Solomon's Song (50 page)

At 3 a.m. the moon sinks beyond the horizon. The cliffs they could clearly see under the moon now disappear in the pre-dawn darkness. The night is so densely dark that you can almost touch it. Only the soft pulse of the battleship’s engines sends a slightly hollow sound against the hull to remind you that you are not alone.

It is a curious thing to be alone. You have become accustomed to being identified by your group, your brigade, your company, your platoon, but most of all by your mates. Those blokes you have trained with, who crawled sweating beside you in the sand under the blazing desert sun, to whom you clung, bunched together, on the platform of the tram to Cairo, got drunk on arak in the bazaar, laughed and backslapped, chundered in an alley that smelt of piss and shit while your mate steadied you, jeered, chaffed and constantly mocked each other. You no longer belong to your own silence, this is your true identity now.

Each of you sits silent and remote, realising that the problem is the silence itself. That your mates are mostly known to you by the noises they make, the pitch of their voices, the nature of their wisecracks, their stupidity, shrewdness, shyness, boastfulness, bullshitting, modesty and easygoing comradeship, the expressions they use to announce themselves, their weaknesses and their strengths, never allowing you to see their fear, the fear you now feel yourself and think it must be yours alone.

All these things have been constantly with you for the past few months, they have become as familiar to you as rifle drill so that you can’t imagine yourself as a separate part of the whole, or them as no longer a part of your life. And now, when you have to face the moment of truth, they are silent, you are silent, all the touchstones are gone. The familiar voices you have come to rely upon are gagged, the whingers and optimists, the cynics and those who believe with something that shines in their eyes, they’re all silent in your rum-heated heart. In the pre-dawn chill there is only the creak of the rowlocks and the slap of a wave against the hull of the wooden lifeboat and the soft pulse of the engines within the dark hull looming up beside your fragile wooden boat.

You are aware for the first time since you stood in the recruitment queue that you are alone, the hard flat wooden seat under your arse turning it numb and the pack on your back the only extension of yourself you are aware of. One towel, one extra vest, socks two pairs, greatcoat, cap, comforter, a change of underclothing (must die with clean underpants, remember throw away the pair you shit yourself in), three empty sandbags rolled up and neatly tied onto your shovel at the back. Three days’ rations -two tins of bullybeef, Fray Bentos (doesn’t sound Australian), three pounds of hard biscuits (the ones left over at Arnott’s from the Boer War). Then the little white bag of iron rations tied around your neck, half an ounce of tea (no fuckin’ billy), two ounces of sugar and a jar of extract of beef. Two hundred rounds of ammunition, your rifle and bayonet, the killing load three times as heavy as the food that will hopefully sustain you for the next seventy-two hours, that is if you’re not shot right off coming out of the shallows with this heap of shit resting on your shoulders.

In the moonlight you clearly see the cliffs and the land rising steeply from the sea and the fall of land to flatness on the end to the north of a place the Turks called Gaba Tepe on the map, the obvious place to come ashore. But now you only face darkness.

It is a blackness where you know men with cold hands and broken fingernails blow on their clenched fists and wait, their rifles and machine guns oiled, barrels cleaned, spare magazine clips and ammunition belts in reserve, for you to announce your arrival on their land, their beloved country.

They are waiting on the same hills, facing the same coastline where their ancestors fought the Greeks and the Romans, and where they repulsed the Infidel Crusaders carrying their tortured Holy Cross before them into battle, their emaciated bodies and fair peeling skins burnt a crimson colour and their hard, hollow eyes fixed on the cross, prepared to die in the name of the Prophet Christ. Then there were the strutting French and the pompous British, both braided in gold and uniformed in red and blue, both nations vainglorious and arrogant to the point of infinite stupidity. And always, there was the bearded Russian bear trying to shoulder his way through the narrow and jealously guarded sea lanes, never quite learning that he faced a formidable enemy who never failed to singe his fur and send him scurrying back to the safety of the Black Sea.

And now, with spring arrived and the hope of the new wheat already greening the land, the tender shoots broken through the winter-hardened clods and the first of the scarlet poppies in bloom on the thistle and weed-fringed edges of the fields, comes a new tribe of men. Giants with loose shoulders and gangling, easy strides, infidels who have come from somewhere near the bottom of the earth and who are determined to destroy you, murder your innocent children and rape your wives.

And so once again the Turks must defy their entry and, in the name of the Prophet, show them their sharp, snarling teeth and be prepared, as always, to die fearlessly in the name of Allah and so gain a place in Paradise.

The boats are in four long lines, with a little coal-fired pinnace, its stack billowing smoke into the dark night, responsible for towing each line. It is infinitely slow work and, except for the soft throb of the steam engines on the sturdy little boats, one would marvel at the quiet. How can so many young men remain so still when they know that one in three of them may die before the sun sets again?

Suddenly the smokestack of one of the pinnaces sets fire, the leaping flames sending a signal of their arrival for miles, the mirror-calm sea reflecting the orange fire across a wide bay. Shit, if a match struck can be seen at sea for two miles then this inferno must be clearly seen in Constantinople itself. Yet there is no response from the cliffs lining the shore, which, as they draw closer, loom up like dark, unwelcoming shadows. The silence, the fucking silence, remains.

