Call of the Kiwi (26 page)

Jack shrugged. He knew nothing of southeastern European geography.

“Training for combat operations will take place in Egypt,” the lieutenant declared. “After a short stop in Colombo, we’ll be heading for Alexandria.”

Two weeks later, the fleet reached Suez. Here, for the first time, the recruits heard about combat operations on land. Apparently the Turks had made several assaults on the Suez Canal. Lieutenant Keeler established watches and ordered his men to be on the alert as they passed through. Roly spent a stressful night staring at the dark border of the canal and nervously eyeing every campfire and settlement whose lights reached the ship, but nothing of note actually came to pass.

In Alexandria the ships were unloaded, but the ANZACs did not see much of the famous trading city. The British officers steered the excited troops straight to a train depot.

“To Cairo,” Greg said, almost disbelieving. All the foreign city names, the narrow, sun-heated streets, the short men in their Arab caftans, the clamor of foreign language, and the unusual sounds and scents of the city fascinated the boys but confused them as well. Despite the proximity of his friends, Roly felt lost in a strange world, even a little homesick.

Jack breathed in the foreignness, finding salvation in the new impressions and occasionally managing to stop brooding about Charlotte—if only he could quit drafting letters to her in his head. Jack considered to whom he could write instead, and finally decided on Gloria. Though he had hardly heard from her, he still felt connected to her.

He described his journey by ship with the proud fleet and later riding to Cairo in a train crammed full of recruits. Not much could be seen of the landscape since the troops were transported at night and reached the city in the first hours of morning. It was still pitch black, and to the men’s surprise sharply cold, as they marched the several miles to the training camp—an unexpectedly nerve-racking trek after the weeks of forced indolence onboard the ship.

Jack was frozen solid and tired when they reached the tent city called Zeitoun. Sixteen men shared each shelter; Roly and his friends remained with Jack. With sighs of relief, they took possession of a three-level bunk bed.

Several of the boys—city boys, by the looks of it—were even more exhausted than the boys from Greymouth. Their new uniform boots pinched, and two of their tentmates seemed unable to take another step. They groaned as they removed their boots.

Jack pulled himself together. Someone had to restore order. He pulled Bobby back to his feet and ordered him to go in search of food. Then he told Greg to go for blankets.

“We could just sleep in our clothes,” Greg said.

Jack shook his head. “Then we’ll get reprimanded tomorrow for our wrinkled uniforms. This is a training camp, boy. Vacation’s over; now you’re a soldier.”

Roly was already rummaging in the first-aid kit included in the recruits’ basic equipment and produced some bandages. “No ointment,” he remarked critically, “but what’s this here?”

He held up a small bottle.

“
Manuka
, tea-tree oil,” said one of their comrades whose features suggested Maori ancestry. “An ancient home remedy among the tribes. If you rub it on those fellows’ feet, they’ll heal faster.”

Jack nodded.
Manuka
was used for first aid on Kiward Station as well—though on the sheep and horses.

“But wash your feet first,” Jack said. It already stank in the tent. “Who’ll volunteer to fetch water?”

The next morning their tent did exceptionally well in the inspection carried out by a sleep-deprived Lieutenant Keeler, and Jack received his first promotion, to lance corporal. Though the position involved little more than what Jack had already been doing—taking responsibility for his men and ensuring their accommodations, uniforms, and, most importantly, weapons were kept clean—Roly admired Jack’s new rank without reserve.

“I wonder if I’ll ever manage that, Corporal McKenzie? Being promoted must be amazing. Or receiving a medal. There are medals for bravery in the face of the enemy, you know.”

“But first you need enemies,” Greg grumbled. He had not enjoyed their first exercises that morning. He did not see how marching in rank and file and falling prone on command would be of any use in roughing up the Turks. Jack sighed. Greg seemed to imagine war as a large-scale pub brawl.

Still there was no alternative for him other than to learn how to seek cover, crawl over the ground, dig trenches, and handle rifles and bayonets. Most of the soldiers had fun with the bayonets—and the New Zealanders developed considerable skill as riflemen. After all, many of them had been shooting small wild animals from an early age; thanks to the plague of rabbits, every boy in the Canterbury Plains knew how to handle a rifle.

The Kiwi troops showed less of a gift when it came to following orders quickly. They were not good at marching in step, and to the horror of their British drill masters, they often inquired about the sense of an exercise before they threw themselves in the desert sand as ordered. And they proved distinctly unenthusiastic about trench-digging exercises.

