Said Cornstalk Joe, “Say what you like,
    I’ll swear S-i-k-h spells Sike.”
    Ses I to ’em all, “What need to bicker?
    Pronounce it so’s to rhyme with shikker.”

                                 C. D. MC.,
                             R.S.D., 11th Aust. A.S.C.

[Illustration: THE UNBURIED]

    Now snowflakes thickly falling in the winter breeze
    Have cloaked alike the hard, unbending ilex
    And the grey, drooping branches of the olive trees,
      Transmuting into silver all their lead;
    And, in between the winding lines, in No-Man’s Land,
    Have softly covered with a glittering shroud
            The unburied dead.

    And in the silences of night, when winds are fair,
    When shot and shard have ceased their wild surprising,
    I hear a sound of music in the upper air,
      Rising and falling till it slowly dies—
    It is the beating of the wings of migrant birds
    Wafting the souls of these unburied heroes
            Into the skies.

                                         M. R.,
                                   N.Z. Headquarters.

[Illustration: F. R. CROZIER]

[Illustration: THE BOMB EXPERT]


_Drawn by TED COLLES_]


The following extracts from the dispatches of Sir Ian Hamilton form a
short official summary of the history of Anzac:

[Sidenote: The Landing]

The Australian and New Zealand Army Corps sailed out of Mudros Bay
on the afternoon of April 24, escorted by the 2nd Squadron of the
Fleet, under Rear-Admiral Thursby. The rendezvous was reached just
after half-past one in the morning of the 25th, and there the 1,500
men who had been placed on board H.M. ships before leaving Mudros
were transferred to their boats. This operation was carried out with
remarkable expedition and in absolute silence. Simultaneously the
remaining 2,500 men of the covering force were transferred from their
transports to six destroyers. At 2.30 A.M. H.M. ships, together with
the tows and the destroyers, proceeded to within some four miles
of the coast, H.M.S. _Queen_ (flying Rear-Admiral Thursby’s flag)
directing on a point about a mile north of Kaba Tepe. At 3.30 A.M.
orders to go ahead and land were given to the tows, and at 4.10 A.M.
the destroyers were ordered to follow.

All these arrangements worked without a hitch, and were carried out
in complete orderliness and silence. No breath of wind ruffled the
surface of the sea, and every condition was favourable save for the
moon which, sinking behind the ships, may have silhouetted them
against its orb, betraying them thus to watchers on the shore.

A rugged and difficult part of the coast had been selected for the
landing, so difficult and rugged that I considered the Turks were not
at all likely to anticipate such a descent. Indeed, owing to the tows
having failed to maintain their exact direction, the actual point of
disembarkation was rather more than a mile north of that which I had
selected, and was more closely overhung by steeper cliffs. Although
this accident increased the initial difficulty of driving the enemy
off the heights inland, it has since proved itself to have been a
blessing in disguise, inasmuch as the actual base of the force of
occupation has been much better defiladed from shell fire.

The beach on which the landing was actually effected is a very narrow
strip of sand, about 1,000 yards in length, bounded on the north and
the south by two small promontories. At its southern extremity a deep
ravine, with exceedingly steep, scrub-clad sides, runs inland in a
north-easterly direction. Near the northern end of the beach a small
but steep gully runs up into the hills at right angles to the shore.
Between the ravine and the gully the whole of the beach is backed by
the seaward face of the spur, which forms the north-western side of
the ravine. From the top of the spur the ground falls almost sheer
except near the southern limit of the beach, where gentler slopes
give access to the mouth of the ravine behind. Further inland lie in
a tangled knot the under-features of Sari Bair, separated by deep
ravines, which take a most confusing diversity of direction. Sharp
spurs, covered with dense scrub, and falling away in many places in
precipitous sandy cliffs, radiate from the principal mass of the
mountain, from which they run north-west, west, south-west, and south
to the coast.

The boats approached the land in the silence and the darkness, and
they were close to the shore before the enemy stirred. Then about one
battalion of Turks was seen running along the beach. At this critical
moment the conduct of all ranks was most praiseworthy. Not a word was
spoken—everyone remained perfectly orderly and quiet awaiting the
enemy’s fire, which sure enough opened, causing many casualties. The
moment the boats touched land the Australians’ turn had come. Like
lightning they leapt ashore, and each man as he did so went straight
as his bayonet at the enemy. So vigorous was the onslaught that the
Turks made no attempt to withstand it and fled from ridge to ridge
pursued by the Australian infantry.

This attack was carried out by the 3rd Australian Brigade, under
Major (temporary Colonel) Sinclair Maclagan, D.S.O. The 1st and 2nd
Brigades followed promptly, and were all disembarked by 2 P.M., by
which time 12,000 men and two batteries of Indian Mountain Artillery
had been landed. The disembarkation of further artillery was delayed
owing to the fact that the enemy’s heavy guns opened on the anchorage
and forced the transports, which had been subjected to continuous
shelling from his field guns, to stand farther out to sea.

The broken ground, the thick scrub, the necessity for sending
any formed detachments post haste as they landed to the critical
point—all these led to confusion and mixing up of units. Eventually
the mixed crowd of fighting men, some advancing from the beach,
others falling back before the oncoming Turkish supports, solidified
into a semi-circular position with its right about a mile north of
Gaba Tepe and its left on the high ground over Fisherman’s Hut.
During this period parties of the 9th and 10th Battalions charged and
put out of action three of the enemy’s Krupp guns. During this period
also the disembarkation of the Australian Division was being followed
by that of the New Zealand and Australian Division (two brigades

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: The Counter-Attack]

From 11 A.M. to 3 P.M. the enemy, now reinforced to a strength of
20,000 men, attacked the whole line, making a specially strong
effort against the 3rd Brigade and the left of the 2nd Brigade. This
counter-attack was, however, handsomely repulsed with the help
of the guns of H.M. ships. Between 5 and 6.30 P.M. a third most
determined counter-attack was made against the 3rd Brigade, who held
their ground with more than equivalent stubbornness. During the night
again the Turks made constant attacks; but in spite of all the line
held firm. The troops had had practically no rest on the night of
the 24-25th; they had been fighting hard all day over most difficult
country, and they had been subjected to heavy shrapnel fire in the
open. Their casualties had been deplorably heavy. But, despite their
losses and in spite of their fatigue, the morning of the 26th found
them still in good heart and as full of fight as ever.

It is a consolation to know that the Turks suffered still more
seriously. Several times our machine guns got on to them in close
formation, and the whole surrounding country is still strewn with
their dead of this date.

The reorganisation of units and formations was impossible during the
26th and 27th owing to persistent attacks. An advance was impossible
until a reorganisation could be effected, and it only remained to
entrench the position gained and to perfect the arrangements for
bringing up ammunition, water and supplies to the ridges—in itself
a most difficult undertaking. Four battalions of the Royal Naval
Division were sent up to reinforce the Army Corps on April 28 and 29.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: May 2]

On the night of May 2, a bold effort was made to seize a commanding
knoll in front of the centre of the line. The enemy’s enfilading
machine guns were too scientifically posted, and 800 men were lost
without advantage beyond the infliction of a corresponding loss
to the enemy. On May 4, an attempt to seize Kaba Tepe was also
unsuccessful, the barbed-wire here being something beyond belief. But
a number of minor operations were carried out, such as the taking of
a Turkish observing station, the strengthening of entrenchments, the
reorganisation of units, and the perfecting of communication with
the landing-place. Also a constant strain was placed upon some of
the best troops of the enemy, who, to the number of 24,000, were
constantly kept fighting and being killed and wounded freely, as the
Turkish sniper is no match for the Kangaroo shooter, even at his own

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Two Brigades sent to Helles]

The many urgent calls for reinforcements made during the previous
critical fighting had forced me to disorganise and mix together
several of the formations in the southern group, to the extent
even of the French on our right having a British battalion holding
their own extremest right. For the purposes of the impending fight,
it became therefore necessary to create temporarily a Composite
Division, consisting of the 2nd Australian and New Zealand Infantry
Brigades (withdrawn for the purpose from the northern section)
together with a Naval Brigade formed of the Plymouth and Drake
Battalions. The 29th Division was reconstituted into four brigades,
i.e. the 88th and 87th Brigades, the Lancashire Fusilier Brigade
(T.F.), and the 29th Indian Infantry Brigade. The French Corps
Expéditionnaire was reinforced by the 2nd Naval Brigade, and the new
Composite Division formed my General Reserve.

During the three days (May 6/8th) our troops were destined to be
very severely tried. They were about to attack a series of positions
scientifically selected in advance which, although not yet joined up
into one line of entrenchment, were already strengthened by works on
their more important tactical features.

[After recounting the heavy fighting by which the 29th Division made
its advance on May 6 and 7, the dispatch continues:]

The troops were now worn out; the new lines needed consolidating, and
it was certain that fresh reinforcements were reaching the Turks.
Balancing the actual state of my own troops against the probable
condition of the Turks, I decided to call upon the men to make one
more push before the new enemy forces could get into touch with their

Orders were therefore issued to dig in at sundown on the line gained,
to maintain that line against counter-attack, and to prepare to
advance again next morning. The Lancashire Fusilier Brigade was
withdrawn into reserve, and its place on the left was taken by the
Brigade of New Zealanders.

General Headquarters were shifted to an entrenchment on a hill in
rear of the left of our line. Under my plan for the fresh attack,
the New Zealand Brigade was to advance through the line held
during the night by the 88th Brigade and press on towards Krithia.
Simultaneously, the 87th Brigade was to threaten the works on the
west of the ravine, whilst endeavouring, by means of parties of
scouts and volunteers, to steal patches of ground from the areas
dominated by the German machine-guns.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Battle of Krithia]

At 10.15 A.M. heavy fire from ships and batteries was opened on the
whole front, and at 10.30 A.M. the New Zealand Brigade began to move,
meeting with strenuous opposition from the enemy, who had received
his reinforcements. Supported by the fire of the batteries and the
machine-guns of the 88th Brigade, they pushed forward on the right
and advanced their centre beyond the fir trees, but could make little
further progress. By 1.30 P.M. about 200 yards had been gained beyond
the previously most advanced trenches of the 88th Brigade.

At this hour the French Corps reported they could not advance up the
crest of the spur west of Kereves Dere till further progress was made
by the British.

At 4 P.M. I gave orders that the whole line, reinforced by the 2nd
Australian Brigade, would fix bayonets, slope arms, and move on
Krithia precisely at 5.30 P.M.

At 5.15 P.M. the ships’ guns and our heavy artillery bombarded the
enemy’s position for a quarter of an hour, and at 5.30 P.M. the field
guns opened a hot shrapnel fire to cover the infantry advance.

The co-operation of artillery and infantry in this attack was
perfect, the timing of the movement being carried out with great
precision. Some of the companies of the New Zealand regiments did not
get their orders in time, but acting on their own initiative they
pushed on as soon as the heavy howitzers ceased firing, thus making
the whole advance simultaneous.

The steady advance of the British could be followed by the sparkle
of their bayonets until the long lines entered the smoke clouds.
The French at first made no move, then, their drums beating and
bugles sounding the charge, they suddenly darted forward in a swarm
of skirmishers, which seemed in one moment to cover the whole
southern face of the ridge of the Kereves Dere. Against these the
Turkish gunners now turned their heaviest pieces, and as the leading
groups stormed the first Turkish redoubt the ink-black bursts of
high-explosive shells blotted out both assailants and assailed. The
trial was too severe for the Senegalese tirailleurs. They recoiled.
They were rallied. Another rush forward, another repulse, and then
a small supporting column of French soldiers was seen silhouetted
against the sky as they charged upwards along the crest of the ridge
of the Kereves Dere, whilst elsewhere it grew so dark that the whole
of the battlefield became a blank.

Not until next morning did any reliable details come to hand of what
had happened. The New Zealanders’ firing line had marched over the
cunningly concealed enemy’s machine-guns without seeing them, and
these, re-opening on our supports as they came up, caused them heavy
losses. But the first line pressed on and arrived within a few yards
of the Turkish trenches which had been holding up our advance beyond
the fir wood. There they dug themselves in.

The Australian Brigade had advanced through the Composite Brigade,
and, in spite of heavy losses from shrapnel, machine-gun, and rifle
fire, had progressed from 300 to 400 yards.

The determined valour shown by these two brigades, the New Zealand
Brigade, under Brigadier-General F. E. Johnston, and the 2nd
Australian Infantry Brigade, under Brigadier-General the Hon.
J. W. McCay, are worthy of particular praise. Their losses were
correspondingly heavy, but in spite of fierce counter-attacks by
numerous fresh troops they stuck to what they had won with admirable

On the extreme left the 87th Brigade, under Major-General W. R.
Marshall, made a final and especially gallant effort to advance
across the smooth, bullet-swept area between the ravine and the
sea, but once more the enemy machine-guns thinned the ranks of the
leading companies of the South Wales Borderers, and again there was
nothing for it but to give ground. But when night closed in, the men
of the 87th Brigade of their own accord asked to be led forward, and
achieved progress to the extent of just about 200 yards. During the
darkness the British troops everywhere entrenched themselves on the
line gained. On the right the French column, last seen as it grew
dark, had stormed and still held the redoubt round which the fighting
had centred.

[The 2nd Australian Infantry Brigade and New Zealand Infantry
Brigade were for three days in the trenches they had dug, but on the
completion of the push towards Krithia were retransferred to Anzac.
The history of Anzac during the next three months is told in the
following extracts:]

[Sidenote: Quinn’s Post]

Turning now to where the Australian and New Zealand Army Corps were
perched upon the cliffs of Sari Bair, I must begin by explaining that
their rôle at this stage of the operations was—first, to keep open
a door leading to the vitals of the Turkish position; secondly, to
hold up as large a body as possible of the enemy in front of them,
so as to lessen the strain at Cape Helles. Anzac, in fact, was cast
to play second fiddle to Cape Helles, a part out of harmony with the
daredevil spirit animating those warriors from the South, and so it
has come about that, as your Lordship will now see, the defensive of
the Australians and New Zealanders has always tended to take on the
character of an attack.

The line held during the period under review by the Australian and
New Zealand Army Corps formed a rough semi-circle inland from the
beach of Anzac Cove, with a diameter of about 1,100 yards. The
firing line is everywhere close to the enemy’s trenches, and in all
sections of the position sapping, counter-sapping, and bomb attacks
have been incessant. The shelling both of the trenches and beaches
has been impartial and liberal. As many as 1,400 shells have fallen
on Anzac within the hour, and these of all calibres, from 11 inches
to field shrapnel. Around Quinn’s Post, both above and below ground,
the contest has been particularly severe. This section of the line
is situated on the circumference of the Anzac semi-circle at the
farthest point from its diameter. Here our fire trenches are mere
ledges on the brink of a sheer precipice falling 200 feet into the
valley below. The enemy’s trenches are only a few feet distant.

[Illustration: April 25, 1915. Destroyers taking Troops to Shore]

[Illustration: April 25, 1915. Troops Landing: a Cruiser Firing on
Gaba Tepe]

[Illustration: Gen. Bridges’ First Headquarters

(The General can just be seen in the shade of the dug-out)]

_Photographs by C. E. W. BEAN_

[Illustration: The Height of Russell’s Top]

[Illustration: The Turkish Trenches at Lone Pine shortly after the

_Photographs by C. E. W. BEAN_


  _Photograph by Printing Section, R.E._

Table Top

Showing Headquarters of the 3rd Light Horse Brigade]

On May 9 a night assault was delivered on the enemy’s trenches in
front of Quinn’s Post. The trenches were carried at the point of the
bayonet. At dawn on May 10 a strong counter-attack forced our troops
to fall back on Quinn’s Post.

On the night of May 14-15 a sortie was made from Quinn’s Post with
the object of filling in Turkish trenches in which bomb-throwers
were active. The sortie, which cost us some 70 casualties, was not

On May 14, Lieutenant-General Sir W. R. Birdwood was slightly
wounded, but I am glad to say he was not obliged to relinquish the
command of his corps.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Death of Gen. Bridges]

On May 15 I deeply regret to say Major-General W. T. Bridges,
commanding the Australian Division, received a severe wound, which
proved fatal a few days later. Sincere and single-minded in his
devotion to Australia and to duty, his loss still stands out even
amidst the hundreds of other brave officers who have gone.

  [General Bridges was succeeded by Major-General H. B. Walker. The
  1st Australian Division was also commanded by Major-General J. G.
  Legge, who afterwards organised and commanded the 2nd Australian

[Sidenote: May 19]

On May 18 Anzac was subjected to a heavy bombardment from large
calibre guns and howitzers. At midnight of the 18th-19th the most
violent rifle and machine-gun fire yet experienced broke out along
the front. Slackening from 3 A.M. to 4 A.M. it then broke out again,
and a heavy Turkish column assaulted the left of No. 2 section.
This assault was beaten off with loss. Another attack was delivered
before daylight on the centre of this section; it was repeated
four times and repulsed each time with very serious losses to the
enemy. Simultaneously a heavy attack was delivered on the north-east
salient of No. 4 section, which was repulsed and followed up, but
the pressing of the counter-attack was prevented by shrapnel.
Attacks were also delivered on Quinn’s Post, Courtney’s Post, and
along the front of our right section. At about 5 A.M. the battle was
fairly joined, and a furious cannonade was begun by a large number
of enemy guns, including 12-inch and 9.2-inch, and other artillery
that had not till then opened. By 9.30 A.M. the Turks were pressing
hard against the left of Courtney’s and the right of Quinn’s Post.
At 10 A.M. this attack, unable to face fire from the right, swung
round to the left, where it was severely handled by our guns and the
machine-guns of our left section. By 11 A.M. the enemy, who were
crowded together in the trenches beyond Quinn’s Post, were giving way
under their heavy losses.

According to prisoners’ reports 30,000 troops, including five fresh
regiments, were used against us. General Liman von Sanders was
himself in command.

The enemy’s casualties were heavy, as may be judged from the fact
that over 3,000 dead were lying in the open in view of our trenches.
A large proportion of these losses were due to our artillery fire.
Our casualties amounted to about 100 killed and 500 wounded,
including nine officers wounded.

The next four days were chiefly remarkable for the carrying through
of the negotiations for the suspension of arms, which actually took
place on May 24. The negotiations resulted in a suspension of arms
from 7.30 A.M. to 4.30 P.M. on May 24. The procedure laid down for
this suspension of arms was, I am glad to inform your Lordship,
correctly observed on both sides.

The burial of the dead was finished about 3 P.M. Some 3,000 Turkish
dead were removed or buried in the area between the opposing lines.
The whole of these were killed on or since May 18. Many bodies of men
killed earlier were also buried.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: Quinn’s Again]

From May 28 till June 5 the fighting seemed to concentrate itself
around Quinn’s Post. Three enemy galleries had been detected there,
and work on them stopped by counter-mines, which killed twenty Turks
and injured thirty. One gallery had however, been overlooked, and
at 3.30 A.M. on May 29 a mine was sprung in or near the centre of
Quinn’s Post. The explosion was followed by a very heavy bomb attack,
before which our left centre subsection fell back, letting in a
storming party of Turks. This isolated one subsection on the left
from the two other subsections on the right.

At 5.30 A.M. our counter-attack was launched, and by 6 A.M. the
position had been retaken with the bayonet by the 15th Australian
Infantry Battalion, led by Major Quinn, who was unfortunately killed.
All the enemy in the trench were killed or captured.

On May 30 preparations were made in Quinn’s Post to attack and
destroy two enemy saps, the heads of which had reached within five
yards of our fire trench. Two storming parties of thirty-five men
went forward at 1 P.M., cleared the sap heads and penetrated into the
trenches beyond, but they were gradually driven back by bombs, of
which the enemy seemed to have an unlimited supply.

During May 31 close fighting continued in front of Quinn’s Post.