“Man, I’ve been doing that since I was thirteen,” Greg complained. “No one needs to show me how to use a spade.”

Jack studied the techniques even as he bristled at the thought of spending weeks at a time in a foxhole. In reality the placement of trenches demanded considerable strategic and architectural skill—for example, they should never be arranged in a straight line but rather in a sort of zigzag pattern. No soldier should be able to see farther than five yards ahead, making it difficult for the enemy to orient themselves when they broke into a trench. Fire bays and traverses needed to be added, and expanding the trench network without fear of bombardment necessitated knowledge of tunnel construction. The experienced miners routinely dug tunnels in the ground that simply collapsed in the desert. Bobby and Greg laughed about it, but Roly surprised Jack one time by rushing out, pale with fear, after the men had just had another load of sand dumped on them.

“I can’t, Corporal McKenzie,” he whispered, feeling for his backpack. Each first-aid kit now contained not only bandages but a flask. “Here, want any?”

Roly held the flask out to Jack. His hands were shaking.

Jack gave the contents a quick sniff. High-proof liquor.

“Roly, I ought to report you for this. Drinking on duty. You’re not normally like this.”

Unlike his buddies, Roly only rarely visited the improvised bars and bordellos that had sprung up quick as lightning around the camp. More often he attended the film showings organized by the YMCA. And on weekends he usually joined Jack and the other better-educated soldiers on their excursions to the pyramids and the Sphinx. Roly had not even gotten drunk after his recent promotion to lance corporal.

“It’s medicine, Corporal McKenzie. If I take a gulp now and then, I can deal with the trenches.” Roly corked the bottle again but was still pale.

“Poor Roly’s been buried once before,” Greg said, laughing as if it were the greatest joke in the history of Greymouth, “and he’s been scared ever since.” The men hooted and slapped the sheepish Roly on the shoulder. Jack, however, was unsettled. Though it had only been a drill, Roly O’Brien was clearly shaken. It would be a problem if Roly could not tolerate confined spaces and darkness when they went into battle.

Jack, who had since been decorated with the rank of full corporal and who was now responsible for three dozen men, took his concern to the training officer in charge.

“Corporal O’Brien was buried for three days in a mine, Major, sir. It still bothers him. I would recommend his transfer to a supply company or another division not based in the trenches.”

“And how exactly do you know that we’ll be based in trenches, Corporal?” Major Hollander asked with a grin.

“I would imagine so, sir. It seems to be the most effective way of securing positions in this war.”

“You’re a gifted strategist, Corporal. But better save that for when you’ve made it to general. For the time being, you shouldn’t be thinking, only following orders. I’ll keep an eye on that little sissy O’Brien. Cave-in! He’ll get over that, Corporal, I guarantee it. And oh yes, inform your men that we’re breaking camp. At midnight on April eleventh, we’re taking the train to Cairo and then shipping off for the Dardanelles.”

Jack walked off, frustrated but with his heart beating heavily. For better or worse, they were entering the war.

5

T
he ship assignments were different this time. What had originally been a colorful haphazard mass had been grouped into divisions and battalions with a variety of ranks and specialist teams. Jack had been assigned former coal and gold miners who could dig trenches with breathtaking alacrity. Jack figured they wouldn’t put these men in the front line. If there were an attack, they would first secure positions. It therefore was logical that his group shared the same transport as the medics and doctors of the field hospital. Ironically the first person to save a life as they hauled equipment on board was Jack McKenzie.

The troop transports lay at anchor just outside the harbor, and the men and material were brought on board in boats. Operating from a rowboat, Jack and some of his men secured a ramp, which they used to pass tents and stretchers up to the ship; the sea was choppy, and a strong wind was blowing. Anything not secured on deck was being blown overboard. Hats were flying through the air, as was the occasional carelessly stowed empty backpack. But what suddenly splashed in the water next to Jack was considerably heavier than a backpack—and moreover let out a heartrending howl after impact. Jack was astonished when a small brown mutt surfaced and began paddling for its life.

“Take over for me,” he called to Roly, pressing the rope he had been holding into his hand. Then he pulled his shirt over his head, slipped out of his boots, and leaped into the water. Within a few strokes, he had reached the dog and pulled the shivering animal to him. Jack knew that swimming against the tide back to the boat would be difficult, but then the rowboat appeared beside him. Roly had not hesitated a moment. Let the ramp sway—they would rescue their corporal first.