On June 1, an hour after dark, two sappers of the New Zealand
Engineers courageously crept out and laid a charge of gun-cotton
against a timber and sandbag bomb-proof. The structure was completely

       *       *       *       *       *

[Sidenote: The Demonstrations]

On June 4 three separate enterprises were carried out by the
Australian and New Zealand Army Corps. These were undertaken in
compliance with an order which I had issued that the enemy’s
attention should be distracted during an attack I was about to
deliver in the southern zone.

First a demonstration in the direction of Kaba Tepe, the Navy
co-operating by bombarding the Turkish trenches.

At Quinn’s Post an assault was delivered at 11 P.M. A party of sixty
men, accompanied by a bomb-throwing party on either flank, stormed
the enemy’s trench. In the assault many Turks were bayoneted and
twenty-eight captured. At 6.30 A.M. the trench had to be abandoned.

On June 5 a sortie was made by two officers and 100 men of the
1st Australian Infantry, the objective being the destruction of a
machine-gun in a trench (known as German Officer’s Trench). The
darkness of the trench and its overhead cover prevented the use of
the bayonet, but some damage was done by shooting down over the
parapet. The aim of this gallant assault being attained, the party
withdrew in good order with their wounded. Casualties in all were

[Sidenote: “Enver’s Attack”]

On the night of June 29-30 the Turks, acting, as we afterwards
ascertained, under the direct personal order of Enver Pasha to
drive us all into the sea, made a big attack on the Australian and
New Zealand Army Corps, principally on that portion of the line
which was under the command of Major-General Sir A. J. Godley. From
midnight till 1.30 A.M. a fire of musketry and guns of greatest
intensity was poured upon our trenches. A heavy column then advanced
to the assault, and was completely crumpled up by the musketry and
machine-guns of the 7th and 8th Light Horse. An hour later another
grand attack took place against our left and left centre, and was
equally cut to pieces by our artillery and rifle fire. The enemy’s
casualties may be judged by the fact that in areas directly exposed
to view between 400 and 500 were actually seen to fall.

[Sidenote: Suvla and Sari Bair—The Great Battle of August]

From the very first I had hoped that by landing a force under the
heights of Sari Bair we should be able to strangle the Turkish
communications to the southwards, whether by land or sea, and so
clear the Narrows for the Fleet. Owing to the enemy’s superiority,
both in numbers and in position; owing to under-estimates of the
strength of the original entrenchments prepared and sited under
German direction; owing to the constant dwindling of the units of my
force through wastage; owing also to the intricacy and difficulty of
the terrain, these hopes had not hitherto borne fruit. But they were
well founded. So much at least had clearly enough been demonstrated
by the desperate and costly nature of the Turkish attacks. The
Australians and New Zealanders had rooted themselves in very near to
the vitals of the enemy. By their tenacity and courage they still
held open the doorway from which one strong thrust forward might give
us command of the Narrows.


  _Photograph by Printing Section, R.E._

Sniper’s Nest (held by the Turks), from which part of the North Beach
is clearly visible. The white tents on the point are on North Beach]

[Illustration: The North Beach, showing the Sphinx]

[Illustration: Anzac Cove]

[Illustration: Turks firing on the stranded destroyer “Louis” at
Suvla Bay

_Photograph by E. BROOKES, circulated on behalf of the Press Bureau;
supplied by Central News_]

Before a man of the reinforcements had arrived my mind was made up as
to their employment, and by means of a vigorous offensive from Anzac,
combined with a surprise landing to the north of it, I meant to try
and win through to Maidos, leaving behind me a well-protected line of
communications starting from the bay of Suvla.

[Sidenote: Reinforcements]

On the nights of August 4, 5, and 6, the reinforcing troops were
shipped into Anzac very silently at the darkest hours. Then,
still silently, they were tucked away from enemy aeroplanes or
observatories in their prepared hiding-places. The whole sea route
lay open to the view of the Turks upon Achi Baba’s summit and
Battleship Hill. Aeroplanes could count every tent and every ship
at Mudros or at Imbros. Within rifle fire of Anzac’s open beach
hostile riflemen were looking out across the Ægean no more than
twenty feet from our opposing lines. Every modern appliance of
telescope, telegraph, wireless was at the disposal of the enemy. Yet
the instructions worked out at General Headquarters in the minutest
detail (the result of conferences with the Royal Navy, which were
attended by Brigadier-General Skeen, of General Birdwood’s staff)
were such that the scheme was carried through without a hitch.

The troops now at the disposal of General Birdwood amounted in round
numbers to 37,000 rifles and seventy-two guns, with naval support
from two cruisers, four monitors, and two destroyers. Under the
scheme these troops were to be divided into two main portions. The
task of holding the existing Anzac position, and of making frontal
assaults therefrom, was assigned to the Australian Division (plus
the 1st and 3rd Light Horse Brigades and two battalions of the 40th
Brigade); that of assaulting the Chunuk Bair ridge was entrusted to
the New Zealand and Australian Division (less the 1st and 3rd Light
Horse Brigades), to the 13th Division (less five battalions), and to
the 29th Indian Infantry Brigade and to the Indian Mountain Artillery
Brigade. The 29th Brigade of the 10th Division (less one battalion)
and the 38th Brigade were held in reserve.

[Sidenote: The Assault on Lone Pine]

During August 4, 5, and 6, the works on the enemy’s left and centre
were subjected to a slow bombardment, and on the afternoon of August
6 an assault was made upon the formidable Lone Pine entrenchment. The
work consisted of a strong _point d’appui_ on the south-western end
of a plateau, where it confronted, at distances varying from 60 to
120 yards, the salient in the line of our trenches named by us the
Pimple. The entrenchment was evidently very strong; it was entangled
with wire, and provided with overhead cover.

The detailed scheme of attack was worked out with care and
forethought by Major-General H. B. Walker, commanding 1st Australian
Division, and his thoroughness contributed, I consider, largely to
the success of the enterprise.

The action commenced at 4.30 P.M. with a continuous and heavy
bombardment of the Lone Pine and adjacent trenches, H.M.S.
_Bacchante_ assisting by searching the valleys to the north-east
and east, and the monitors by shelling the enemy’s batteries south
of Gaba Tepe. The assault had been entrusted to the 1st Australian
Brigade (Brigadier-General N. M. Smyth), and punctually at 5.30 P.M.
it was carried out by the 2nd, 3rd, and 4th Australian Battalions,
the 1st Battalion forming the brigade reserve.

Two lines left their trenches simultaneously, and were closely
followed up by a third. The rush across the open was a regular
race against death, which came in the shape of a hail of shell and
rifle bullets from front and from either flank. But the Australians
had firmly resolved to reach the enemy’s trenches, and in this
determination they became for the moment invincible. The barbed wire
entanglement was reached and was surmounted. Then came a terrible
moment, when it seemed as though it would be physically impossible
to penetrate into the trenches. The overhead cover of stout pine
beams resisted all individual efforts to move it, and the loopholes
continued to spit fire. Groups of our men then bodily lifted up the
beams and individual soldiers leaped down into the semi-darkened
galleries amongst the Turks. By 5.47 P.M. the 3rd and 4th Battalions
were well into the enemy’s vitals, and a few minutes later the
reserves of the 2nd Battalion advanced over their _parados_, and
driving out, killing, or capturing the occupants, made good the whole
of the trenches. The reserve companies of the 3rd and 4th Battalions
followed, and at 6.20 P.M. the 1st Battalion (in reserve) was
launched to consolidate the position.

[Sidenote: Counter-attack at Lone Pine]

At once the Turks made it plain, as they have never ceased to do
since, that they had no intention of acquiescing in the capture
of this capital work. At 7.0 P.M. a determined and violent
counter-attack began.

For seven hours these counter-attacks continued. All this time
consolidation was being attempted, although the presence of so many
Turkish prisoners hampered movement and constituted an actual danger.
In beating off these desperate counter-attacks very heavy casualties
were suffered by the Australians. Part of the 12th Battalion, the
reserve of the 3rd Brigade, had therefore to be thrown into the mêlée.

Twelve hours later, on the 7th, another effort was made by the enemy,
being resumed at midnight and proceeding intermittently till dawn. At
an early period of this last counter-attack the 4th Battalion were
forced by bombs to relinquish a portion of a trench, but later on,
led by their commanding officer, Lieutenant-Colonel McNaghten, they
killed every Turk who had got in.

At 5 A.M. on August 9, the enemy made a sudden attempt to storm
from the east and south-east after a feint of fire attack from the
north. The 7th Battalion bore the brunt of the shock, and handled the
attack so vigorously that by 7.45 A.M. there were clear signs of
demoralisation in the enemy’s ranks. But although this marked the
end of counter-attacks on the large scale, the bombing and sniping
continued, though in less volume, throughout this day and night, and
lasted till August 12, when it at last became manifest that we had
gained complete ascendancy.

Thus was Lone Pine taken and held. The Turks were in great force
and very full of fight, yet one weak Australian brigade, numbering
at the outset but 2,000 rifles, and supported only by two weak
battalions, carried the work under the eyes of a whole enemy
division. The irresistible dash and daring of officers and men in
the initial charge were a glory to Australia. In one corner eight
Turks and six Australians were found lying as they had bayoneted one
another. To make room for the fighting men, the dead were ranged in
rows on either side of the gangway. After the first violence of the
counter-attacks had abated, 1,000 corpses—our own and Turkish—were
dragged out from the trenches.

The Lone Pine attack drew all the local enemy reserves towards it,
and may be held, more than any other cause, to have been the reason
that the Suvla Bay landing was so lightly opposed. Our captures in
this feat of arms amounted to 134 prisoners, seven machine-guns, and
a large quantity of ammunition and equipment.

[Sidenote: The Nek, Baby 700 and German Officer’s Trench Attacked]

Other frontal attacks from the existing Anzac positions were not so
fortunate. They included an attack upon the work known as German
Officer’s Trench, on the extreme right of our line, at midnight on
August 6-7, also assaults on the Nek and Baby 700 trenches opposite
the centre of our line, delivered at 4.30 A.M. on the 7th. The 2nd
Australian Brigade did all that men could do; the Light Horse only
accepted their repulse after losing three-fourths of that devoted
band who so bravely sallied forth. All that day, as the result of
these most gallant attacks, Turkish reserves on Battleship Hill were
being held back to meet any dangerous development along the front
of the old Anzac line, and so were not available to meet our main
enterprise, which I will now endeavour to describe.

[Sidenote: The Main Push]

The first step in the real push—the step which above all others was
to count—was the night attack on the summits of the Sari Bair ridge.

It was our object to effect a lodgment along the crest of the high
main ridge with two columns of troops, but, seeing the nature of the
ground and the dispositions of the enemy, the effort had to be made
by stages. We were bound, in fact, to undertake a double subsidiary
operation before we could hope to launch these attacks with any real
prospect of success. The two assaulting columns, which were to work
up three ravines to the storm of the high ridge, were to be preceded
by two covering columns. One of these was to capture the enemy’s
positions commanding the foothills, first to open the mouths of the
ravines, secondly to cover the right flank of another covering force
whilst it marched along the beach. The other covering column was to
strike far out to the north until, from a hill called Damakjelik
Bair, it could at the same time facilitate the landing of the 9th
Corps at Nibrunesi Point, and guard the left flank of the column
assaulting Sari Bair from any forces of the enemy which might be
assembled in the Anafarta valley.

The whole of this big attack was placed under the command of
Major-General Sir A. J. Godley, General Officer Commanding New
Zealand and Australian Division. The two covering and the two
assaulting columns were organised as follows:

Right Covering Column, under Brigadier-General A. H. Russell.—New
Zealand Mounted Rifles Brigade, the Otago Mounted Rifles Regiment,
the Maori Contingent and New Zealand Field Troop.

Right Assaulting Column, under Brigadier-General F. E. Johnston.—New
Zealand Infantry Brigade, Indian Mountain Battery (less one section),
one Company New Zealand Engineers.

Left Covering Column, under Brigadier-General J. H.
Travers.—Headquarters 40th Brigade, half the 72nd Field Company, 4th
Battalion South Wales Borderers, and 5th Battalion Wiltshire Regiment.

Left Assaulting Column, under Brigadier-General (now Major-General)
H. V. Cox.—29th Indian Infantry Brigade, 4th Australian Infantry
Brigade, Indian Mountain Battery (less one section), one Company New
Zealand Engineers.

Divisional Reserve.—6th Battalion South Lancashire Regiment and 8th
Battalion Welsh Regiment (Pioneers) at Chailak Dere, and the 39th
Infantry Brigade and half 72nd Field Company at Aghyl Dere.

[Sidenote: In the Foothills]

The right covering column had to clear the Turks off from their right
flank positions upon Old No. 3 Post and Table Top.

Old No. 3 Post connected with Table Top by a razor back. Working
parties had done their best with unstinted material to convert this
commanding point into an impregnable redoubt. Two lines of fire
trench, very heavily entangled, protected its southern face.

Table Top is a steep-sided, flat-topped hill, close on 400 feet
above sea level. The sides of the hill are mostly sheer and quite

Amongst other stratagems the Anzac troops, assisted by H.M.S.
_Colne_, had long and carefully been educating the Turks how they
should lose Old No. 3 Post, which could hardly have been rushed by
simple force of arms. Every night, exactly at 9 P.M., H.M.S. _Colne_
threw the beams of her searchlight on to the redoubt, and opened fire
upon it for exactly ten minutes. Then, after a ten minutes’ interval,
came a second illumination and bombardment, commencing always at 9.20
and ending precisely at 9.30 P.M.

The idea was that, after successive nights of such practice, the
enemy would get into the habit of taking the searchlight as a hint
to clear out until the shelling was at an end. But on the eventful
night of the 6th, the sound of their footsteps drowned by the loud
cannonade, unseen as they crept along in that darkest shadow which
fringes a searchlight’s beam—came the right covering column. At 9.30
the light switched off, and instantly our men poured out of the
scrub jungle and into the redoubt. By 11 P.M. the whole series of
surrounding entrenchments were ours!

The remainder of the right covering column carried on with their
attack upon Bauchop’s Hill and the Chailak Dere. By 10 P.M. the
northernmost point, with its machine-gun, was captured, and by 1
o’clock in the morning the whole of Bauchop’s Hill, a maze of ridge
and ravine, everywhere entrenched, was fairly in our hands.

The attack along the Chailak Dere was not so cleanly carried
out—made, indeed, just about as ugly a start as any enemy could
wish. Pressing eagerly forward through the night, the little column
of stormers found themselves held up by a barbed-wire erection of
unexampled height, depth, and solidity, which completely closed
the only practicable entrance to the ravine. Here that splendid
body of men, the Otago Mounted Rifles, lost some of their bravest
and their best, but in the end, when things were beginning to seem
desperate, a passage was forced through the stubborn obstacle with
most conspicuous and cool courage by Captain Shera and a party of New
Zealand Engineers, supported by the Maoris, who showed themselves
worthy descendants of the warriors of the Gate Pah. Thus was the
mouth of the Chailak Dere opened in time to admit of the unopposed
entry of the right assaulting column.

[Sidenote: Table Top]

Simultaneously the attack on Table Top had been launched under cover
of a heavy bombardment from H.M.S. _Colne_. No general on peace
manœuvres would ask troops to attempt so breakneck an enterprise.
The angle of Table Top’s ascent is recognised in our regulations as
“impracticable for infantry.” But neither Turks nor angles of ascent
were destined to stop Russell or his New Zealanders that night. The
scarped heights were scaled, the plateau was carried by midnight.
With this brilliant feat the task of the right covering force was at
an end. Its attacks had been made with the bayonet and bomb only;
magazines were empty by order; hardly a rifle shot had been fired.
Some 150 prisoners were captured as well as many rifles and much
equipment, ammunition and stores. No words can do justice to the
achievement of Brigadier-General Russell and his men. There are
exploits which must be seen to be realised.

The right assaulting column had entered the two southerly
ravines—Sazli Beit Dere and Chailak Dere—by midnight. At 1.30 A.M.
began a hotly-contested fight for the trenches on the lower part of
Rhododendron Spur, whilst the Chailak Dere column pressed steadily up
the valley against the enemy.

The left covering column, under Brigadier-General Travers, after
marching along the beach to No. 3 Outpost, resumed its northerly
advance as soon as the attack on Bauchop’s Hill had developed.
Every trench encountered was instantly rushed by the Borderers,
until, having reached the predetermined spot, the whole column was
unhesitatingly launched at Damakjelik Bair. By 1.30 A.M. the whole of
the hill was occupied, thus safeguarding the left rear of the whole
of the Anzac attack.

[Sidenote: On the Far Left]

The left assaulting column crossed the Chailak Dere at 12.30 A.M.,
and entered the Aghyl Dere at the heels of the left covering column.
The surprise, on this side, was complete. Two Turkish officers were
caught in their pyjamas; enemy arms and ammunition were scattered in
every direction.

The grand attack was now in full swing, but the country gave new
sensations in cliff climbing even to officers and men who had
graduated over the goat tracks of Anzac. The darkness of the night,
the density of the scrub, hands and knees progress up the spurs,
sheer physical fatigue, exhaustion of the spirit caused by repeated
hairbreadth escapes from the hail of random bullets—all these
combined to take the edge off the energies of our troops. At last,
after advancing some distance up the Aghyl Dere, the column split up
into two parts. The 4th Australian Brigade struggled, fighting hard
as they went, up to the north of the northern fork of the Aghyl Dere,
making for Hill 305 (Koja Chemen Tepe). The 29th Indian Infantry
Brigade scrambled up the southern fork of the Aghyl Dere and the
spurs north of it to the attack of a portion of the Sari Bair ridge
known as Hill Q.


[Illustration: left landscape picture]

[Illustration: right landscape picture]

This photograph shows the spurs of the main range into which the
Anzac attack was pushed on the night of August 6


[Illustration: left heart picture]

[Illustration: right heart picture]

This photograph shows the head of Shrapnel Gully (Monarch Valley).
All the trenches on the distant ridge are Turkish

_Photographs by Printing Section, R.E._

Dawn broke and the crest line was not yet in our hands, although,
considering all things, the left assaulting column had made a
marvellous advance. The 4th Australian Infantry Brigade was on the
line of the Asma Dere (the next ravine north of the Aghyl Dere)
and the 29th Indian Infantry Brigade held the ridge west of the
Farm below Chunuk Bair and along the spurs to the north-east. The
enemy had been flung back from ridge to ridge; an excellent line
for the renewal of the attack had been secured, and (except for the
exhaustion of the troops) the auspices were propitious.

Turning to the right assaulting column, one battalion, the Canterbury
Infantry Battalion, clambered slowly up the Sazli Beit Dere. The
remainder of the force, led by the Otago Battalion, wound their way
amongst the pitfalls and forced their passage through the scrub of
the Chailak Dere, where fierce opposition forced them ere long to
deploy. Here, too, the hopeless country was the main hindrance,
and it was not until 5.45 A.M. that the bulk of the column joined
the Canterbury Battalion on the lower slopes of Rhododendron Spur.
Eventually they entrenched on the top of Rhododendron Spur, a quarter
of a mile short of Chunuk Bair—i.e. of victory.

[Sidenote: End of August 7th]

At 9.30 A.M. the two assaulting columns pressed forward whilst our
guns pounded the enemy moving along the Battleship Hill spurs. But in
spite of all their efforts their increasing exhaustion as opposed to
the gathering strength of the enemy’s fresh troops began to tell—they
had shot their bolt. So all day they clung to what they had captured
and strove to make ready for the night. All had suffered heavily and
all were very tired.

So ended the first phase of the fighting for the Chunuk Bair ridge.
Our aims had not fully been attained, and the help we had hoped for
from Suvla had not been forthcoming. Yet I fully endorse the words of
General Birdwood when he says: “The troops had performed a feat which
is without parallel.”

Great kudos is due to Major-Generals Godley and Shaw for their
arrangements; to Generals Russell, Johnston, Cox, and Travers for
their leading; but most of all, as every one of these officers will
gladly admit, to the rank and file for their fighting. Nor may I
omit to add that the true destroyer spirit with which H.M.S. _Colne_
(Commander Claude Seymour, R.N.) and H.M.S. _Chelmer_ (Commander Hugh
T. England, R.N.) backed us up will live in the grateful memories of
the Army.

[Sidenote: The Second Attack]

In the course of this afternoon (August 7th) reconnaissances of Sari
Bair were carried out and the troops were got into shape for a fresh
advance in three columns, to take place in the early morning.

The columns were composed as follows:

Right Column, Brigadier-General F. E. Johnston.—26th Indian Mountain
Battery (less one section), Auckland Mounted Rifles, New Zealand
Infantry Brigade, two battalions 13th Division, and the Maori

Centre and Left Columns, Major-General H. V. Cox.—21st Indian
Mountain Battery (less one section), 4th Australian Brigade, 39th
Infantry Brigade (less one battalion), with 6th Battalion South
Lancashire Regiment attached, and the 29th Indian Infantry Brigade.

The right column was to climb up the Chunuk Bair ridge; the left
column was to make for the prolongation of the ridge north-east to
Koja Chemen Tepe, the topmost peak of the range.

The attack was timed for 4.15 A.M. At the first faint glimmer of
dawn observers saw figures moving against the sky-line of Chunuk
Bair. Were they our own men, or were they the Turks? Telescopes were
anxiously adjusted; the light grew stronger; men were seen climbing
up from our side of the ridge; they _were_ our own fellows—the
topmost summit was ours!

[Sidenote: Chunuk Bair Gained]

On the right, General Johnston’s column, headed by the Wellington
Battalion and supported by the 7th Battalion Gloucestershire
Regiment, the Auckland Mounted Rifles Regiment, the 8th Welsh
Pioneers, and the Maori Contingent, the whole most gallantly led
by Lieutenant-Colonel W. G. Malone, had raced one another up
the steep. Nothing could check them. On they went, until, with
a last determined rush, they fixed themselves firmly on the
south-western slopes and crest of the main knoll known as the height
of Chunuk Bair. With deep regret I have to add that the brave
Lieutenant-Colonel Malone fell mortally wounded as he was marking out
the line to be held.

In the centre the 39th Infantry Brigade and the 29th Indian Brigade
moved along the gullies leading up to the Sari Bair ridge. So
murderous was the enemy’s fire that little progress could be made,
though some ground was gained on the spurs to the north-east of the

On the left the 4th Australian Brigade advanced from the Asmak
Dere against the lower slopes of Abdul Rahman Bair (a spur running
due north from Koja Chemen Tepe) with the intention of wheeling
to its right and advancing up the spur. Cunningly placed Turkish
machine-guns and a strong entrenched body of infantry were ready for
this move, and the brigade were unable to get on. At last, on the
approach of heavy columns of the enemy, the Australians, virtually
surrounded, and having already suffered losses of over 1,000, were
withdrawn to their original position.

In the afternoon the battle slackened, excepting always at Lone Pine,
where the enemy were still coming on in mass, and being mown down by
our fire. Elsewhere the troops were busy digging and getting up water
and food, no child’s play, with their wretched lines of communication
running within musketry range of the enemy.

At 4.30 A.M. on August 9th, the Chunuk Bair ridge and Hill Q were
heavily shelled. At 5.16 A.M. this tremendous bombardment was to be
switched off on to the flanks and reverse slopes of the heights.

The columns for the renewed attack were composed as follows:

No. 1 Column, Brigadier-General F. E. Johnston.—26th Indian
Mountain Battery (less one section), the Auckland and Wellington
Mounted Rifles Regiments, the New Zealand Infantry Brigade, and two
battalions of the 13th Division.

No. 2 Column, Major-General H. V. Cox.—21st Indian Mountain Battery
(less one section), 4th Australian Brigade, 39th Brigade (less the
7th Gloucesters, relieved), with the 6th Battalion South Lancashire
Regiment attached, and the Indian Infantry Brigade.

No. 3 Column, Brigadier-General A. H. Baldwin, commanding 38th
Infantry Brigade.—Two battalions each from the 38th and 29th Brigades
and one from the 40th Brigade.

General Baldwin’s column had assembled in the Chailak Dere, and was
moving up towards General Johnston’s headquarters. But in spite of
all precautions, the darkness, the rough scrub-covered country, its
sheer steepness, so delayed the column that Baldwin, owing to the
darkness and the awful country, lost his way—through no fault of his

[Sidenote: The Gurkhas on Top]

And now, under that fine leader, Major C. G. L. Allanson, the 6th
Gurkhas of the 29th Indian Infantry Brigade pressed up the slopes
of Sari Bair, crowned the heights of the col between Chunuk Bair
and Hill Q, viewed far beneath them the waters of the Hellespont,
viewed the Asiatic shores along which motor transport was bringing
supplies to the lighters. But the fortune of war was against us. At
this supreme moment Baldwin’s column was still a long way from our
trenches on the crest. And instead of Baldwin’s support came suddenly
a salvo of heavy shells.

The Turkish commander saw his chance; and the South Lancashires and
Gurkhas, who had seen the promised land, were forced backwards over
the crest.

That evening from Chunuk Bair the line ran down to the Farm and
almost due north to the Asma Dere southern watershed, whence it
continued westward to the sea near Asmak Kuyu. On the right the
Australian Division was still holding its line and Lone Pine was
still being furiously attacked. The 1st Australian Brigade was now
reduced from 2,900 to 1,000, and the total casualties up to 8 P.M.
on the 9th amounted to about 8,500. But the troops were still in
extraordinarily good heart.

[Sidenote: A great Turkish Attack]

During the night of the 9th-10th the New Zealand and New Army troops
on Chunuk Bair were relieved. For three days and three nights they
had been ceaselessly fighting. They were half dead with fatigue.
Their lines of communication, started from sea level, ran across
trackless ridges and ravines to an altitude of 800 ft., and were
exposed all the way to snipers’ fire and artillery bombardment. It
had become imperative, therefore, to get them enough food, water, and
rest; and for this purpose it was imperative also to withdraw them.
Chunuk Bair, which they had so magnificently held, was now handed
over to two battalions of the 13th Division.

[Illustration: ANZAC

_Facsimile of a beautiful example of Map Drawing by Pte. R. T.

At daybreak on Tuesday, August 10, the Turks delivered a grand attack
from the line Chunuk Bair—Hill Q against these two battalions,
already weakened in numbers, though not in spirit, by previous
fighting. First our men were shelled by every enemy gun, and then,
at 5.30 A.M., were assaulted by a huge column, consisting of no less
than a full division plus a regiment of three battalions. The North
Lancashire men were simply overwhelmed in their shallow trenches by
sheer weight of numbers, whilst the Wilts, who were caught out in the
open, were literally almost annihilated. The ponderous mass of the
enemy swept over the crest.

Now it was our turn. The warships and the New Zealand and Australian
Artillery, the Indian Mounted Artillery Brigade, and the 69th Brigade
Royal Field Artillery were getting the chance of a lifetime. As the
successive solid lines of Turks topped the crest of the ridge gaps
were torn through their formation. They became exposed not only to
the full blast of the guns, but also to a battery of ten machine-guns
belonging to the New Zealand Infantry Brigade, which played upon
their serried ranks at close range until the barrels were red-hot.
Enormous losses were inflicted, especially by these ten machine-guns;
and of the swarms which had once fairly crossed the crest line only
the merest handful ever straggled back to their own side of Chunuk

At this same time strong forces of the enemy were hurled against
the Farm, where there arose a conflict so deadly that it may be
considered as the climax of the four days’ fighting for the ridge.
Portions of our line were pierced and the troops driven clean down
the hill. At the foot of the hill the men were rallied by Staff
Captain Street, who was there supervising the transport of food and
water. Without a word, unhesitatingly, they followed him back to
the Farm, where they plunged again into the midst of that series of
struggles in which generals fought in the ranks and men dropped their
scientific weapons and caught one another by the throat.

By 10 A.M. the effort of the enemy was spent. Soon their shattered
remnants began to trickle back, and by night, except prisoners or
wounded, no live Turk was left upon our side of the slope.

[Sidenote: End of the Battle of Sari Bair]

By evening the total casualties of General Birdwood’s force had
reached 12,000, and included a very large proportion of officers. The
13th Division of the New Army, under Major-General Shaw, had alone
lost 6,000 out of a grand total of 10,500. Baldwin was gone, and all
his staff. Ten commanding officers out of thirteen had disappeared
from the fighting effectives. The Warwicks and the Worcesters had
lost literally every single officer.

But physically, though Birdwood’s forces were prepared to hold all
they had got, they were now too exhausted to attack—at least until
they had rested and reorganised.

The enemy’s positions were now being rapidly entrenched, and, as I
could not depend on receiving reinforcing drafts, I was faced with
the danger that if I could not drive the Turks back I might lose so
many men that I would find myself unable to hold the very extensive
new area of ground which had been gained. I therefore decided to
mass every available man against Ismail Oglu Tepe, a _sine qua non_
to my plans whether as a first step towards clearing the valley, or,
if this proved impossible, towards securing Suvla Bay and Anzac Cove
from shell fire.

The same day, a force consisting of two battalions of New Zealand
Mounted Rifles, two battalions of the 29th Irish Brigade, the
4th South Wales Borderers, and 29th Indian Infantry Brigade, the
whole under the command of Major-General H. V. Cox, was working
independently to support the main attack.

[Sidenote: Hill 60: First Assault]

General Cox divided his force into three sections; the left section
to press forward and establish a permanent hold on the existing
lightly-held outpost line covering the junction of the 11th Division
with the Anzac front; the centre section to seize the well at Kabak
Kuyu, an asset of utmost value, whether to ourselves or the enemy;
the right section to attack and capture the Turkish trenches on the
north-east side of the Kaiajik Aghala.

The advance of the left section was a success; after a brisk
engagement the well at Kabak Kuyu was seized by the Indian Brigade,
and, by 4.30, the right column, under Brigadier-General Russell,
under heavy fire, effected a lodgment on the Kaiajik Aghala, where
our men entrenched and began to dig communications across the Kaiajik
Dere towards the lines of the 4th Australian Brigade south of the
Dere. A pretty stiff bomb fight ensued, in which General Russell’s
troops held their own through the night against superior force. At 6
A.M. on the morning of August 22, General Russell, reinforced by the
newly-arrived 18th Australian Battalion, attacked the summit of the
Kaiajik Aghala. The Australians carried 150 yards of the trenches,
losing heavily in so doing, and were then forced to fall back again
owing to enfilade fire, though in the meantime the New Zealand
Mounted Rifles managed, in spite of constant counter-attacks, to make
good another 80 yards.

A counter-attack in strength launched by the Turks at 10 A.M. was
repulsed; the new line from the Kaiajik Aghala to Susuk Kuyu was
gradually strengthened, and eventually joined on to the right of the
9th Army Corps, thereby materially improving the whole situation.
During this action the 4th Australian Brigade, which remained facing
the Turks on the upper part of the Kaiajik Aghala, was able to
inflict several hundred casualties on the enemy as they retreated or
endeavoured to reinforce.

The last days of the month were illumined by a brilliant affair
carried through by the troops under General Birdwood’s command. Our
object was to complete the capture of Hill 60 north of the Kaiajik
Aghala, commenced by Major-General Cox on August 21. Hill 60
overlooked the Biyuk Anafarta valley, and was therefore tactically a
very important feature.

[Sidenote: Second Assault]

The conduct of the attack was again entrusted to Major-General
Cox, at whose disposal were placed detachments from the 4th and
5th Australian Brigades, the New Zealand Mounted Rifles Brigade,
and the 5th Connaught Rangers. The advance was timed to take place
at 5 P.M. on August 27, after the heaviest artillery bombardment
we could afford. This bombardment seemed effective; but the moment
the assailants broke cover they were greeted by an exceedingly hot
fire from the enemy field guns, rifles and machine-guns, followed
after a brief interval by a shower of heavy shell, some of which,
most happily, pitched into the trenches of the Turks. On the right
the detachment from the 4th and 5th Australian Brigades could make
no headway against a battery of machine-guns which confronted them.
In the centre the New Zealanders made a most determined onslaught,
and carried one side of the topmost knoll. Hand-to-hand fighting
continued here till 9.30 P.M., when it was reported that nine-tenths
of the summit had been gained.

On the left the 250 men of the 5th Connaught Rangers excited the
admiration of all beholders by the swiftness and cohesion of their
charge. In five minutes they had carried their objective, the
northern Turkish communications, when they at once set to and began
a lively bomb fight along the trenches against strong parties which
came hurrying up from the enemy supports and afterwards from their
reserves. At midnight fresh troops were to have strengthened our
grip upon the hill, but before that hour the Irishmen had been
out-bombed, and the 9th Australian Light Horse, who had made a most
plucky attempt to recapture the lost communication trench, had
been repulsed. Luckily, the New Zealand Mounted Rifles refused to
recognise that they were worsted. Nothing would shift them. All that
night and all next day, through bombing, bayonet charges, musketry,
shrapnel, and heavy shell, they hung on to their 150 yards of
trench. At 1 A.M. on August 29, the 10th Light Horse made another
attack on the lost communication trenches to the left, carried
them, and finally held them. This gave us complete command of the
underfeature, an outlook over the Anafarta Sagir valley, and safer
lateral communications between Anzac and Suvla Bay.

[Illustration: Bombing Practice in Shrapnel Valley]

[Illustration: In the Trenches

A sniper with a periscope rifle and an observer with a periscope

_Official photographs by E. BROOKES, circulated on behalf of the
Press Bureau; supplied by Central News_]


_Photograph by courtesy of “Daily Mirror”_]

Three Turkish machine-guns and forty-six prisoners were taken, as
well as three trench mortars, 300 Turkish rifles, 60,000 rounds of
ammunition, and 500 bombs. Four hundred acres were added to the
territories of Anzac.

And now, before affixing to this dispatch my final signature as
Commander-in-Chief of the Mediterranean Expeditionary Force, let
me first pay tribute to the everlasting memory of my dear comrades
who will return no more. Next, let me thank each and all, Generals,
Staff, Regimental Leaders, and rank and file, for their wonderful
loyalty, patience, and self-sacrifice.

So I bid them all farewell with a special God-speed to the
campaigners who have served with me right through from the terrible
yet most glorious earlier days—the incomparable 29th Division; the
young veterans of the Naval Division; the ever-victorious Australians
and New Zealanders; the stout East Lancs, and my own brave
fellow-countrymen of the Lowland Division of Scotland.

  General, Commander-in-Chief
  Mediterranean Expeditionary Force.


      _The children unborn shall acclaim
        The standard the Anzacs unfurled,
      When they made Australasia’s fame
        The wonder and pride of the world._

    Some of you got a V.C.,
      Some “the Gallipoli trot,”
    Some had a grave by the sea,
      And all of you got it damned hot,
    And I see you go limping through town
      In the faded old hospital blue,
    And driving abroad—lying down,
      And Lord! but I wish I were you!

    I envy you beggars I meet,
      From the dirty old hats on your head
    To the rusty old boots on your feet—
      I envy you living or dead.
    A knighthood is fine in its way,
      A peerage gives splendour and fame,
    But I’d rather have tacked any day
      That word to the end of my name.

    I’d count it the greatest reward
      That ever a man could attain;
    I’d sooner be “Anzac” than “lord,”
      I’d rather be “Anzac” than “thane.”
    Here’s a bar to the medal you’ll wear,
      There’s a word that will glitter and glow,
    And an honour a king cannot share
      When you’re back in the cities you know.

      _The children unborn shall acclaim
        The standard the Anzacs unfurled,
      When they made Australasia’s fame
        The wonder and pride of the world._

                         EDGAR WALLACE.


    This lyric may be bad, O Muse,
      But do not press on me too hard;
    In times of war you must excuse
      Somewhat your bard.
    A dug-out where I have to bend
      My back, and even lodge my knees
    Against the roof, would suit our friend
    But hardly seems a meet abode
      For any would-be laureate
    Who’ll sing, ad lib., an epic—ode—
      Or hymn of hate.
    Consider my attempt to write
      Iambic tetrametric lines
    As influenced by gelignite
      And bombs—and mines.
    No high falutin’ stilted phrase,
      No feeble tribute of a “sub.,”
    Can ever adequately praise
      Thee, dearest Tub.
    Perchance I’m sun-scorched: then I sigh
      To hear thy crystal waters lap
    And trickle o’er my toes when I
      Turn on the tap.
    If blizzards fresh from Samothrace
      Are mingling with December snows,
    When icicles in clusters grace
      “My youthful hose
    A world too wide for my shrunk shanks”——
      Then I, nostalgia stricken, dream,
    And see thy white enamelled banks
      Through clouds of steam.
    Just as when corybantic drakes
      (Or ducks, just as the case may be),
    With clamorous quack, seek limpid lakes,
      So seek I thee.
    But _baths_ are not our rations in
      Gallipoli. ’Tis too far south—
    “The _bubble_ reputation’s in
      The cannon’s mouth.”

                        H. H. U.,
                 Northamptonshire Regt.


    There’s a certain darned nuisance called “Beachy,”
      Whose shells are exceedingly screechy;
      But we’re keeping the score,
      And we’re after your gore—
    So look out, “Beachy Bill,” when we meet ye.

    They’ve given us all respirators,
      And we’ve bundles of ancient _Spectators_;
      But we’d give up the two
      For a good oyster stew,
    Or a dixie of chipped pertaters.

                          C. D. MC.

[Illustration: THE NEW STAR

_Drawn by TED COLLES, after F. J. Leigh_]

[Illustration: Turkish Divisional Orders (some time in July): “The
Australian and New Zealand Army Corps is approaching the limits
of its resources. Most of the men have no clothing at all, except
trousers, and even these are now being cut into pieces, so that one
pair of trousers is sufficient for four men.”]

[Illustration: How I Won THE V.C.

(_The sort of thing we must expect to hear after the War is ended_)]

    Yes, that’s the red ribbon I’m wearing—
      Just a small strip of scarlet, you see,
    But there’s no one can tell how I prize it
      Nor the glow it occasions to me.
    For it speaks of the broad fields of honour
      Which we wrung from the red jaws of hell—
    And my eyes grow bedimmed for the cobbers[13]
      Who battled and conquered and fell.

    Yes, that’s the V.C. How I won it,
      It isn’t for _me_ to relate.
    (We heroes are always so modest,
      And boasting’s a thing that I hate.)
    Well—seeing you write for the papers,
      I’ll make an exception of you;
    Don’t mention _my_ name if you write it,
      Tho’ every partic’lar is true.

    It was during a fight for an outpost—
      It was called the Green Knoll, I believe—
    And the Turks on the top dealt out slaughter:
      They’d a week of defeat to retrieve.
    It was five thousand feet to the summit,
      And almost as steep as a wall;
    And they met every charge as we rushed it
      With bayonet, shrapnel, and ball.

    ’Twas defended by nine tiers of trenches
      (That’s strong for an outpost, you’ll guess),
    With twelve 42 centimetres,
      Which kicked up the deuce of a mess.
    We’d been fighting five days without resting,
      When the eighth line of trenches we took;
    For ev’ry man there was a hero—
      From me to the company’s cook.

    And there was the knoll just before us—
      Some two hundred paces or more;
    With barb-wire and bayonets bristling,
      And the parapets sloppy with gore.
    And the howitzers roared like perdition
      And vomited fire and death;
    Till we saw it was madness to charge them,
      And halted a moment for breath.

    Ah, stranger, imagine the picture,
      And then stand with horror aghast—
    _We had fought for a month without sleeping,
      And we stood facing failure at last!_
    We had squandered the best of our Army,
      We had “stuck” to our ultimate gasp;
    And there, in the moment of triumph,
      The prize was to slip from our grasp.