Jack handed the dog to Roly, then pulled himself on board.

“So who or what are you?” Roly asked the little dog, who sprayed all the rowers as it shook itself dry. It was small, bowlegged, and stocky, and its giant button eyes looked as if someone had circled them with kohl.

“A dachshund, I’d guess,” Jack said. The dog wagged its tail. 
On the deck of the ship, a hectic scene was unfolding.

“Paddy! Paddy, come here. Damn it, where is that mutt?” An enervated adjutant stormed out of the officers’ quarters. “Help me, boys, I need to find the beast before Beeston goes mad.”

Jack and the others grinned at each other. “Clearly he belongs to the unit, maybe even the officer corps. Let’s head back to the ship. You boys heard him, they miss their pup.” Jack held on tight to the dog until they reached the ramp.

A thickset middle-aged man in a staff doctor’s uniform had just appeared on deck. Joseph Beeston, Commander of the Fourth Field Ambulance.

“Paddy! Oh God, I hope he hasn’t fallen in the water again with this swell.”

When the rowboat had returned to its position, Jack climbed up the ramp, keeping an iron grip on the trembling Paddy all the way up the rocking planks.

“Are you looking for this fellow, sir?” he asked smiling.

Commander Beeston looked greatly relieved as he took the dog from Jack.

“Overboard?” he asked.

Jack nodded. “But was quickly rescued in a heroic action by the Fourth New Zealand Infantry Division, Commander, sir.” He saluted.

“Victoria Cross, Victoria Cross,” Roly and the others in the boat chanted. The Victoria Cross was the highest honor the British Empire offered to those who fought on the front line.

Commander Beeston smiled. “I can’t offer you that, Corporal, but a towel and a glass of whiskey to warm you up, I can. Please follow me.”

The staff doctor headed toward his quarters, trailed by his dog. Jack followed him curiously. He had yet to see an officer’s cabin with his own eyes and was quite impressed by the mahogany furniture and general luxury of their rooms. Commander Beeston’s adjutant handed him a fluffy bath towel while the staff doctor uncorked a bottle of single-malt whiskey. Jack sipped indulgently at the drink.

“Oh, and do bring us some hot tea, Walters. This young man needs to warm back up.”

Jack assured the commander that it was not all that cold outside, but Beeston shook his head. “No arguments. Can’t have you getting a lung infection and this mischief-maker here having the first death of Gallipoli on his conscience. Can we, Paddy?”

Paddy wagged his tail again when he heard his name. The staff doctor rubbed the dog dry.

“Gallipoli, sir?” Jack asked.

Beeston laughed. “Oh, I hope I’m not giving away military secrets. But we’ve just been informed that’s our first deployment point. A rocky backwater at the entrance to the Dardanelles. Not of any actual importance, but it will secure the advance on Constantinople. If we drive the Turks back that far, then they’re practically conquered.”

“And so we’re headed straight there?”

“Almost. First we’re headed to the staging post for this operation, Lemnos. An island that belongs t
o . . .
”

“Greece, sir.”

Beeston nodded. “We’ll carry out a few more maneuvers there, since my battalion has been training for conditions in France rather than here. But we’ll head out shortly after that. Is this your first engagement with the enemy?”

Jack nodded. “New Zealand is not a very warlike nation. Even our natives are peaceful.”

“And the most dangerous native beast is the mosquito, I know. Australia is somewhat rougher.”

“We won’t fall behind the Aussies in a fight,” Jack said proudly and almost a little insulted.

“I’m sure that’s true. But now I’m afraid I must send you back to your men, Corpora
l . . .
”

“Jack McKenzie, sir.”

“Corporal McKenzie. I’ll make note of your name. You’ve done well by me. Now, shake, Paddy, shake.” The staff doctor bent down to his dog and tried to wring a “sit” out of him, but Paddy was not receptive to commands.

Jack smiled and crouched down in front of the dog. He pulled lightly on the dog’s collar, straightening up himself a bit—and Paddy plopped down on his rear. At a prompting motion of Jack’s hand, the dog offered his paw to shake.

Commander Beeston was thunderstruck. “How did you do that?”

“A very simple dog-training technique,” Jack replied. “I learned it when I was a child. And this little guy is rascally but smart. If you gave me a few weeks with him, sir, I could teach him to herd sheep.”

Beeston smiled. “Now you’ve saved the dog and impressed his master.”

Jack grinned. “That’s New Zealand, sir. In Australia they shoot predators; we teach them to shake.”