    Then suddenly out sprang the Major,
      His face lighted over with bliss—
    “Pass the word there for Lance-Private Wilson;
      _He_’ll find us a way out of this!”
    (If there’s one thing I hate, it is skiting,[14]
      When I hear it I always feel sore,
    So you won’t think I boast when I tell you
      He ought to have done it before!)

    And a great cheer arose as I faced him
      And nodded (I never salute),
    And said to him: “I’ll see you thro’, sir,
      And win you some glory to boot.
    The chaps of the 16th Battalion
      Are not easy snoozers to beat;
    I’ve a notion (I says) that will lick them—
      ’Arf a dollar I line them a treat!

    “I don’t want no red-tapey orders,
      And I don’t want no kudos nor pelf;
    You get back to your own little dug-outs,
      And I’ll tackle the knoll _by myself_!
    I’ll lay down my life for my country,
      For old England, the land of the free;
    And you’ll find that the bloke called Horatius
      Was only a trifle to me!”

    Then I shook hands with all the battalion
      (There were only thirteen of us left),
    And they cheered me again till the foemen
      Must have thought us of senses bereft.
    And I gathered my arms and my rations,
      And girded myself for the fray—
    If I live to be ninety or over,
      I will always remember that day!

    I had five hundred rounds for my rifle,
      And of hand bombs I took forty-one;
    A machine-gun was slung to my shoulders,
      And I carried a periscope gun.
    As for rations—well, all I took with me
      Was a tin of Fray Bentos[15] or two,
    And in my breast pocket I planted
      A nice Army biscuit to chew.

    Then I waved a farewell to my cobbers—
      I was too much affected to speak;
    There are times when the bravest of soldiers
      Have feelings that render them weak.
    One tear—then I turned to the trenches,
      And charged like a lion at bay
    As I caught the last words of our Colonel,
      Crying: “Bonzer[16] ... Gorstrafem ... Hooray!”

    You talk of charmed lives—I’d a thousand;
      As I rushed up that hill like a goat
    I got thirty-two shots thro’ my trousers
      And nine shrapnel balls thro’ my coat;
    And a Japanese bomb burst beneath me
      —For a moment I gave up all hope,
    But it proved the best thing that could happen,
      _For it pushed me half-way up the slope_.

    Then a fifteen-inch shell came straight at me
      —I hadn’t a moment to shirk—
    But it struck on that hard Army biscuit
      And rebounded—and blew up a Turk!
    You doubt it? Well, if you want proof, sir,
      The truth of this tale to endorse,
    Here’s the biscuit—that dent in the middle
      Is where the shell struck it, of course!

    Ah, yes, ’twas a terrible moment;
      I was then slightly wounded, ’tis true—
    Just a bayonet stab in the gizzard
      And a crack from a bullet or two.
    But I gathered new strength for the conflict,
      And, just as the darkness came down,
    I was under their parapets, resting,
      And I knew I had beaten them brown!

    For this was the scheme I had worked on,
      ’Twas a little bit mean, you may say—
    But I knew that the Turks were half-famished,
      And fought on one biscuit a day;
    And the tins of Fray Bentos I carried,
      I chucked in the trench then and there;
    And I heard the poor beggars pounce on it,
      And I knew they were caught in the snare!

           *       *       *       *       *

    The morning broke, smiling and peaceful—
      Ah, shame that we soldiers must fight—
    ’Twas a piteous scene met my vision
      With the first rosy quivers of light.
    When I peeped in the trench, not a Turk, sir,
      Was left of that legion accurst—
    For they’d whacked the Fray Bentos among them,
      _And each man had perished from thirst_.

    That’s the yarn. If you know the 16th, sir,
      You’ll know how our Colonel can smile.
    He said to me: “_Corporal_ Wilson,
      You’ve dished up the beggars in style.”
    Promotion! Some say I deserve it,
      But _that’s_ really nothing to me;
    I don’t want no honour or glory,
      But—that’s how I won the V.C.

                     “CROSSCUT,” 16th Battalion, A.I.F.


[13] Cobber is Australian for a tried and trusted friend.

[14] Skiting—Australian for “swanking” in speech.

[15] Fray Bentos is a brand of tinned meat.

[16] Bonzer—Australian for “excellent.”


Nobody seemed to know much about him except that he was generally
considered by all those who knew of him in the squadron to be a
“cold-foot,” and his nickname was appropriately “Icy.” Not that
the others had any particular cause to call him that, but whenever
“Beachy Bill” came screeching overhead he would involuntarily duck
and then smile in that peculiar manner of his as much as to say, “I
can’t help it!” Beachy wasn’t his worst enemy, though, for if there
was anything that he dreaded it was those Turkish “75’s.”[17] It used
to make us feel as if we could shake him when we saw how he would
double himself up. And yet one never liked to attempt anything of the
kind whenever he used that smile. Moreover, as he was over six feet
in height and correspondingly strong, it would not have been politic.
His was a baffling smile, recalling the peculiar smile of the “Monna
Lisa,” and, like it, unfathomable. He was a very quiet kind of chap,
and when it was his turn to do fatigues, he would go and perform
whatever was required of him without ever grumbling. His mates used
to take a mean advantage of his good nature, and would shunt all the
work, such as sweeping out the “possie,” or trenches, on to him.

About the time of which I am writing we had noticed that Abdul was
sapping somewhere down the gully. Sometimes we could distinguish dark
shapes moving about, and no amount of sniping on our part would stop
them. They worked only during the night, and each morning we found
that the pile of new earth down the gully had grown higher. At last
we understood his plan—and it came to our turn to make a counter move.

One evening I was told off among others to go out and dig a new
trench in front of Abdul’s new sap. We had to block him from getting
to a certain place on the little ridge which hitherto had been in
“No-Man’s Land.” I noticed that Icy had also been told off, but he
was to be one of the covering party. All that night we worked hard,
digging ourselves in and filling sandbags which we threw up in front
of us. At first we were undisturbed, but suddenly the bullets began
to ping-ping over our heads, and we knew that Abdul had tumbled.
Still, as he was himself intent on digging he did not come out at us,
but contented himself by sniping, thinking to drive us off in that
way. However, it was a bit late in the day for that; since by the
time he found us out we had already several good sandbags filled, and
these protected us as long as we kept well down.

Several of our chaps were winged, but as none of the wounds was
very serious we didn’t mind that. When it had struck five in the
morning we knocked off and retired to sleep away the day. Half a
dozen bomb-throwers who had volunteered for the job then took our
places, bringing with them a few bombs, their rifles, ammunition,
water bottles, and a supply of bully beef and biscuits. There they
spent the whole day, lying low under cover of the sandbags. But Abdul
troubled them not! Next night we went out again to resume work, and
then it was that certain things happened which made us look upon Icy
in a different light.

We had no sooner started work than _ra-ta-ta-ta-ta_ went a
machine-gun somewhere out to the left, and the bullets came pinging
round hot and close, winging three and killing two on the first

John Turk had stolen a march on us by placing a machine-gun away out
on his extreme flank where he could to a certain extent enfilade us.
That sort of thing could not be allowed to last, as we had to bury
our noses in the ground each time the confounded gun opened up. Our
covering party, being out ahead of us, escaped the hail of bullets
better than we did. The place was now becoming too hot to stay in, so
the order came along to retire independently to our trenches, until
something could be done to stop the machine-gun.

When we mustered again in the trenches, we found that one man of
the covering party was missing. The man was Icy. As we were talking
about him—wondering who should go back to look for him—there came the
noise of a commotion from the direction of the Turkish machine-gun.
Bang! bang! went a couple of bombs, followed by cries and shouts
from Abdul, and above it all we were certain we heard fragments of
language, of the category known in Australia as “bullocky.”[18] What
could it mean? By this time the alarm had spread along the whole of
Abdul’s front trenches, which belched forth liquid fire. In our own
trenches everyone had mechanically sprung to arms; and we stood there
wondering while for fifteen minutes the Turks fired without ceasing.
Gradually the noise subsided—and we noticed that for some reason the
machine-gun away on the left was strangely quiet.

An hour later we were stealing out again to have another attempt at
completing our new trenches when I stumbled over the form of a man
lying prone. Bending over to see him, I found it was Icy. His clothes
were wet and sticky with blood, and half underneath his body there
showed the muzzle of a machine-gun. As we lifted him up, we saw that
the gun was there complete, tripod and all.

We took him into the lines and handed him over to the
dressing-station; and just before we came away he opened his eyes and
told enough for us to realise that Icy had sneaked over and stolen
that Turkish gun. To this day we don’t quite know how he did it,
as he never will talk about it; but before they took him on to the
hospital ship next day—with his sixteen bullet wounds and scratches
all told—there went down to see him a crowd in which I was amongst
the foremost, which apologised to Icy very humbly.

And, do you know, he only smiled back at us in that funny old way of

  E. A. M. W.


[17] The Turks had a battery of French “75’s” at Anzac, seized as the
guns were coming from France during the blockade of Servia in the
Balkan War.

[18] Bullocky—stands both for the bullock driver and for his chief


    We care not what old Homer tells
      Of Trojan war and Helen’s fame.
    Upon the ancient Dardanelles
      New peoples write—in blood—their name.

    Those Grecian heroes long have fled,
      No more the Plain of Troy they haunt;
    Made sacred by our Southern dead,
      Historic is the Hellespont.

    Homeric wars are fought again
      By men who like old Greeks can die;
    Australian backblock heroes slain,
      With Hector and Achilles lie.

    No legend lured these men to roam;
      They journeyed forth to save from harm
    Some Mother-Helen sad at home,
      Some obscure Helen on a farm.

    And when one falls upon the hill—
      Then by dark Styx’s gloomy strand,
    In honour to plain Private Bill
      Great Agamemnon lifts his hand!

                J. WAREHAM, 1st Aust. Field Amb.


    Dead figures writhe and beckon in my dream;
      Wild eyes look into mine;
    While I, bewildered, watch the bloody stream
      With misty eyes ashine.

    It rends my heart, and I am nothing loath
      To have the murder cease.
    Horror it is and carnage, yet are both
      Part of the price of peace.

                 Corpl. COMUS, 2nd Bat., A.I.F.


    Where the ranges throw their shadows long before the day’s surrender,
      Down a valley where a river used to tumble to the sea,
    On a rising patch of level rest the men who dared to tender
      Life and all its sweetness for their love o’ liberty.

    In a thousand miles of ugly scrubby waste and desolation,
      Just that little space of level showing open to the sea;
    Nothing there to lend it grandeur (sure, it needs no decoration)
      Save those rows of wooden crosses keeping silent custody.

    There’s a band of quiet workers, artless lads who joked and chatted
      Just this morning; now they’re sullen and they keep their eyes away
    From the blanket-hidden body, coat and shirt all blood-bespattered,
      Lying motionless and waiting by the new-turned heap of clay.

    There are records in the office—date of death and facts pertaining,
      Showing name and rank and number and disposal of the kit—
    More or less a business matter, and we have no time for feigning
      More than momentary pity for the men who have been hit.

    There’s a patient mother gazing on her hopes so surely shattered
      (Hopes and prayers she cherished bravely, seeking strength to
        hide her fear),
    Boyhood’s dreams and idle memories—things that never really
      Lying buried where he’s buried ’neath the stars all shining clear.

    There’s a young wife sorrow-stricken in her bitter first conception
      Of that brief conclusive message, harsh fulfilment of her dread;
    There are tiny lips repeating, with their childish imperception,
      Simple words that bring her mem’ries from the boundaries of the

    Could the Turk have seen this picture when his trigger-finger
      Would his sights have blurred a little had he heard that mother’s
    Could he know some things that she knew, might his hate have been
      But he only saw his duty, and he did it, fighting fair.

    Just a barren little surface where the grave mounds rise ungainly,
      Monuments and tributes to the men who’ve done their share.
    Pain and death, the fruits of battle, and the crosses tell it
      Short and quick and silent suffering; would to God it ended there.

                      HARRY MCCANN, Headquarters, 4th Aust. Light Horse.




As I look westward towards the grey Ægean Sea, generally peaceful,
deep blue and ofttimes appearing golden-hued by the mystic hand
of sunset, but now flecked with ripples of white like a distant
hill-side strewn with new-shorn lambs, and hurried on by the
murmurings of the grey sea’s bride, the grey cloud-bearing Mother
Wind, as she splashes the foreshore of this grey land with fleecy
fringes of her mate, and makes her way over the grey hills, through
rugged landslip or tangled, stunted, unfriendly evergreens, grey
phantoms flit to and fro, passing with a careless nod, as it were,
the little grey homes of those whose thoughts so seldom had time to
feast on aught but the bright days before the Peril came; but who
now, with a foretaste of hell in their souls, need only such a day
as this to make them feel the presence of the grey world’s messenger
whose name is Loneliness. Loneliness garbed in a mantle of merging
grey sea and grey sky, trimmed with the spires and turrets of grey
and seemingly unsouled ships, whose presence in the blue and gold
days was as that of old friends well met, but which now seem to be
ragged rents in the solemn dress of Loneliness, reminding one of a
derelict’s slovenly covering held together over a hopeless breast
by an old gold brooch—perhaps the gift of a mother or handed down
from bygone ages. Loneliness comes not to all of us garbed in this
fashion. To others, who look eastward, she comes dressed in the
sombre clothes of the grey hill-side, and with yearning eyes beckons
them on to the chances of the blue and gold life in Constantinople;
or, perchance, if their luck is that of many another good soldier, to
that other grey life forever with the grey seas, grey skies and grey
forgetfulness on these ghostly, forsaken grey shores of Gallipoli.

  N. ASH,
  11th A.A.S.C.


    Come and see my little dug-out—way up on the hill it stands,
    Where I can get a lovely view of Anzac’s golden sands;
    When “Beachy Bill” is shelling, I can see just where he lands,
            From my cosy little dug-out on the hill.

    It isn’t quite as roomy as the mansions of the Tsar;
    From sitting-room to bedroom is not so very far,
    For the dining- and the smoking-room you stay just where you are,
            In my cosy little dug-out on the hill.

    The fleas they wander nightly, as soon as I’ve undressed,
    And after many weary hunts I’ve had to give them best.
    As the ants have also found it, there is very little rest
            In my cosy little dug-out on the hill.

    I’ve a natty little cupboard, and it looks so very nice,
    ’Twas made to keep my bread and jam, my bacon and my rice;
    But now it’s nothing other than a home for orphan’d mice,
            In my cosy little dug-out on the hill.

    There is no electric lighting in this blighted land of war,
    So I use some fat in syrup tins, and stand it on the floor—
    And when it’s working overtime I sweat from every pore,
            In my cosy little dug-out on the hill.

    When the nights are clear and starry—then the scene is beautified
    By the silvery gleams and shadows that across the mountain glide;
    But if it’s wet and stormy—well, I go to sleep outside
            Of my cosy little dug-out on the hill.[19]

    When the time comes round for parting from my little eight by four,
    And I can get a good night’s rest without a back that’s sore,
    Well—_perhaps_ some day I’ll miss you, and will long to live once
            In the little cosy dug-out on the hill.

                                Corpl. GEORGE L. SMITH,
                              24th Sanitary Section, R.A.M.C.T.


[19] The roof of a dug-out, as usually designed, is a device for
keeping the shrapnel out and letting the water in.


A private sat under a tree. It was not the Lone Pine, but the other
one. Winter had stripped it of foliage, and all around was bleak and

In his bronzed fist, which had carried buckets and biscuits since
April 25th, he held a letter, highly perfumed, from his “young
lady”—she whom he had escorted on so many occasions to Sydney’s
social events in the piping days of peace.

He had not heard from home since embarkation, and had often wondered,
as he bathed in just enough water to temper a whisky and shaved by
means of a lethal instrument better fitted for cutting a hedge than a
beard, whether they really cared. A fit of hesitancy now seized him,
and he hardly liked to read the letter. By means of the top of a tin
of sardines which he had bought cheap—two bob he had paid for it on
the beach—he saw his unshaven face, the neck of his soiled shirt,
and his crop of unkempt hair. He was interrupted in this by the
attentions a “little friend” was paying him. This he located. He then
lighted the end of a cigarette (which he had kept stowed away in the
top of his puttees) before risking another glance at himself in the
top of the two-bob tin of sardines.

“What a guy,” he murmured. “If Jessie could see me now, would she
turn me down for some cold-footed, well-groomed fellow? I don’t
think. She’s all right, and would understand it’s no gipsy tea we’re

However, it was with some slight nervousness that he opened the
letter. Following the customary greetings, Jessie wrote:

  “Dearie, be sure to keep your hat on at all times. Egypt, I hear,
  is awfully hot about Christmas-time. The doctor was telling me the
  other day that he could hardly sit on the veranda of Shepheard’s in
  the middle of the day. Keep your hat on, even when at Shepheard’s.
  The climate is so treacherous. Doc. says he recommends this hotel.
  Shall we send letters to you there? Iced drinks and heavy meals are
  dangerous, doc. says.”

This was more than flesh and blood could stand. “Am I having my
leg pulled?” he asked. He looked at the envelope, and found it had
been posted in Sydney thirteen months ago. He swore roundly at the
expense of the postal people, and as all the rest of the letter was
hopelessly out of date, he turned his attention to the next item of
his very belated mail. It was another letter from Jessie. She again
rambled on about Egypt, its climatic horrors and the dangers of
Cairo’s attractions.

He bit his lip and smiled sourly when he came across a passage which
related to the dancing deeds of a male acquaintance of his.

  “Frank, as you know, has not enlisted yet,” she wrote. “He is
  not sure of a commission, because chaps are called upon to
  pass a beastly exam. He says it’s rot to ask him to sit for an
  examination, and he would just hate to serve in the ranks. In his
  case, ‘it would be super-patriotic,’ he says, to do so. I don’t
  understand what he means by this, but no doubt you will.”

Hughie knew that the man referred to was big enough to push all the
Turks off the Peninsula; and Jessie proved a Job’s comforter when,
later on, she told him that Frank only attended dances given for
patriotic purposes.

The next item was a parcel containing hair-oil, twenty-five costly
cigars, a cigar-holder, a suit of pyjamas, and a booklet given away
by a firm of tobacconists, explaining to would-be-recruits that
“Henry Clays” would be forwarded to any part of the Australasian
front free of carriage. The parcel was addressed to Gallipoli.

  “Darling,” wrote Jessie, in the letter that accompanied the parcel,
  “keep these things in your tent.[20] It must be a fag getting the
  oil you liked so much. I suppose you have to walk some distance
  from the firing-line to the nearest shops. No doubt the cigars
  will be acceptable after dinner, and, later on, the pyjamas. Don’t
  think me forward in sending the latter. But I know fellows do wear
  them. I’ve seen them advertised in the _Herald_. I am sending these
  things for use in Turkey.

  “I have read all about the charge you chaps made on the 25th of
  April, and hope you were allowed to get well up in the front. It
  would just suit you. I know it is dangerous, but Frank says if it
  is dangerous for the men, how much more dangerous must it be for
  the officers. He says he will insist upon leading his men in all
  charges. Between you and me though, Hughie, I don’t think he will
  enlist. He has several pairs of lovely socks to hand by to-day’s
  delivery from David Jones’s, and if they are not for the yachting
  that is to start next week, then I’m slow. Frank and I are going
  to Randwick Races on Saturday, and if we see anything in your
  battalion colours we will back it and buy something for you with
  what we collect. Frank says he is sure you would like us to do this.

  “Please don’t get shot, dear. We intend to send you lots of nice
  things for Christmas.”

Hughie, a gay dog in the good old ante-bellum days, who occupied a
cosy job and circulated his sovereigns, tramped back to his dug-out
through the saps, revolving wicked thoughts about Frank. Always a
philosopher, he cleaned his rifle with the hair-oil, cut up the
pyjamas to make pull-throughs, and to newly arrived reinforcements
distributed the cigars. He and the old hands had lost any appetite
they ever had for such comforts.

  A. J. BOYD,


[20] It may be necessary to explain that every man in the Gallipoli
Peninsula was within easy range of the Turkish artillery. For
anything except a hospital to use a tent would have been to give an
open invitation to shrapnel. “The nearest shops” were about three
miles behind the Turkish lines.


    I’ve stayed in many a boarding-house,
      From good, to fair, to rotten,
    Seeking the comfort of a home
      With all its cares forgotten.

    In pubs I’ve dwelt and drowned the cares
      Which canker life by meeting
    With open hand each casual friend,
      And moistened well each greeting.

    I’ve dwelt in many a town and shire,
      From Cairns to Wangaratta;
    I’ve dropped into the Brisbane show
      And Bundaberg Regatta.

    But now I’ve struck an ideal spot,
      Where pleasure never cloys.
    Just list’ to the advantages
      This choice retreat enjoys—

    The rent is free, no board to pay,
      No land or income taxes,
    And on my tail no middleman
      Nor fat man fatter waxes.

    If I should say I need some clothes,
      Someone will just “_take action_”;
    No tailors’ bills can worry me
      And drive me to distraction.

    And should my health appear to fail
      And appetite grow fine,
    My doctor hands me—not a bill,
      But just a Number 9.[21]

    The scenery is glorious,
      The sunsets are cyclonic;
    The atmosphere’s so full of iron,
      It acts as quite a tonic.

    And even parsons preach the Word,
      Nor take up a collection;
    While politicians don’t exist,
      Nor e’en a by-election.

    No scandal ever hovers here
      To sear our simple lives;
    And married men are _always_ true
      To absent, loving wives.

    But the crowning gift of all is—no-
      One’s happiness is marred,
    Finding answers to the questions
      On that d——d War Census Card.

    And should you doubt if there can be
      A spot which so excels,
    Let me whisper—it is ANZAC!
      Anzac by the Dardanelles.

              Bombardier H. E. SHELL,
                   7th Battery, Aust. F.A.


[21] Number 9—a particularly effective and universal remedy in the
field service panier in the form of a pill.




(_An Historic Incident_)

Staff Officer (suddenly meeting perspiring Australasian staggering
under his twentieth half-ton load in the very first wheelbarrow ever
improvised at Anzac—till then sacks had been used): “Hallo, my man!
That’s a very good scheme. Did you invent that barrow?”

Perspiring Australasian: “I wish I could find the beggar who did!”]

[Illustration: Aug. 8: Find the Turk

  C. E. W. B.]




    I was dreaming in the trenches when thoughts and visions dim
    Took shape—there squatted close to me, with mien and visage grim,
    A dark and hairy caveman, huge of form and bare of limb;
    And he eyed me very strangely—and I thought I said to him:

    “Oh! prehistoric caveman, did you own some rock-bound lair
    Where, secure from interruption, you consumed your scanty fare?
    Did you sally forth for hunting—or to seek some maiden fair?
    Did you club her on the cranium and drag her by the hair?

    “She’d be mostly good when captured, cooked your grub and had her
    You were happy, Mr. Caveman, tho’ your brawny limbs _were_ bare.
    You were cold and hungry sometimes, but upon this point I’ll swear
    You were better off than we are—you’d no uniform to tear.

    “Poor benighted Mr. Caveman, if you’d only _only_ known
    Of our glorious progression—all your arrowheads of bone
    Would have been replaced by rifles, and for little slings of stone
    You’d have had a 4.7 gun—what joys you _might_ have known!

    “Things have changed, poor Mr. Caveman, since you went your simple
    But we’re living still in caves, sir, dug most carefully in clay.
    We call them trenches, dug-outs, saps; but, call them what we may,
    They are made to hide our skins in, just as in your heathen day.

    “Two thousand years ago came One—taught ‘Peace on earth, goodwill’;
    Unceasingly we’ve preached it since, and that ‘Thou shalt not kill.’
    And all these toilsome, changeful years we’ve retrograded till
    We are _with_ you, Mr. Caveman, for we’re simple cavemen still.”

    I thought I was quite eloquent; my brain began to burn,
    When a hand stretched out and shook me—’twas a hand I could not
    I yawned and tried to dodge that grasp, but I awoke to learn
    ’Twas the N.C.O. on duty, saying: “Come, my lad, your turn!”

                                    J. M. COLLINS, 9th Battalion.


  G. T. M. R.]



[Illustration: A is the Aeroplane buzzing above, Sending us tokens of
friendship and love.]

[Illustration: B’s Beachy Bill, such a marvel of cunning, A message
from whom sends the best of us running.]

[Illustration: C is the Chilliness felt in the feet When bullets
commence to invade our retreat.]

[Illustration: D is the Dug-out we’ve spent so much time at, Working
in hopes of defeating the climate.]

[Illustration: E is for Eye-wash, a wonderful lotion, Employed by the
man who is keen on promotion.]

[Illustration: F is the Fool who got caught in a trap, By pulling the
tail of a mule in a sap.]

[Illustration: G is the General devising a strafe, And cursing his
highly incompetent staff.]

[Illustration: H is the wretched unfortunate Hill, Bombarded and
mined but impregnable still.]

[Illustration: I’s the Intelligence officer who Is said to exist at

[Illustration: Forgive a digression and spare me the time To think
of a word that will make a good rhyme, And if the delay is a little
provoking, Remember it’s J and the word may be Joking.]

[Illustration: K is the Kaiser at home in Berlin, Chanting his quaint
maledictory hymn.]

[Illustration: L is the Liar who loves to relate Achi Baba has
fallen, and gives you the date.]

[Illustration: M is the Major observing from latitudes Tending to
strained and discomforting attitudes.]

[Illustration: N is the Navy bombarding a lair, Ignoring the fact
that there’s nobody there.]

[Illustration: O is the Optimist struck by a splinter, Happy to think
he’ll be home by the winter.]

[Illustration: P is the spotlessly uniformed Paragon, Living in
splendour on H.M.S. “Aragon.”]

[Illustration: Q is the Questions we ask with a wail, Do skippers
like whisky, and where is our mail?]

[Illustration: R’s the report of the latest success, Strictly
compiled for the use of the Press.]

[Illustration: S is the Sniper; it’s also his Sickness On finding his
cover is lacking in thickness.]

[Illustration: T’s the Telephonist cutting off stations In the midst
of important conversations.]

[Illustration: U is the Uniform made for the wenches, Slightly
deranged by a day in the trenches.]

  _Note._—This illustration has had to be postponed pending a final
  statement by Mr. Hilaire Belloc as to the date of the certain
  exhaustion of German resources.

[Illustration: V is the Victory talked of by editors, Who wish to get
rid of importunate creditors.]

[Illustration: W stands for the various Wiles The Germans employ to
keep Turkey in smiles.]

[Illustration: But X is the Xmas that some day will come When turkey
and sauce will be served with our rum.]

[Illustration: Y is the Youth who was scornful of danger, Till caught
in the rear by a violent stranger.]

[Illustration: Z is the Zenith of power and glory, A fitting
conclusion to this little story.]


  _The Kaiser
  to his

  (_Dictated_) _XMAS, 1915_]


    “Peace upon earth and unto men goodwill!”
      Such words rang true of yore. (Excuse my laughing.)
    Ironical they’ll ring while Huns are still

    My Vaterland, I know, has set its back
      Against such old-world heresy and schism,
    And deems such tidings but a mere anach-

    Not till our Eagles twain replace the U-
      Nion Jack from Dover Harbour unto Calais,
    Proving thereby the truth of “Deutschland U-
                      ber Alles!”

    Not till all men shall hearken my decree,
      Not till all worlds shall tremble at my nod,
    Shall peace on earth be countenanced by ME—
                      or God.

[Illustration: Steeple falling]

    But since the time is fitting, down you sit
      And write—forgive the French—un petit billet-
    Doux with the season’s compliments to Lit-
                      tle Willie.

    Tell him how once his courage I admired,
      How recently—to my surprise—I’ve heard an
    (I trust) unfounded rumour that he’s tired
                      of Verdun.

    Bid him select a new cathedral’s spire,
      Bombard it! Seize it! Never mind the losses!
    Tell him its peal of bells will make more ir-
                      on crosses.

    To Hindenburg say—he must do his best,
      And if he can’t advance, then he must dig a
    New line, “according to our plans,” due west
                      of Riga.

[Illustration: cannon firing]

    To her who knows how Bulgars’ palms are _Greeced_,
      Send greeting suited to a Royal Queen—oh!
    And bid her give her brother’s love at least
                      To Tino.

    To Enver write: “Since some of you seem lost
      And some of you don’t seem to know quite where ’e are.
    I’ve squared at—well—at never mind the cost,

    “That is my part; you must now stop the gab
      (Why, anybody can do that much, damn it!)
    Of those who try to shake the faith of Ab-
                      dul Hamid.”

    Then when I’m satisfied that General Bird-
      Wood and his Anzacs at the Dardanelles
    Are busy studying the latest word
                      In Hells,

    And my supplies are safe, then right away
      I’ll hie to Egypt—not by ocean liner,
    But by a rather safer route through A-
                      sia Minor.

    These plans of mine, at which some seem surprised,
      Are not, as fools think, calculated solely on
    The out-of-date campaigns of undersized

    For when I’ve got the British blighters beat
      (Here comes my cunning), what I mean to do is
    To exercise, on water smooth, my fleet
                      Near Suez.

    Then, finally, for Double Eagles’ head,
      In order to perpetuate my Kultur,
    By Royal Decree I’ll substitute instead—
                      A Vulture.

                                             H. B. C.


Do not we know that fall of night over Anzac!

Boom-boom! Boom-boom! Boom-boom! All the afternoon the warships on
our right had been engaged in the playful work of tearing pieces from
the hillsides of Achi Baba, eight miles to the south of us, ruining
the trenches of our friend the enemy, blowing up a supply base, a
mule train, dropping shells on the forts, or indulging in some of the
many small acts of friendliness to which Jack Tar is prone. As the
evening wore on we could see the flash from both shell and gun.

About the time we finished our frugal evening meal lightning began
to play in intermittent flashes, like a heavenly searchlight, from
far across the hidden Narrows and Asia Minor, and put to shame the
puny bursts of light from the handiwork of man. The boats were still
at it, but their dull booming was now intermixed with the rumble of
distant thunder.

The lightning becomes more vivid. There is a rattling, crashing roar
from the artillery of the skies that can never be equalled by any
earthly batteries. Surely the Creator is in angry mood to-night, as
comes a deafening peal, followed by vivid flashes of forked lightning
in fantastic shapes. One seems a long arm with hooked fingers, as
though the Most High would grasp one or both of the contending armies
and hurl them into the seas. The lightning plays around the steel
points of the bayonets of the motionless sentries, standing ever
ready under the parapets, and keeping a ceaseless watch the night
through on the enemy trenches.

Trench and traverse, hill and valley, are revealed by a brighter
light than that of day. The rude wooden crosses, marking the places
where, alas! too many of Australasia’s best have fallen, are brought
out in bold relief against the dark background of holly scrub, and
the narrow strips of winding roadway on the long hillsides from the
beach—the work of months—up which perspiring fatigue parties toil
with rations, water, ammunition and other necessary stores the day
long, are laid out as a relief map by Heaven’s electricity.

A rattling, crashing roar, such as I have never heard in any
Australian thunderstorm, is followed by a deafening clap, and a huge
ball of fire falls earthward at terrific speed in the direction of
Constantinople, followed by a sound as of a shattering explosion,
which causes the very hillsides to quake, traverse and parapet to
tremble, and the roofs of dug-outs to send down a shower of stones.

[Illustration: THE SILVER LINING

Sunset over Imbros as seen from Anzac

_Drawn by C. E. W. BEAN_]

The ships have long given up the unequal struggle to make their
voices heard against those of the elements, and as the storm passes
over, and the rumblings of the thunder become more and more distant
and the lightning less vivid, the veil is drawn from the face of the
moon, and the White Lady sails out into her own once more.

The storm has had its effect on those manning the trenches. The
bubbling rattle of the machine-gun, the sharp crack of Turkish
rifles, and the heavier report of our own arms, which usually
punctuate the night, are noticeable by their absence. The turmoil of
an hour ago has turned to unbelievable quiet.

  I. A. SAXON,
  21st Australian Battalion.

[Illustration: Decoration]


    There’s a certain hard-hearted old censor
    (Which is not meaning any offence, sir)
      Who won’t let us tell,
      When we say “I’m quite well,”
    Where we’ve planted the water condenser.

    And that same stony-hearted old censor,
    When we speak of the shell-smoke as dense, sir,
      Will rule it out straight—
      And the same if we state
    That some of our non-coms, are denser.

    And yet this same rigid old censor
    (Whose business must now be immense, sir)
      Will let it go through—
      Tho’ he knows it’s not true—
    If we tell her our love grows intenser!

    But though mostly this rigid old censor
    Is a far stiffer bar than a fence, sir,
      Yet he let down the rails
      For our Christmas mails,
    So three jolly good cheers for the censor.

                        C. D. MC. (Sergt.).


C. E. W. B.]


_Our special correspondent having been permitted the exceptional
privilege of obtaining some insight into the work of the Navy, we are
enabled to publish the following invaluable article_:

But was that really he? That stylish pair of khaki-coloured overall
trousers surmounted by a serviceable-looking British warm patrol
tunic of the same excellent material? At first glance it was hard to
distinguish him from the dapper-looking foot-gunner, with whom he
was engaged in lively conversation. Their words were inaudible to us
onlookers, but from what one could gather the foot-gunner was making
some interesting comments on the system of naval pinnaces.

And was this all of the representative of the greatest naval power
that ever placed foot upon the land? But as the observer drew nearer,
the flash of illumination came. For there, poised elegantly on the
bows of the natty blue trench sou’wester was the emblem of Britain’s
naval supremacy, the silver anchor in a golden hoop.

“Shiver my corrugated iron!” he was saying—using a phrase I
remembered having heard so often as a young sub-midshipman (or
“spotty,” as they are affectionately known by their seniors) on the
old _Bellicasus_—when, noting the presence of company, he turned with
a polite smile to the intruders and waved his apologies. It was then
that one noted the true stamp of the man. He was a sailor every inch
of him, from the drop of salt spray that dangled lazily from the tip
of his nose to the purple-tinted seaweed that clung affectionately to
the soles of his boots; and his speech was laden with that peculiar
crispness and alertness which we associate with sailors; they imbibe
it from the salt atmosphere of the gun-room and the ward-room. But
what struck one most about him was his youthful appearance. “What’s
What” would probably give his age as 29 (though he did not look a
day more than 28½), and yet from the three bands on his cuff it was
obvious to one of the writer’s experience in naval matters that he
must be a subaltern-commander.

“Is it much like what you thought it would be after all your
training?” I asked.

“Yes, pretty much,” was the reply, with an oddly reminiscent smile.
“Iron is heavier than water, and a pinnace afloat is worth six

Here, I realised, was a man of perception—one who was fitted to guide
the destinies of a great nation.

“And the landing of all these vast quantities of stores,” I urged;
“is not that a great task?”

“We do not land them,” he said impressively and decisively, with the
air of one closing an argument. “We unship them.”

I nodded understandingly. So that, then, was the key to the great

  Lieut. A. L. PEMBERTON,
  H.Q. Staff, 24th Siege Bde.


  A very present
  Help in

C. E. W. B.]


“Possie!” exclaimed the inquiring General. “What is ‘Possie’?”

“That, sir,” said the C.O., “is Australian for recess, either firing
or sleeping. It’s a contraction of ‘position.’”

“Now that’s where you’re wrong,” said the Chief Staff Officer, in a
tone which admitted no argument. “Posse!—p-o- double s-e. Posse—a
small force. Your firing recess is manned by a small force—what?”

And the C.O. was overcome by very great emotion.


[Illustration: Men running for bunker]


(_With compliments to the R.N.A.S. in the Dardanelles_)

    Hurrah for Mr. Aeroplane,
      A-sailin’ in the blue;
    I’m glad to see you up again—
      Me compliments to you.

    I’m Tommy Brown, Australian,
      Who’s fightin’ here on land;
    An’, strike me, Mr. Flyin’ Man,
      I’d like to shake your hand.

    Sometimes I feel I’d like to streak
      Beside you in the sky;
    An’ then my nerves go all a-shake
      To think you’re up so high.

    By jingo! how your bloomin’ grit
      Must make old Jacko dance;
    An’ don’t he fuss to make a hit,
      When given half a chance.

    But on you go inquirin’,
      As if the job were fun,
    An’ Jacko was a-firin’
      A nipper’s toy popgun.

[Illustration: Airplane and bullets]

    You give the battleships the wink,
      They gets their guns to bear;
    An’ then—oh, strike me blue an’ pink—
      Then don’t the Turkies swear!

           *       *       *       *       *

    Ah, well—beyond the hills you go;
      We wish you best o’ luck.
    Remember, all the boys below
      Enjoy your bloomin’ pluck.

             H. G. GARLAND,
                    16th Aust. Battalion.

[Illustration: Decoration]



Mahomed was Mahomed. He was also a guide. The combination meant that
he knew everything, and what he didn’t know he made up, and what he
made up he told so often that at last he believed it.

We were on the usual Nile excursion—made by nearly the whole
Australasian force at one time or another—to Memphis and Sakkara.

A boat had been arranged, and Mahomed tried to entertain us on the
boat. He did. Knowing our absence from home and wives, he gave
us a full account of his three wives; also some obscure, but not
uninteresting, details of their feelings towards each other. Each was
“a pearl,” and he didn’t know which was the pearliest. The idyllic
peace of Mrs. Mahomed in triplicate was enough to make one a follower
of the Prophet.

His next dissertation was on the Koran. But theology doesn’t appeal
much to soldiers. Padres have reduced their services to a maximum of
twenty minutes. Before long our astute guide recognised a necessity
of a change of subject. He gave us riddles—_the_ riddle of the
Sphinx: How one could divide equally between two men a ten-gallon
flask of water with only three-and seven-gallon flasks to do it
with. The best of us took nine moves to do it in; Mahomed did it in
five—and looked humble. Then he gave us another: Four men and their
wives are on one side of the Nile, and have to pass over to the
other; but their jealousy will not allow any man to be alone with a
lady not his wife. Mahomed threw this problem at us with an air of
triumph. There was the boat, there were the four men, there were the
four wives, there was the Nile.

The Nile was certainly there, and our puffing, stodgy steamer had
gone two or three miles before we gave it up. We did give it up.
Mahomed manipulated the ladies and their spouses with ease, landed
each on the other side, all conventions being strictly observed.

Then the Pyramids came into view. We were rather tired of the
Pyramids. But the guide wasn’t. What would a guide be without
Pyramids—or the Pyramids without guides? So we heard again all their
history. Each new Mahomed throws in a thousand years or two more or
less. But what is a thousand years in Egypt?

We were tiring of the Pyramids. Mahomed started on the other
bank—Napoleon, Napoleon’s towers, Napoleon’s granaries, Napoleon’s

Now there is a limit to all things. We could stand Moses Island; we
could listen to the accounts of Pharaohs, Pyramids, Sphinxes, and
Mrs. Sphinxes. But Napoleon! Napoleon hadn’t even known Australia.

However, Mahomed was wound up. He was inspired. He was even intrepid.
What if the infidel dogs did cut down his baksheesh; they should have
the whole story. So the British (and the Australasians) in Egypt went
to the wall. Napoleon reigned. He got it all.

It was then that our youngest subaltern put in an easy under-arm, and
Mahomed hit out!

“Yes, we know all that about Napoleon,” said the sub., “but what
about Sir George Reid?”