“Then I’m excited to see how the Turks react,” Beeston said. Jack McKenzie—he certainly would not forget that name.

Lemnos was a small, picturesque island with a craggy coastline, narrow beaches, and towering cliffs. The ANZAC soldiers looked on with fascination, moved to pity by the poverty of the simple stone houses and the Stone Age wooden plows pulled by oxen. Some of the natives still wrapped themselves in lambskin, and either went barefoot over the stony landscape or protected their feet with rawhide sheep’s leather sandals. The island’s harbor was now filled with modern military technology, including twenty battleships. The men hardly had any time to let the sight affect them, as they started practicing disembarking maneuvers in full combat gear right away. Over and over again all week, they shimmied down rope ladders and rowed to land, sometimes at night and always as silently as possible.

“It’s not hard to do by itself,” Roly observed on the fourth day as their unit steered toward a narrow beach, “but what about when they’re shooting at you from land?”

“Oh, they won’t dare,” Greg said, “with all the warships behind us. They’ll be providing us with cover, you see.”

But Jack shared Roly’s concerns. The Turks were not going to give up their beach, let alone their town, without a fight. And had Beeston not said something about a “rocky backwater”? The defenders would likely be sitting in secure positions and firing down at them from some cliff.

“Oh, if the Turks are anything like these poor villagers on Lemnos, then they shouldn’t put up much of a fight,” said Bobby. “Maybe we should have brought a few of the Maori’s war clubs with us. Then it’d be a fairer fight.”

Jack raised his eyebrows. Judging from what he had seen, the Greeks on Lemnos were perfectly capable of using a rifle. He dreaded the prospect of having to shoot at people soon.

On April 24, 1915, it was time. As the fleet weighed anchor, led by the
Queen Elizabeth
—lovingly called “Lizzie” by the men—the men once again assembled on deck. Full of pride, they left Lemnos behind them.

“Isn’t this wonderful, Corporal McKenzie?” Roly hardly knew where he should look first, at the majestic ships all around or the sun-drenched coast of Lemnos.

“Just Jack,” Jack corrected him mechanically. His enthusiasm was more tempered than that of his comrades. The fleet was indeed a glorious sight, but he could not shake the feeling that it was carrying its human freight into death. The evening before—after a rousing address by General Bridges to the assembled troops—Lieutenant Keeler had called his unit leaders to a briefing. Jack now knew the plan of attack and had seen maps of the coast of Gallipoli. Landing on that beach would be hellish, and Jack was not the only one who thought so. He’d seen his fears reflected in the faces of the British officers, some of whom were battle tested.

The ship carrying Jack’s unit was one of the last to arrive at Gallipoli. As morning dawned, they found themselves in a gathering of ships in front of Kabatepe. The boats carrying the first landing troops were fully manned. On the decks of the troop transports, men were waiting to transfer to destroyers. These small, fast warships displaced little water and could bring the troops closer to the beach. Each of them pulled twelve rescue boats in two rows containing six soldiers and five sailors. The latter were to row the boat back to the ship once they had unloaded their human cargo on shore.

The first landing troops consisted entirely of Australians. Jack realized they were sending the youngest soldiers into battle.

With a shudder Jack remembered his mother’s words from his childhood: “At that age people still believe in their own invincibility.” He must have been around thirteen years old when a bolt of lightning struck the cow barn on Kiward Station. Jack and his friend Maaka had rushed into the fire, braving death to save the enraged breeding bulls. It had seemed heroic to the boys, but Gwyneira had been furious.

The men Jack put in the landing boats were no more than eighteen. Though the army only accepted volunteers over the age of twenty-one, no one looked closely. The landing troops laughed and waved with their rifles. Heavy backpacks hung from their shoulders. Oars glided silently through the water.

Jack let his gaze wander over the dark beach and the cliffs. It was 4:29 a.m. At 4:30 the attack would begin. A yellow light flared up on one of the hills for a few seconds. A deathly stillness reigned over the water for a moment, and then the silhouette of a man appeared on one of the plateaus above. Somebody screamed something, and a bullet was fired, striking the sea.

The British warships began firing with all guns blazing as the Turks stormed the beach. Some shot from the beach itself, others from the three-hundred-foot cliffs. Jack saw the men on the beach fall, mowed down by the warships’ firestorm. It was more difficult to target the slopes, where soldiers with nests of machine guns fired on the rowboats headed toward the beach.

“My God, they’re, they’re shooting,” Roly whispered.