We waited breathless. Was it a boundary hit or a catch at point?

“Oh,” said Mahomed, “I know all about Saint George Reid. He a great
man. There is his mound over there.”

“Ah!” we exclaimed. And then, with happy inspiration, someone asked,
“Is he dead?”

“Oh, yes; dead a hundred years. Saint George Reid, a very good and
great man. He has a fine tomb. If a sick man goes there, he gets
cured quickly.”

We tipped Mahomed generously.



I hardly think old Benci’s little wineshop in Alexandria will be
known to many of the A.N.Z.A.C., or to many Alexandrians for that
matter. But in case any of you find yourselves ever in Alexandria
again, this is how you will discover it:

Standing at the head of the Rue Cherif Pacha—everyone in Alexandria
knows the Rue Cherif Pacha who knows anything at all about the
place—with the Kodak Company’s fine shop on your right hand and His
Britannic Majesty’s fine Caracol on your left, you could reach it in
three bomb-throws, if the last of the three happened to be a “googly”
and swerved in from the off, just round the corner into the Rue
Attarine. So, you see, it is right opposite the Attarine Mosque; and
as you sit of an evening at Benci’s doorway, smoking his cigarettes,
with his wine at your elbow, and watch the motley, polyglot crowd
ceaselessly passing, you have your eyes always coming back to the
carved and inlaid door of the old temple, and up the graceful minaret
into the great lift of a night sky glorious with such liquid gold
of stars that memory of herself will take you back to many a mellow
night when stars of even more melting loveliness bent above you in
your own homeland down South.

But you never saw such a restless crowd in an Australian or New
Zealand street as this double line of dapper Europeans and of sallow
Egyptians, Syrians, Armenians and hungry-looking Greeks, threading
the low swirl of khaki tunics and Arab rags. And ever and anon the
stream ebbs before your “garry-driver’s” long-drawn “Haa-sib” (mind
out), to let pass some official dignitary or some riotous party of
Kangaroos, or some handsome, red-tabbed officer of the regular staff,
or maybe ’tis an even more handsome and stalwart private of the
ranks, beside some dear, dainty, winsome thing under one of those
little fly-away hats, with that dark kiss-curl clinging close to her
cheek—you know exactly the kind of maid and the kind of curl I mean.

And still the tall, quiet minaret and the broad, quiet heaven seem to
lean together; and one grows pensive sitting at Benci’s narrow door
of a summer evening.

Old Benci himself is a brisk little Italian, doubtless of middle
age. I think it must have been as a mark of affection that we called
him “Old Benci,” for his hair still keeps something of its youthful
brown. He has not a word of English and about two of French, but
you know at once from his open, sunny face that, like most of his
compatriots, he has a heart of gold; and, at a price to fit a
ranker’s pocket, he keeps a Chianti that is first-rate.

It was Tillett who found him for us. Tillett is a New Zealand Medical
Corps man, grey-headed, full of years and the experience they have
brought him; equally at ease in French, Italian and Spanish from his
early life on the Continent, and a dabbler in Greek and German by
way of diversion; but so quiet and unassuming withal, and so rarely
confidential about himself and his affairs, that we knew little of
him beyond that he was at that time doing odd jobs of healing for
the drivers of a New Zealand battery withdrawn from the Peninsula.
For us he was a most likeable chap, an excellent interpreter when
our mediocre French failed, and—his chief merit—the discoverer of
Benci and his tavern. With a palate tormented by stewed tea and the
heavy canteen beer beloved of the yokels of Old England, he had
traversed wellnigh every quarter of Alexandria in vain quest of the
cheap and honest draught wine that he knew must be there somewhere,
and yet must be neither that so very “ordinaire” red wine of France,
nor yet the wretched “health wines” of Greece, that carry in their
tang memories of the physician and the sick-bed of our pre-war days.
And between him and Old Benci there had grown up quite a sincere
affection, apart altogether from Chianti at P.T. 1 per glass.

It was delightful, the pantomime that went on whenever any of
us arrived without Tillett. With a countenance full of anxious
solicitude, Benci would point vaguely out into the night, carry his
forefinger to his own grey head, and then up would go his eyebrows
in interrogation. This we knew to mean, “Where is our friend of the
grey hair that you are here to-night without him?” And one of us
would answer by laying his face to the table and snoring heavily or
in mimic sentry-go along the passage. Oh, but it was good to see the
smile that broke and beamed across his honest face, with his pleasure
at finding himself intelligible to his country’s allies.

The rest of these allies, so far as our coterie was concerned, were
a sergeant of the Ceylon Tea-planters, back from Gallipoli in charge
of his company’s horses, and a Maori of that gallant, reckless band
whose “Komaté! Komaté!” rang along those hills in August—well-born
and well-educated, in physique strong and solid, but with movements
as quick and sure as a cat’s. In this tanned army only the full lips
and the slightly flattened nose betrayed his origin.

He and I had been friends at the same New Zealand ’varsity, but,
like so many of the best of his race, he was no “sticker,” and in
the third year of his medical course he had side-tracked himself on
troubled studies of mind and consciousness and refused to carry on
with his dull public health and medical jurisprudence. Since leaving
’varsity he had been living on his means, he told me, spending most
of his time in wandering. Napier, the tea-planter of Ceylon, was your
well-bred, clean-limbed, rather aggressively healthy-minded young

These three, at any rate, were the centre of that bright little knot
of friends that, in a three months’ stay in Alexandria, had drifted
and stuck together in a community of tastes and ideas and downright
liking for one another. And though one or other of us might be held
by night pickets, or C.B., or on visits to our hospitable French
and Italian friends, yet on any night of the week, from seven till
midnight, you would find two or three of us forgathered at the back
of the little shop in the shadow of the great black casks and behind
the wooden grille that, while allowing us from the dim interior a
clear view of the street, yet shut us off effectively from the eyes
of the night patrol. For it was before Sir John Maxwell’s “Iron Law
of closing time” that we held our revelry _chez_ Benci, and it was
safe to wager that something was amiss if we went home by any but the
1.10 A.M. tram for Ramleh, or by carriage even later.

But those were our palmy days in Alexandria—the days before the swarm
of Tommies came, and our pockets began to empty, and an officious
picket in the fullness of its own importance went farther afield
than Sisters Street and patrolled the whole town in its lumbering

  L. J. IVORY,
  4th Howitzer Battery N.Z.F.A.

[Illustration: Decoration]

[Illustration: GREY SMOKE


    Old pipe! old comrade! friend o’ mine,
      Have I then made you sad? Or is it just
    That you and I’ve been drinking wine,
      Embittered by this dull grey day; or must
    It be that you too know
    That smoke and hopes “grey” both may go?

    Grey smoke of yours, grey thoughts o’ mine,
      Seem strangely both in one accord to-day.
    Perhaps it is that croon-song of the pine,
      Recalling memories dear and far away—
    Or is it that this grey day’s mystic spell
    Foretells the end of hope and smoke in Hell?

    Ah, no! old pipe, methinks this grey day came
      To temper such as you and I to stand
    The small and weary problems of life’s game,
      And learn to cheer another one, whose hand
    Has groped in vain, and vainly gropes
    For better things than grey-like smoke and greyer hopes.

                     R. G. N., 11th Aust. A.S.C.

[Illustration: Battle scene]


    We’re only in the Ordience,
      Not troopers of the line;
    We don’t attack no enemy,
      Nor in the papers shine.
    We just wait here from morn till night,
      Expectin’ these ’ere shells
    That makes our lives, what were so bright,
      So many earthly ’ells.

    We ’and out underpants and socks,
      And boots and coats galore,
    To them as gives and takes hard knocks
      An’ soon gets used to war.
    We keep their clothing up to dick,
      Equip and arm ’em, too;
    We rig out the returning sick
      _Almost_ as good as new.

    They blew us from our depot south
      A bit along the beach,
    We humped our blueys, nothing loath,
      And settled out of reach.
    Our store grew large and prosperous,
      We laughed at Turk and Hun,
    Until they trained on us one day
      A blasted four-point-one.

    Each morning they put in a few
      To bring us from our beds,
    From time to time the whole day through
      They make us duck our heads.
    One eye is cocked for cover,
      And one ear is for the whiz,
    An’, until the fuss is over, we
      Postpone our daily biz.

    Now, when the war is over,
      And we return to peace,
    Though we may live in clover,
      Enjoying lives of ease—
    A striking clock will wake us,
      A blow-out make us run,
    And cry again our old refrain:
      “Gott straf’ that four-point-one!”

                  Lieut. KININMONTH,

[Illustration: Young Officer: “Haw, haw, no shave?”

Australian: “He, he, no——razaw!”]

[Illustration: The above is a facsimile (slightly reduced) of our
quondam contemporary, _Dinkum Oil_, chiefly composed and edited by
Sergt. Noonan, 6th Battn. A.I.F. (previously editor of _Sniper’s
Shots_). The _Dinkum Oil_ (which is Melbourne for “True News”)
appeared during June and July, 1915, and circulated in the 1st
Australian Division.]


_Drawn by DAVID BARKER_]



And it came to pass that King Hun called together his mighty men and
said unto them:

2. “Behold I have dreamed a dream, and the Gott of Boasts hath
appeared unto me and said:

3. “‘Bring together all your ships of the sea, your wealth of the
land, and your mighty men of valour, including your first-born.

4. “‘For I say unto you, now is The Day.

5. “‘Ye shall go forth to battle against the kingdoms of the earth to
wage war against all who do not bow down to thee and call thee “_The_

6. “‘For I have decreed that thou shalt rule the earth to the
uttermost corners of it.

7. “‘Let thou and thy son take but six days’ rations in your
haversacks, for on the seventh day thou shalt dine at the Palace of
the Buckinghamites with the King of the Allyites as thy mess orderly.

8. “‘Forget not thy pomade nor thy tooth-brush, neither shalt thou
leave behind thy gases nor thine iron rations, for thou mayest have
need of them.

9. “‘And go ye forth to kill and plunder; spare none, but put all to
the sword; and put your trust in yourself alone—and—er, myself, if it
so please thee.

10. “‘For this is The Day.’”

11. And all his mighty men bowed down to him and said: “O King, live
for ever; verily thou hast truly said, and thy kingdom shall extend
to the ends of the earth and the heavens and to the depths of the

12. So King Hun blew his bags out, smote him on the chest, and called
aloud, saying, “I am IT.”

13. And the same day he brought together all his legions of men and
his ships of the sea and all the wealth of the land: for they were
all ready.

14. And they counted and found umpteen million men of valour, two
ships, seventeen anchors, fourteen shillings and fivepence in gold,
umpteen billion rolls of paper money and ennygottsquantitee gas.

15. But they left the two ships at home, fastened to the seventeen

16. And the King-of-all-the-Huns said, “It is enough, IMSHEE!”[22]

17. So they imsheed.

18. Now, it came to pass that the Huns ran amok both East and West,
North and South, and their cry was “Strafe!” and “Ber-lud!” and they
got both in abundance.

19. For they threw themselves on the neighbouring villages, breaking
through the back gate without warning, and slaying the watchdog and
the pig, the husbandman and his wife, the baby and the nurse, the cat
and the canary.

20. Nor even did the Boy-about-the-place have time to reach his
air-gun from off the shelf; for the Mad Mass tarried not to wipe its
sword, but only to quench its blood-lust and its thirst.

21. And when they had laid waste all that land, they boiled over into
the next.

22. But it came to pass that by this time the cries of murder and
children in torment had reached far and wide, and before another sun
had set two men met the horde of Huns.

23. And the Huns lifted up their bleary eyes and asked, “Gott strafe,
but who vas dis dat do dry stob our leedle game?”

24. And the Man-from-the-west with the strong arm and the iron jaw
proclaimed to the multitude,

25. “I am K. of K., and THIS IS THE END OF THE SECTION.”

26. And the Butchers all lifted up their voices with one accord,
saying, “Gott sh-sh-traf,” and “Hic, Ber-lud.”

27. But the Huns stopped, yea, verily.

28. And so it came to pass that the King of the Huns dined not at the
Palace of the Buckinghamites with the King of the Allyites as his
mess orderly—neither on the sixth day nor in the sixth year.

29. But the King of the Huns and Little Willie ate their iron rations

30. And the flood was over the face of the earth for many days and
many nights till the Mighty Winds arose and drove it back.

31. And behold, the King of the Huns said unto himself, “Verily, it
was a dream, and instead of ‘The Day’ is now nothing but ‘The Night.’”

32. So he fell asleep.

33. And great was the fall thereof.



And it came to pass that on the seventh day of the week of the fourth
month of the year, being the twenty-fifth Sunday after the Melbourne
Cup, there journeyed forth from the land of the Greeks, yclept
Lemnos, a mighty host.

2. And “Birdy” commanded them, saying, “Take from the Turks the land
of Gallipoli, that we may occupy it. Possess yourselves also of the
command of the Narrows, that all who are free may enter.”

3. Therefore, the Colonels, Majors and Captains took heed, and after
much lengthy pow-wowing issued to their men this edict: “Hear ye, men
of Australia and New Zealand, what the ‘Boss’ hath commanded. Ye
shall girdle yourselves about with ammunition, and, after landing as
seems meetest, make assault upon the hills and valleys of Gallipoli,
which the sons of Abdul do hold to our detriment.”

4. To the Ninth, and the Tenth, and the Eleventh, and the Twelfth
Battalions of foot soldiers this follower of Medon addressed himself
thus: “Prepare ye the track that the First, Second and other
Brigades, even your comrades, may make peaceful footing. And each man
take with him a first field-dressing and two days’ rations, for we
know not what difficulties we might encounter.”

5. And to the Army Medical Corps likewise he addressed himself,
commanding them to attend to the weak, the injured and the weary,
and lo! his words were not in vain, for the land was treacherous and
harboured many pitfalls.

6. And it came further to pass that the enemy proved themselves
“hard-doers”; yea, verily, they were a stubborn folk, for they had
builded unto themselves dug-outs and trenches on the land of their
forefathers, and were aware of the coming of the invader.

7. But “Birdie’s” host were of the hills and dales; men of much
cunning and resourcefulness.

8. Therefore, without the flourish of trumpets, they sallied forth to
the right, and to the left, and the centre.

9. And they did that which was right in the sight of the “Boss,” for
they used their “Blocks” and held the ground, which seemed impossible
to those not possessed of faith in his judgment.

10. And on the day of the twenty-sixth, and of the twenty-seventh,
and on succeeding days, they did also build trenches, and burrow
holes into the earth like unto the rabbit, that they might abide
safely, for it was further commanded that this should be done.

11. Now it came to the ears of the Chief, and it was a true saying,
that the Valley of Shrapnel was even as Gehenna, fraught with many
dangers to the unwary. Therefore it was commanded that the pioneers
should prepare a track crooked, making it thereby difficult, yea,

12. And when this and sundry tasks were completed, the First, the
Second, the Third and the other Brigades of human pack-horses, so
that the good work might be continued, were reinforced by a multitude
of those who are known as the Lost Horse Regiments.

13. And lo! the host of Birdwood flourished amazingly, even to the
extent of rum and porridge.

14. By this time, being the twelfth month of the same year, it waxed
“plurry” cold, even unto a fall of snow, and the erstwhile Land of
Jacko did breed much “flue” and “pneu,” and it did seem as though the
plagues of the ancient Gyppos had descended upon them.

15. But the Iodine Infantry were magnanimous with their potions; thus
in our generation the sick were cured of their suffering, and the
balm of Gilead descended upon them.

16. At the time of the eleventh month of the same year as this is
written a Chief of the Rulers journeyed from afar to take counsel
with his chiefs, and, by his guiding, smooth out and make plain the
difficulties which had beset their paths.

17. This accomplished, it was given unto “Birdie” that he should
command all, excepting only the good ship _Argon_, which contains
such a heterogeneous mass as that good ship of Noah’s did contain.

18. Now, the rest of the Acts of Kitchener, and all that he did and
said, have they not been written in the _Peninsula Press_ and other
vaporous rags, erstwhile our “filthy contemporaries”?

19. Heed ye all of this, ye who dwell in the Antipodes, for the time
is nigh when the clouds of war shall lift and we may abide in halcyon
peace; for this is the Dinkum Book of Jobs, as will be written in the
Book of Revelations.

  No. 1 Aust. Stat. Hosp., Anzac.


Now a multitude of Egyptians journeyed unto Anzac, even nigh unto the
seats of the mighty. And when they had come unto the place whereon it
was written they should rest, they took counsel one with the other,
saying, “Lo, behold, we have no light.”

2. Then one, more bold than the rest, journeyed forth to gather fuel
that peradventure had been washed to the beach and had escaped the
claws of Apollyon, the Camp Commandant. And after he had searched
a while he raised his eyes and praised Allah. For near to the
waters he found a tin can having a wick, like unto the lamps of his
forefathers, even from the days of the Prophet. And straightway he
returneth to his companions, saying: “Rejoice with me, for Allah has
been bountiful and I have had good fortune.” Thus saying, he kindled
the lamp, but it would not burn. And he kindled it a second time,
but still the lamp refused to give her light. Then they cast it into
the fire, and they all gathered round to enjoy the light and warmth

3. And it came to pass that while they yet warmed their hands there
was heard a mighty crash, and of the “Gyppies” that remained were
picked up seven stretchers full.

4. Verily it is not meet at Anzac to put to “base” uses such jam-tin
bombs and other trifles as Apollyon abandoneth, even when you find
them kicking about on the seashore.

  Capt. A. ALCORN,
  No. 1 A. S. Hospital.


[22] Imshee is the Arabic for “go away.” The Australasian Corps,
which had so far employed it only to street hawkers in Cairo, used
this war cry on April 25.—EDS.

[Illustration: Decoration]

[Illustration: “—— THAT FLEA!!”]

[Illustration: Australian sees Snow for the first time

_Drawn by B. H. C. PRICE_]

[Illustration: This _is_ the Life

_Drawn by L. F. S. HORE_]


    This is indeed a false, false night;
      There’s not a soldier sleeps,
    But like a ghost stands to his post,
      While Death through the long sap creeps.

    There’s an eerie filmy spell o’er all—
      A murmur from the sea;
    And not a sound on the hills around—
      Say, what will the silence be?

    Private R. J. GODFREY,
             7th Aust. Field Amb.

[Illustration: Death as a soldier]


    They told us w’en we ’listed
      We’d have a lot to bear—
    There was ’ardships, good and plenty,
      And a chance to “do and dare.”
    An’ since lobbing ’ere at Anzac
      We’ve ’ad a scrap or three,
    But wot we’re goin’ crook for is,
      _There’s only tea for tea_.

    We can take our “iron rations,”
      Tho’ they ’and ’em out like ’Ell,
    An’ we’d charge the blankey Turkeys
      Thro’ a cataract of shell!
    But wot narks us more than any
      Is to ’ear the sergeant say:
    “The sea’s too rough to land our stores;
      _There ain’t no jam to-day!_”

    When we’re stuck up in the trenches,
      W’ere the shells is fallin’ thick,
    And Johnny Turk’s machine-guns
      Does the interviewin’ trick,
    We give ’em all they gave us,
      And a bit of interest, too,
    But w’y don’t someone tell ’em
      _We’re just perishin’ for stoo_!

    We lays down in the open
      W’en our “bivvies”[23] isn’t dug,
    The rain comes down in rivers,
      And we’re anythink but snug;
    We “stand to” ’arf the bloomin’ night,
      But the whole of that is naught,
    If they’d give us all we wanted
      _Of the steak wot comes to port_.

    W’en it rains they give us lime juice,
      W’en it’s ’ot they give us rum;
    The baccy don’t arrive because
      The mule train didn’t come.
    The mail is ’arf a day be’ind,
      And w’en it comes to light,
    We blanky well can’t read it,
      ’Cause it’s dark as Egypt’s night.

    But, anyway, that’s roustin’,
      You don’t want to ’eed our ’owl;
    They say as ’ow a soldier
      ’As a perfect right to growl.
    If it’s bully beef till Doomsday,
      We ain’t goin’ to make a fuss—
    So long as we can lick the Turks,
      _That’s good enough for us_.

                    E. M. SMITH,
                           27th Battalion.


[23] Bivvy—bivouac, shelter.


(_With thanks to all givers of cigarettes_)

    The hills of old Gallipoli
      Are barren and austere,
    And fairy folk, unhappily,
      Are few indeed out there.

    But one I know whose industry
      Both night and day is seen,
    For all attest her ministry—
      My Lady Nicotine.

[Illustration: “APRICOT AGAIN!”

_Drawn by DAVID BARKER_]

    I do not pen unfeelingly
      These random lines of thanks,
    For I, in old Gallipoli,
      Am fighting in the ranks.

    However long the day may be
      Or cold the watch of night,
    My lady finds unerringly
      The road to the respite.

    Her gift is small and seemingly
      Of little value, yet
    It teaches me so charmingly
      To think and to forget.

    So I and those along with me
      In all this dreary scene
    Unite in giving thanks to thee,
      My Lady Nicotine.

               H. G. GARLAND.

[Illustration: Decoration]


_A Modern Chronicle by Private PAT RIOT_

England has been conquered by Julius Cæsar, William of Normandy,
nearly (but not quite) by William of Germany, and, lastly, by plain
Bill of Australia. And of the three it is clear that the conquest of
Australian Bill was the most successful of all, when it is remembered
that at the time of his triumphant entry into London he was not the
man he is; he was sick and wounded. He did not invade the city with
his shield in front of him. He was carried on it; he came a conqueror
on crutches.

Private Bill Kangaroo was a lanky, sawny bushman who, when a certain
foreign militarism went mad and the band began to play the concert
of Europe, read between the lines of his newspaper, thought a bit,
saddled his brumby, and rode for the nearest town that ran a railway,
staying there just long enough for a final shout. He passed the
doctor easily, took a quite insanguinary oath (for once) to do his
job as a soldier, and went into camp.

How Private Bill made his kangaroo-like leap up the ridges of
Gallipoli has been told by a war correspondent to a public which
had, up till then, been vaguely aware of his existence as a poor
relation from a South Sea Island. It is fairly certain that future
historians will teach that Australia was discovered not by Captain
Cook, explorer, but by Mr. Ashmead Bartlett, war correspondent.
Anyhow, the finding and exploration of the territory is not in the
same continent as the discovery and exploration of its people, and
Bill has seen the correspondent in the trenches, and regards him with
much more curiosity than ever he regarded the quondam explorer. But
he was unconcerned with these things, and was acting co-respondent in
the case of Crescent _v._ Southern Cross when a sniper’s bullet hit
him in the neck and put him out of court. A hospital ship brought him
to the City of London.

London first came to know him through the medium of its most useful
person, the policeman. Bill had no love for a policeman as a reader
of Riot Acts, but he developed quite an affection for him as a
Pointer of the Way. “I’m bushed” became a familiar greeting between
them, and the Kangaroo was never disappointed when he strolled across
the street to ask P.C. 49 the way he should go. A London motor-bus
might have done what a Turkish bullet failed to do if the man in
blue had not stopped the traffic and played the part of pilot to
him. The raised hand that held up the stream only for royal persons
was lifted for the strolling soldier from the South, and the busmen
laughed at the bushman. To be “bushed” in the heart of London became
a common experience with him, and one had a suspicion that nefarious
taxicab drivers often took advantage of his innocence of locality to
drive him in circles before dropping him at his destination, perhaps
five minutes from the starting place. It was the shortness of city
distances that puzzled him, and he was amazed to find names that
were historical and household words 12,000 miles away borne by quite
unpretentious streets and lanes. When English people learned that he
had travelled 1,000 miles to pass a doctor and join the Army, they
gasped and said he must be joking.

What a class war failed to do, a race war has done. The poor and
their patrons, noblemen gentle and simple, vied with each other
in dealing hospitably by the private soldier who had climbed the
heights that commanded a view of the Past and the Future. In the
stately homes of England, Bill (in the servant’s phrase) met the “big
guns” as “one of themselves,” and was astonished at the surprise thus
caused. But he was amazed, in turn, when the servants told him they
had been in the house ten years. With many embellishments, he assured
them that a girl in service in Sydney would think she owned the house
if she stopped so long in one place.

To Bill, going into the Carlton or the Hotel Cecil wasn’t sitting in
the seats of the mighty, but just the same as entering the pub at
Yungaburrah, and he wandered in these places without any desire to
“cut a dash.” He approved of the costly surroundings, but when he saw
the smallness of the glasses put before him, Bill sat in the seats
of the scornful. He really enjoyed himself better in that inn where
he found a group of Cockney cronies. The landlord had to respond
repeatedly to his “Fill ’em up again,” and Bill afterwards declared
it to be the cheapest night’s fun in the town.

Parsimonious people would say that Bill Kangaroo didn’t know the
value of money, for it took him some time to appreciate the small
coins of the realm at their face value. He thought it looked mean to
keep on asking, “How much?” and when seeing the sights of the city he
always pulled out silver more than sufficient to cover expenses. The
pennies he received in change soon filled his pocket, and at first
he gave them away; but as he saw that he would soon be penniless,
he would go into one of those places described as being “strictly
within the meaning of the Act,” and surreptitiously ask the barman
if he could do with change. His dislike of the base metal and a habit
of tipping in silver bade fair to earn for him the nickname of the
“Silver King.” Tipping he reckoned a curse, but, knowing that many
men lived by tips alone, he passed the coin quite as cordially as he
disliked the practice. Bill never bought in the cheapest market to
sell in the dearest; he didn’t think it “on the square.”

His greatest adventure was the Zeppelins. Seated in a theatre one
evening, he heard a woof! And just after that a second one, closer
a third, a fourth, and then a fifth just outside. Woof! Crash! Men
and women began to rush for the doors, until the man who rose to the
occasion on that memorable 25th rose to this one, and shouted above
the tumult of falling glass and tramping feet that it was safer in
than out, and that if they kept their seats all would be well. The
actresses on the stage, though quaking with fright, stuck pluckily to
their parts until the final act. Bill himself wanted dearly to go out
and see the infernal machines and their effect, but, for example’s
sake, he stayed till order was restored, when he slipped out of the

What he saw outside filled him with thankfulness that he was a
soldier, helping to smash the raiders and their kind. Wandering down
the street, past great gaping holes in the roadway, an overturned
motor-bus and some wrecked buildings, he found himself on the
Embankment, and then on the bridge, where he saw a damaged arch of
masonry. He sat down to think, little dreaming that he was fulfilling
Macaulay’s prophecy concerning the man from “down under” sitting on
the ruins of London Bridge.

Bill’s furlough was finished shortly after this; his raid terminated
with that of the Zeppelins. He was glad to return to the front; and
he knows now that, in assisting in the pruning of Prussia, he is
fighting for more things than ever he thought of when he took the
oath of allegiance.

But he swears that when the job is done he will again visit the land
of his father’s fathers, and toast it in a big, big toast.

  9th Battalion.


Trooper Sing, of the 2nd Light Horse Brigade, on the right, was said
to have sniped his two hundredth Turk.

But his name and fame had not spread all around the lines, for a
Staff Officer, in visiting the snipers of Quinn’s Post, came upon a
Light Horseman who, very justifiably, was priding himself upon having
definitely hit twelve of the enemy.

“Did you hear that fellow Sing on the right of the line——” began the
Staff Officer.

“Well, sir, they don’t sing in front of me,” put in the Quinn’s Post
man promptly. “They’re too b—— well frightened!”


  =A= was the _Anguish_ that spread o’er my face
    When I saw the remarkable look of the place.

  =B=’s “_Beachy Bill_,” who fired at my ship—
    Punctured the funnel and gave me the “pip.”

  =C= was the “_Crump_” that went by with a screech
    As I jumped from a lighter and fell on the beach.

  =D= was the _Daring_ I failed to display
    When fragments of shrapnel came whizzing my way.

  =E= was _Earth_ which I found in my hair
    As I woke in the morning and crawled from my lair.

  =F= were the _Fleas_, and also the _Flies_,
    Who feed on a fellow wherever he lies.

  =G= were the _Gripes_ that gripped me within—
    The result of commodities packed in a tin.

  =H= was the _Hole_ that a howitzer made;
    It would take me an hour to fill in with a spade.

  =I= was the _Idiot_ who stuck up my head
    Before I was taught to take cover instead.

  =J= was the _Jam_ with our rations and rum—
    We found it was almost invariably “Plum.”

  =K= was the _Knowledge_ I quickly acquired
    Of hiding whenever the enemy fired.

  =L= was the _Louse_ that lurked in my vest,
    Reconnoitred my person, and tickled my chest.

  =M= was the _Monitor_, firing at night,
    Which kept me awake when “above” didn’t bite.

  =N= was the “_Night stunt_,” with trembling heart,
    Expecting each moment the Maxims would start.

  =O=’s the _O.O._[24]; let’s give him a cheer—
    It isn’t _his_ fault that nothing comes here.

  =P= are the _Piers_—see them shiver and shake
    Whenever a launch makes a wash with her wake.

  =Q= stands for “_Quick_,” to the tunnel we dash
    When a horrible missile explodes with a crash.

  =R= are the _Rumours_ we hear every day
    That the Turkish _moral_ has quite faded away.

  =S= is the gilded _Staff Officer_—who
    Censors my letters and tears them in two.

  =T= is the _Taube_ that drones in the sky
    (Thank goodness, _I_ haven’t been ordered to fly!)

  =U= is the _Underground_ sap we expand—
    There’s a twopenny tube to the Narrows in hand.

  =V= is for _Victory_. How we shall sing
    Rule, O Britannia, and God Save the King!

  =W= the _Wire_ we put round our works—
    We generally find that it’s pinched by the Turks.

  =X= the “_X-periments_” made with a bomb—
    A neat little cross on a nice little tomb.

  =Y= in the world have I ever been placed
    In a trench of cold water right up to my waist?

  =Z= is the mule corps recruited from _Zion_,
    Bearers of water and rations of iron.

  “UBIQUE,” 21st Indian Mtn. Battery.


[24] Ordnance Officer.


    Did Ari Burnu, Sari Bair,
      With lips of hot desire,
    And clutch your skirts in wild despair
      At your disdainful ire?

    Oh, Sari Bair, with frowning brow
      And flinty breasts of stone—
    Fierce Anzac breathes a fiery vow,
      Thou art for him alone.

    To drive your Abdul from his lairs,
      He comes in proud array;
    And loud he swears, and when he swears
      The Turkish hosts give way.

    Dear goddess, wise in ancient lore,
      Let Abdul curse the Hun;
    The waning Crescent fades before
      Australia’s Rising Sun.

    But cheer up, poor old Sari Bair,
      And smile ’midst battle smoke,
    For Anzac, wild of eye and hair,
      Is quite a decent bloke.

                     “BEN TELBOW,”
                              10th Aust. Battalion.

[Illustration: Decoration]


    I’d like to get the Hun who sends
      The little bits of shell
    Which buzz around as wearily
      I top that blooming hill.
    He only does his duty,
      But my only shirt I’d sell
    For half a chance to give the cuss
      A non-return to H——!

                Trooper GEORGE H. SMITH,
                                    7th Light Horse.

[Illustration: Sergeant (during wet weather): “Hallo, my lad, have
you got nails in your boots?”

Slowly Freezing Australasian: “Well, I’m that —— cold I hardly know
if I’ve got nails in my feet.”]

[Illustration: On Water Fatigue: “Me next!”]

[Illustration: A Cheery Optimist]

[Illustration: NEWS ITEM

The TURKISH extremity WAS blocked on our left.—]


    We were finished with the fightin’, we were finished with the war,
    And the dove of peace looked healthier than e’er she did before;
    For the Allies put the acid on the Hohenzollern crowd,
    And they piled the costs on William when they knew they had him
    But _we_ didn’t care a cussword if his soul were saved or sold;
    We were bound for home and beauty, and the wanderlust was cold.

    Yes, we dream of home and Mother, and of Dad and Sister May,
    And the girls who used to know us, waitin’ half a world away;
    And we’re wantin’ but to find them just the same and nothin’ more—
    Just the same old dear old home-folks that we knew before the war.
    And I’m hoping they’ll be looking for the boy that used to be,
    Not a hero with a halo for the crowd to come and see.

    Oh! I’ve snarled to read the phrases that the writers coined for us—
    “Deathless heroes—lasting glory,” and the other foolish fuss;
    For we’re simple sinful soldiers, and we’re often rude and rough,
    And our characters ain’t altered since we donned the khaki stuff.
    (“Smithy” terms this “the outpourin’s of an overburdened soul,”
    But I’d like to stuff a blanket in that long-offendin’ hole.)

    As I gaze on Bill, me cobber,[25] sure I smile a little smile,
    For his happy, careless nature doesn’t fit the poet’s style;
    No, he don’t resemble Cæsar in his looks or in his speech,
    Nor Napoleon nor Cromwell—why, they ain’t within his reach.
    He’s a decent sort of cobber, but he doesn’t push a claim
    To be classed “a gallant guardian of Britain’s honoured name.”

    I’ve a grouch on jingo writers and the poets and them all,
    Who have placed us common persons on a public pedestal;
    Will they dust our coats and speak to us and help us _when we fall_,
    Or paste a different label on us—something very small?
    It’s their fault I’m entertaining just a tiny little dread
    That me friends may want a hero with a halo round his head.

                                             HARRY MCCANN,
                                                        4th A.L.H.


[25] Cobber—Australian for a well tried and tested pal.


The following are some of the “special orders” issued on notable
occasions to the officers and men of the A. & N. Z. Army Corps.



  _April, 1915._

OFFICERS AND MEN,—In conjunction with the Navy, we are about to
undertake one of the most difficult tasks any soldier can be called
on to perform, and a problem which has puzzled many soldiers for
years past. That we will succeed I have no doubt, simply because I
know your full determination to do so. Lord Kitchener has told us
that he lays special stress on the rôle the Army has to play in this
particular operation, the success of which will be a very severe blow
to the enemy—indeed, as severe as any he could receive in France. It
will go down to history to the glory of the soldiers of Australia
and New Zealand. Before we start, there are one or two points which
I must impress on all, and I most earnestly beg every single man to
listen attentively and take these to heart.

We are going to have a real hard and rough time of it until, at all
events, we have turned the enemy out of our first objective. Hard,
rough times none of us mind, but to get through them successfully
we must always keep before us the following facts. Every possible
endeavour will be made to bring up transport as often as possible;
but the country whither we are bound is very difficult, and we may
not be able to get our wagons anywhere near us for days, so men must
not think their wants have been neglected if they do not get all they
want. On landing it will be necessary for every individual to carry
with him all his requirements in food and clothing for three days,
as we may not see our transport till then. Remember then that it is
essential for everyone to take the very greatest care not only of his
food, but of his ammunition, the replenishment of which will be very
difficult. Men are liable to throw away their food the first day out
and to finish their water bottles as soon as they start marching. If
you do this now, we can hardly hope for success, as unfed men cannot
fight, and you must make an effort to try and refrain from starting
on your water bottles until quite late in the day. Once you begin
drinking you cannot stop, and a water bottle is very soon emptied.

Also as regards ammunition—you must not waste it by firing away
indiscriminately at no target. The time will come when we shall find
the enemy in well entrenched positions from which we shall have to
turn them out, when all our ammunition will be required; and remember,

  Concealment whenever possible,
  Covering fire always,
  Control of fire and control of your men,
  Communications never to be neglected.




Commander-in-Chief, Mediterranean Expeditionary Force.

  Mediterranean Expeditionary Force.
  _September 7, 1915._

The Commander-in-Chief, Mediterranean Expeditionary Force, desires
formally to record the fine feat of arms achieved by the troops under
the command of Lieutenant-General Sir W. R. Birdwood during the
battle of Sari Bair.

The fervent desire of all ranks to close with the enemy, the
impetuosity of their onset and the steadfast valour with which they
maintained the long struggle, these will surely make appeal to their
fellow-countrymen all over the world.

The gallant capture of the almost impregnable Lone Pine trenches
by the Australian Division, and the equally gallant defence of the
position against repeated counter-attacks are exploits which will
live in history. The determined assaults carried out from other parts
of the Australian Division’s line were also of inestimable service to
the whole force, preventing as they did the movement of large bodies
of reinforcements to the northern flank.

The troops under the command of Major-General Sir A. J. Godley, and
particularly the New Zealand and Australian Division, were called
upon to carry out one of the most difficult military operations that
has ever been attempted—a night march and assault by several columns
in intricate mountainous country, strongly entrenched, and held by
a numerous and determined enemy. Their brilliant conduct during
this operation and the success they achieved have won for them a
reputation as soldiers of whom any country must be proud.

To the Australian and New Zealand Army Corps, therefore, and to those
who were associated with that famous Corps in the battle of Sari
Bair—the Maoris, Sikhs, Gurkhas, and the new troops of the 10th and
13th Divisions from the Old Country—Sir Ian Hamilton tenders his
appreciation of their efforts, his admiration of their gallantry,
and his thanks for their achievements. It is an honour to command a
force which numbers such men as these in its ranks, and it is the
Commander-in-Chief’s high privilege to acknowledge that honour.

  Chief of the General Staff.



  _September 7, 1915_.

In welcoming the 2nd Australian Division to join the Australian and
New Zealand Army Corps, the General Officer Commanding, on behalf of
all their comrades now serving on the Peninsula, wishes to convey to
them our general feeling of admiration for the gallant behaviour of
all ranks on board the transport _Southland_, when that vessel was
torpedoed on the 2nd inst.

All the troops of the Empire now serving with the Army Corps have
heard with pride of the courage and discipline shown at a moment when
the nerves of the bravest were liable to be so highly tried. Not only
was there not the slightest confusion on the part of the troops, who
quietly fell in prepared to meet whatever fate might be in store for
them, but later on when there was a prospect of the _Southland_ being
able to make her way under her own steam, and volunteer stokers were
called for, men at once came forward for this duty and successfully
helped in getting the _Southland_ into Mudros.

The 2nd Australian Division knows well the high reputation it has
to live up to, to carry on the brave deeds done by those who have
been here earlier in the campaign, but with men like those on the
_Southland_ we are fully assured that our new comrades are going to
prove themselves equal in all ways to the old hands who have fought
so well.

  C. M. WAGSTAFF, Major,
  for Brigadier-General, General
  Australian and New Zealand Army Corps.



  _November 25, 1915_.

Lord Kitchener has desired me to convey to the Australian and New
Zealand Army Corps, a message with which he was specially entrusted
by the King to bring to our Army Corps.

His Majesty commanded Lord Kitchener to express his high appreciation
of the gallant and unflinching conduct of our men through
fighting which has been as hard as any yet seen during the war,
and His Majesty wishes to express his complete confidence in the
determination and fighting qualities of our men to assist in carrying
this war to an entirely successful termination.

Lord Kitchener has ordered me to express to all the very great
pleasure it gave him to have the opportunity, which he considers
a privilege, of visiting “ANZAC” to see for himself some of the
wonderfully good work which has been done by the officers and men of
our Army Corps, as it was not until he had himself seen the positions
we had captured and held, that he was able fully to realise the
magnitude of the work which has been accomplished. Lord Kitchener
much regretted that time did not permit of his seeing the whole
Corps, but he was very pleased to see a considerable proportion
of officers and men, and to find all in such good heart, and so
confidently imbued with that grand spirit, which has carried them
through all their trials and many dangerous feats of arms, a spirit
which he is quite confident they will maintain to the end, until they
have taken their full share in completely overthrowing our enemies.

Boys! We may all well be proud to receive such messages, and it is up
to all of us to live up to them and prove their truth.




  _December 1, 1915_.

BOYS,—I cannot tell you how really sorry I am to be leaving “Anzac,”
as I have to do on shifting over to Army Headquarters.

I have not, however, any intention of saying “Good-bye” to anyone,
for I trust it is by no means “Good-bye,” as I still hope and intend
to see as much of all my old friends in the Army Corps as I possibly
can do.

Nor am I going to express my thanks to officers and men, even if I
could find words to do so. I feel it would only be presumption on my
part, for it is for the British Empire to do that; and I well know it
will do so.

My one wish is to be able to finish this war alongside of all my old
comrades of “Anzac”; having begun it together close on a year ago now
in Egypt, I sincerely trust that many of us may be spared to see it
through together, when the time comes to make an end of our German
enemies, though that day may be yet far distant.

  W. R. BIRDWOOD, Lieutenant-General,
  Commanding Australian and New Zealand
  Army Corps.



  _December 21, 1915_.

The Commander-in-Chief desires to express to all ranks in the
Dardanelles Army his unreserved appreciation of the way in which
the recent operations, ending in the evacuation of the “Anzac” and
“Suvla” positions, have been carried to an issue successful beyond
his hopes. The arrangements made for withdrawal, and for keeping the
enemy in ignorance of the operation which was taking place, could
not have been improved. The General Officer Commanding Dardanelles
Army, and the General Officers Commanding the Australian and New
Zealand and 9th Army Corps, may pride themselves on an achievement
without parallel in the annals of war. The Army and Corps Staffs,
Divisional and subordinate Commanders and their Staffs, and the
Naval and Military Beach Staffs, proved themselves more than equal
to the most difficult task which could have been thrown upon them.
Regimental officers, non-commissioned officers and men carried out,
without a hitch, the most trying operation which soldiers can be
called upon to undertake—a withdrawal in the face of the enemy—in a
manner reflecting the highest credit on the discipline and soldierly
qualities of the troops.

It is no exaggeration to call this achievement one without parallel.
To disengage and to withdraw from a bold and active enemy is the most
difficult of all military operations; and in this case the withdrawal
was effected by surprise, with the opposing forces at close grips—in
many cases within a few yards of each other. Such an operation, when
succeeded by a re-embarkation from an open beach, is one for which
military history contains no precedent.

During the past months the troops of Great Britain and Ireland,
Australia and New Zealand, Newfoundland and India fighting side by
side, have invariably proved their superiority over the enemy, have
contained the best fighting troops in the Ottoman Army in their
front, and have prevented the Germans from employing their Turkish
allies against us elsewhere.

No soldier relishes undertaking a withdrawal from before the enemy.
It is hard to leave behind the graves of good comrades, and to
relinquish positions so hardly won and so gallantly maintained as
those we have left. But all ranks in the Dardanelles Army will
realise that in this matter they were but carrying out the orders
of His Majesty’s Government, so that they might in due course be
more usefully employed in fighting elsewhere for their King, their
Country, and the Empire.

There is only one consideration—what is best for the furtherance of
the common cause. In that spirit the withdrawal was carried out, and
in that spirit the Australian and New Zealand and the 9th Army Corps
have proved, and will continue to prove, themselves second to none as
soldiers of the Empire.

  A. LYNDEN BELL, Major-General,
  Chief of the General Staff,
  Mediterranean Expeditionary Force.

[Illustration: SNIPING.—]



  _December 20, 1915._


  It gives me the greatest satisfaction to hear of the successful
  evacuation of “Suvla” and “Anzac” without loss of troops or guns.
  Please convey to General Birdwood and those under his command my
  congratulations upon the able manner in which they have carried out
  so difficult an operation.


  _December 21, 1915._


  I have communicated your Majesty’s gracious message to General
  Birdwood and the Dardanelles Army. In their behalf and my own I beg
  to give expression to the deep gratification felt by all ranks at
  your Majesty’s encouraging words of congratulation. The troops are
  only inspired by a desire to be employed again as soon as possible
  wherever their services may be used to best advantage against your
  Majesty’s enemies.

  Mediterranean Expeditionary Force.

  _December 21, 1915._


  His Majesty’s Government received your news with the greatest
  pleasure and wish immediately to express to you and all under
  your command their high appreciation of the excellence of the
  arrangements for the withdrawal from “Anzac” and “Suvla,” and
  their warm admiration for the conduct of the troops in carrying
  out the most difficult operation of war. They appreciate as fully
  the effective help which Admiral Wemyss and the Navy as well as
  General Birdwood and the Corps and other commanders afforded you.
  The thanks of the Government for this fine achievement are due
  to you and to all concerned, and I wish also to congratulate you

[Illustration: The End of the Story]

[Illustration: Lord Kitchener speaking to the men at Anzac

General Birdwood is standing beside him. The tents in the background
are a hospital]

[Illustration: General Birdwood showing Lord Kitchener the Turkish
position from Russell’s Top

_Official Photographs circulated on behalf of the Press Bureau and
supplied by the Central News_]

[Illustration: Very New Officer: “Well, my man, what’s the matter
with you?”

Australasian: “That —— —— over there hit me on —— shoulder —— with
his —— pick!”

V.N.O.: “I don’t quite get you.”

Aust.: “That fellah ovah theah struck me heah.”]

[Illustration: The “Terror” of the 5th.]

[Illustration: _By Maj. D. A. LANE, 12th Aust. Battn._]

[Illustration: _By G. W. HUTSON, R.E._]

[Illustration: _By F. P. HEWKLEY, 1st Aust. Div. Sig. Coy._]

[Illustration: _By A. H. BARDIN, 1st Aust. Div. Engrs._]






DEAR MR. EDITOR,—Thinking that perhaps a little news about a hitherto
unheard of department of the army (i.e. a Field Ambulance) might
interest you, I have set down (having previously obtained the kind
permission of the great-grandchildren of the justly celebrated Mr.
Euclid, late of these parts, deceased) such axioms as will be of
use and guidance to those requiring to know the habits of a Field

  Ax. 1.—A Field Ambulance shall be an irregular conglomeration
  of humanity and other animals, which shall never under any
  circumstances conform to any fixed order or condition.

  Ax. 2.—Whenever possible, the number of N.C.O.’s in a Field
  Ambulance shall exceed the number of men by 50 per cent., in order
  that the said N.C.O.’s may have a twenty-four hours’ rest when on
  duty, supervising fatigues, etc. (This Axiom is taken from the
  detailed account of Corps Orders made by William the Conqueror in
  the year 1066.)

  Ax. 3.—A Field Ambulance shall never under any circumstances move
  off on the first instance, but all necessary fatigue for the moving
  shall be fully indulged. Only under extreme circumstances may it
  move on the second instance. (Vide AAZQP, Para. 14490053.)

  Ax. 4.—All batmen in a Field Ambulance shall be equal to anything.

  Ax. 5.—If at any time a Field Ambulance should be lost, the finder
  will, provided he doesn’t require it for a war curio, immediately
  place it in the most isolated place available, and forget it,
  because several others are trying to do the same.

—Yours truly,

  Actg. D.A.L.C. & P.O.


  _From Holly Spur, Suicide Valley, Anzac.
  Decem., 1915._

DEAR ABDUL,—I’m scribbling this letter in the trench with my back to
the wall, and I’ve heaps of good news that I’d better get down while
I think of it all. You’ve been so abnormally quiet—say, Abdul, has
something gone wrong? Not a charge or a sign of a riot, not for ever
and ever so long. They tell me you’re sick of campaigning, that you’d
aim in your kit if you could; that your courage and patience are
waning, and the prospects ain’t looking too good. Are you counting
your hopes of returning to that little home there in the wood, where
there’s peace, and a good fire burning, and the rations are plenty
and good?

It’s near Christmas, you know—that’s the reason we’ve buried our
growls for a while; for you couldn’t be sad in the season when
everyone’s wearing a smile. But, of course, I forgot you’re not
sharing the joy that we Christians know, and I guess you’re not
giving or caring a damn for the whole bally show.

I’ll chance that it gives you the “willies”—if you’ve heard, it won’t
hurt to repeat—that the cards and the boys’ Christmas billies[26] are
here, and no kid, they’re a treat. Plum duff for the boys who’ve been
fighting on the biscuit and beef (army store); I tell you we don’t
need inviting to back in our carts for some more. Gee, the chocolate
and cake are delicious, and there’s sweets and smokes in my pail, and
a card with the sender’s best wishes—I’m sending my thanks per this
mail. Folks who reckon that loving is living, whose hearts are as big
as their land, whose happiness centres in giving—that’s _our_ folks
and _their_ old-fashioned stand.

Well, Abdul, I’ll finish this trifle, for my thoughts are beginning
to drift, and the sergeant has passed me my rifle, and it’s time I
took over my shift. I’m concluding this note with a moral—take a
tip from a bloke in the know—pick your men when you’re picking a
quarrel.—Yours truly,


P.S.—By the way, they’ve been stating that you’re scared to come out
any more; don’t forget there’s a welcome here waiting, a warm one,
you bet; au revoir.

  Corpl. A. V. MCCANN,
  “C” Squadron,
  4th A.L.H. Regt.


[26] The “billy” is a tin can something like what is known in England
as a milk can, in which the Australian of the bush boils his water
and makes his tea. A billy packed with various good things was being
sent to each Australian soldier for Christmas.


By Bom^{_de_} A. H. SCOTT 4^{TH} BATTERY. F.A.


  1. Australian sharpshooter disguised as a bush deceives a bird
  2. First signs of summer: discarded puttees. Infantryman down from the
      firing line
  3. Water-carrying in hot weather is hard work and requires few clothes
  4. Sun-flaps on caps and shorts had quite a good run]


  5. Officer (incog.) armed with stick and bullet-pierced periscope.
      (No periscope complete without bullet holes testifying to
      hair-breadth escapes)

  6. Gas helmets will never be as popular as home-made shorts

  7. The English-made slacks (for the “Australian giants”) were much
      too slack except under the armpits

  8. Slacks and a roll of blankets give a very Australian appearance]


By Bdr. A. H. Scott. 4^{th} Battery

[Illustration: An all-Australian outfit is all right for keeping out
the cold (if not the wet)

But if you have a figure and want to cut a dash on the Anzac Beach
get a “British warm”]

[Illustration: A mackintosh cape and gum knee-boots are grand for wet

But when old Zero pays you a visit put ’em all on]


_By our Inquiry Office Orderly, Pte. T. COLLES, 3rd L.H.F.A._

SNIDGER.—We quite agree with you that this is a soldiers’ journal
rather than a Sunday School prize book. Nevertheless, the
chaplain-editor feels we must decline the limerick series you
submitted us. Our head printer is a married man with a growing
family, and sternly refuses to handle your matter. So that settles it.

ANXIOUS.—Your cold feet complaint must not necessarily be a chronic
affliction. Many chaps have been permanently cured by a little
vigorous pedestrian exercise: such as vaulting the parapet and
bogging into a dinkum bayonet charge. So cheer up! It will go away of
its own accord once you get “warmed up to it.”

COMIC-CUTS.—Sorry all the generals you have so far seen do not come
up to your humorous expectations. When you _do_ meet the general of
whom you approve, we should advise you just to drop him a line and
let him know. It will warm the poor old fellow up.

HUNGRY ALWAYS.—Yes, soft—or light—diet is absolutely necessary in
treatment for dysentery or gastritis. If you think you know better
than the doctor, experiment with green quinces and lemonade.... Let’s
know how you get on.

CHAPLAIN OF THE —TH.—Dear kind-hearted old chap! Haven’t you quite
enough to do here without worrying your head over the progress of
war-relief funds in Australia? Anyhow, it may please you to know
that it is proposed to impose a special fine for every time the
word “blanky” is used by men or officers; the proceeds to go to
the various funds. So you need have no fear of the said funds not
reaching the million £ mark in quite a short time now.

SEEDEE BOT.—You can’t expect us to diagnose your complaint if you
don’t make your symptoms clear. But if you feel that a torchlight
procession is going on in your interior, you have probably exposed
yourself too suddenly to an attack of Cambridge sausages and tinned
peaches. Try a change of diet, say, whisky and Schweppes with steak
and kidney pudding.

UNDIGNIFIED.—We sympathise with you deeply in your suffering from the
effects of a shrapnel pellet. Naturally, every man on returning to
his country would be proud to display to his admiring relatives and
friends those honourable scars received on active service. You had
bad luck, but at the same time you should not have tried the ostrich
act when the shell burst.

PARCEL POST.—You say you wouldn’t mind an occasional case of
eat-and-drinkables in the parcel as well as the socks and shirts and
box of liquorice powders. They will all be useful, but anyway, think
of your poor flurried aunts and sisters at home, fighting their way
with knitting-needles—wild-eyed and tousle-haired—through a deadly
maze of skein-wool entanglements! It’s horrible! We’re better off
where _we_ are.

ADJUTANT.—Yes, it’s a pity that one of your men—such a seasoned
veteran and a capable and obedient soldier, too—should have such
kleptomaniacal tendencies. But we wouldn’t advise you to have him
sent back. Make him your batman, instead.... Why, the man was born
for the position!

FUZZY.—Your suggestions will be handed on to the proper quarters.
The only objection to the suggested cinema show at Reserve Gully
might be that the boys in the firing trenches would make it too hot
“sneakin’ off to the pitchers” every night.... Afraid you’ve no hope
of seeing a pub built over the road, opposite William’s Pier.... Yes,
it’s possible that our motor wagons might run penny section moonlight
trips to Salt Lake and back to Anzac. But we fear that there is no
hope of a _palais-de-danse_ there.

[Illustration: Decoration]


_Drawn by W. OTHO HEWETT_]



NOTICE.—The Turkish artillery is requested to refrain from wasting
ammunition whilst our meals are being served.

       *       *       *       *       *

PUBLIC NOTICE.—The Electric Elevator will not be working up the
gullies for a while. Some cook stole the current to make a pudding.

       *       *       *       *       *

KABA TEPE MUSEUM.—Come and see! A piece of long extinct Australian
butter now being exhibited.

_Admission._—One slice of bread.

       *       *       *       *       *

BENEVOLENT HOME.—The Editor has established a home for lost
newspapers and books. Any books or papers may be left there and no
questions asked.

       *       *       *       *       *

MEDICAL.—Men suffering from a feeling of fullness after eating, are
requested to state where they got the extra rations from.

       *       *       *       *       *

WARNING.—Men are advised to keep their eyes open for an individual
wearing pink pyjamas, green glasses, straw hat and khaki mackintosh.
It is thought that this is a spy in disguise.


LAST seen two months ago in Scotland, at the Duke of Buckington’s
grouse shoot. Pte. Bert Backblocks. Left Gallipoli with serious wound
in fingernail early in May. Any information as to present whereabouts
of above will be gratefully received by Adjutant, 101st Battn.

       *       *       *       *       *

CHARLIE.—Come back, dearest. A warm welcome is prepared for you.
Loving arms will enfold you.—SERG.-MAJ. BAWLER.

       *       *       *       *       *

    OH how we missed you, dearest Bill,
      On that famed August nine,
    We think about you, Billie, still
      In Cairo drinking wine.

       *       *       *       *       *

MISSING.—A little tot. It’s rum where it’s got to.

       *       *       *       *       *

MISSING FRIENDS, ETC.—Will the girl who smiled at William Tomkins
last Boxing Day please write to him at once?

       *       *       *       *       *

LOST BY A POOR PERSON.—A strong pipe, last smelt in someone’s pocket
up Monash Gully.

       *       *       *       *       *

LOST.—Pair of field glasses. Finder please return same to our
Champion Optimist.


WANTED.—The address of a good barber. One able to cut hair and shave
preferred. Apply any platoon.

       *       *       *       *       *

WANTED.—Section commander requires pair of good field glasses to find
his men when there is shrapnel about.

       *       *       *       *       *

Q.M.S. requires a man who can even partly satisfy mess orderlies.

       *       *       *       *       *

EXCHANGE.—Corporal would exchange a wristlet watch (not going) for a
spring mattress or a tin of MacConochie’s Rations.

       *       *       *       *       *

WANTED.—Some nice girls to stroll with on the Engineers’ North Pier.

       *       *       *       *       *

WANTED.—Fifty thousand Turkish prisoners for wharf-lumping,
road-making, and building officers’ dug-outs. Plenty of permanent
work for men of right stamp. Apply any beach fatigue party—Australian
N. Z. Army Corps.

       *       *       *       *       *

FULL private wishes to buy guide book to London. Places safe from
Zeppelin to be marked with a cross.

       *       *       *       *       *

TO LET.—Nice dug-out on the skyline. Owner leaving for field hospital.


MAN with good memory would like the job of taking messages from the
troops to friends in Cairo.

       *       *       *       *       *

WANTED TO BUY.—The 2nd Brigade will buy large or small quantities of
old beer. Fresh beer not objected to.

       *       *       *       *       *

READ Prof. Fire Trench’s book on the killing of insect pests with a

       *       *       *       *       *

BUSINESS FOR SALE.—Mess orderly will sell goodwill of a flourishing
business for a box of fags.

       *       *       *       *       *

COMPLETE SPY OUTFIT FOR SALE.—Including pair of blucher boots,
sombrero hat, two cutlasses and a yashmak. Owner having failed to be
discovered for two days is going out of business.



of Varieties, Anzac.

  TO-DAY!!      TO-DAY!!

Celebrated Pair of High Kickers and Whistling Wonders






Also FIRST APPEARANCE AT ANZAC of the world-renowned


_For One Night Only_

TIRED TIM, the Juvenile Acrobat,


KABA TEPE, the Turkish Juggler,

will combine in their


  ☞_N.B.—The Anzac Artillery guarantees that this is_☜
  ☞_positively the last appearance of the above artists._☜

☞_Makers of Guns, Pins, and Things._☜

[Illustration: Decoration]



[Illustration: Decoration]

  :: SHRAPNEL ::

[Illustration: Decoration]



[Illustration: Decoration]


“I don’t mind your shrapnel in the least.”—Pte. —— ——, ——.

“Please send me some more. They make such beautiful souvenirs.”—2nd
Lieut. —— ——, ——, ——.

Try our “1892” Converted

17 Bob the Ton.

New Fuses and Carriage extra.

=Agents= (for import to Turkey): =Foxy Ferdy and Co.=

N.B.—The firm will undertake the packing and forwarding of all
orders by the direct route, but will not guarantee their arrival at

When ordering, please state whether you prefer goods packed as
=pianos=, =soft goods=, or =chocolates=.



(_Strictly Limited_)

  Universal Providers and
  Importers to the Troops

[Illustration: Decoration]

All Best Brands of Army Rations on Sale Daily

[Illustration: Decoration]

Direct and Regular Shipments by our Special Trawlers

[Illustration: Decoration]

  IDEAL MILK—a Speciality
  MEDICAL COMFORTS, from 30/- upwards

_Terms—Very Prompt Cash. No Questions Asked._

  Estab. April 25, 1915. Still Going Strong


CAPS—All Breeds.




  Very Smart




  A la Mode
  (_Special Line_) 1/10-½

AARONSTEIN, ROBBEM & CO., All Principal Capitals.

_Badges (Cap), 21/- upwards._


Anzac and London.

Agents in Gallipoli for all the Leading Brands of Wines and Spirits.


  2290/- doz.

  ——To Regret it.——

_Shipments direct to all the Leading Beachcombers._

Our Genuine Old Imbros Whisky


£12 per doz. botts.

NONE OTHER SEEN AT ANZAC. Ask the boys yourself—see what they say—or
the G.O.C.

Try our “Triumph” Brandy


Direct from Captain’s Cabin Square 24 H 3, one mile from Kaba Tepe.
Or apply A.P.M., Anzac.


  Otho Hewett.




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