There is a shout, sudden and clear across the water. ‘You are going the wrong way, bear over.’ But no correction is made and the pinnace ahead maintains the same slow, determined, pulsing course. The voice calls again, ‘Bear right, bear to starboard,’ but to no avail, there seems to be an inevitability about where you will land, as though the rudder on the pinnace is stuck and it can only move directly ahead. Like all the other men in your boat you wonder what the suddenly shouted instruction must mean. How far are you off course? What will be the consequences? In the dark, how the hell does the voice know, you can’t see him, how come he can see you? Why won’t the pinnace bear to starboard, to the right, where in the moonlight you supposed the flatter ground to be? Any idjit can steer a flamin’ boat in water calm as a mill pond.

And then the pinnace cuts the boats loose and the rowers take over, moving slowly in to the beach, the men behind the oars grunting and sweating in the dawn cold, their oars splashing as the waves created by the prows of the landing boats begin to build up.

The sudden, sharp flash of a searchlight in the distance, then another, both in the direction of Cape Helles, neither reaching you. And at last a half-heard instruction, ‘Righto, lads, over the side.’ The leap and the obscenely loud splash that follows as you hit the water, the relief as your boots touch the bottom. Tiny waves lap around your waist, your rifle is held above your shoulders as you attempt to wade ashore. Still dark, still safe, though the sky is beginning to lighten, the water cooling, tickling your balls. Then a single shot from the dark cliff ahead, its echo filling the silence so totally that it seems to resonate against the wall of stillness.

And then, in the words of Lance Corporal Mitchell, in the 10th Battalion, ‘The key is turned in the lock of the lid of hell.’

Several of the landing boats are scythed by machine-gun fire, killing most of the men on board. Shrapnel pellets rain out of a dark sky, wounding and killing a great many of the men, the young, bright-eyed soldiers of Australia, alive at one moment, preparing to jump, and dead the next. One soldier remains seated as his comrades leap over the side, his sergeant, last but himself to jump, sees what he thinks is panic in his eyes, terror freezing him to the thwart. He reaches out to touch him, their eyes seem to meet for a moment and then the soldier topples forward into the bottom of the boat. He was dead all along, killed without a whimper, the bullet not even disturbing him in his seat. And the bullets and shrapnel pellets fall like summer hail.

The troops thresh through the water, some of them half-panicked but, trying to keep their heads, attempt to fix their bayonets. There isn’t any point in firing a shot at the blank, dark wall ahead. Strict orders. ‘No rifle fire is to be employed before broad daylight. The bayonet only.’ Some stumble against a submerged rock and fall face-first into the surf, the kit on their back slamming them down like a fist to the back of the head, their arms and legs pumping adrenaline to get them up again. Others hit sudden unexpected depths and flailing desperately in the water their packs suck them downwards, mere arms lack the power to pull them back to the surface and they drown wearing full kit in a ring of bubbles. Others drop to their knees in the water with a soft exclamation, a low curse or a surprised bellow as a Mauser bullet smashes into them. They don’t see the hole, the size of a baby’s tightly clamped fist, or feel the churning together of lung and windpipe and bits of bone as the enemy’s bullet enters their chest. The enemy has their range and, even without being able to see clearly, fires into the dark mass of men struggling towards the narrow strip of beach below. Ben is quite wrong, this isn’t work for a sniper, this is shooting fish in a barrel. When the dawn finally comes, the surf is seen to wash a frothy deep pink onto the pebbled beach.

The order is for every man to fall in and fix bayonets. It goes further even than this, each man, with his free hand, is to hold onto the sleeve of the man beside him on a beach no more than thirty yards wide. In truth, if anyone had been stupid enough to obey this command it would be the equivalent of being deliberately lined up in front of a firing squad. ‘Here you go, Johnny Turk, take your time, aim true, we’ll die brave men, steady and stupid to the last.’

Instead, the troops, many of whom toss off their packs as they reach the beach, shouting like demons, rush for the cliffs, men of every company, every battalion hopelessly mixed, sergeants and officers scattered, yelling for their own blokes. Nobody listening. A Turkish battery, concealed in the half-light from the guns of the battleships who commence to pound the cliffs, bursts shrapnel over the landing troops unmercifully. Ears are not tuned to commands, orders have no significance, no meaning, the men no longer know what to do and there is no single command which can possibly make sense. Their briefing has never encompassed or anticipated anything like this. They have landed a mile further north than was intended and, instead of a steady climb, no higher than a good desert dune, they face cliffs and high ground on which no army could or would, in their right mind, contemplate an invasion. In military theory, the Anzacs are defeated before they have fired a single shot in anger.

And so, as the light grows stronger, the Anzacs climb for their lives. The beach behind them is littered with bodies and discarded packs as the men run for cover across the pebbles. Hanging around for orders is certain death, there is no military manual for this, no precedent. And so it becomes a matter of climb or die, clutching onto bush and thorn, root and rock. Boots scuff the hard red soil, sending pebbles and small rocks avalanching onto the beach below. One thought in every soldier’s mind is to get off the beach, find cover, move upward, hope you see the bastard before he sees you. Stuff the bayonet, stuff a clip into your rifle. Ram one into the breech and get as far away as possible from a beach which is maybe four hundred yards long but no wider than your mum’s backyard and packed with soldiers like newborn chicks in a hatchery.

The immediate slopes ahead of them are very abrupt, rising higher to the north like the walls of some eroding Crusader castle, gaunt canyons are set back slightly further from the beach and appear to be unclimbable. Once up on the slopes it quickly becomes obvious that they are a far more difficult proposition than supposed as they are broken by deep ridges, curving narrow valleys and eroded soil carved into red crumbling gullies twisting in and out of almost inaccessible funnels. Rock outcrops and deep basins, the whole of it, with the exception of the rocky, eroded gullies and cliffs, is covered with dense scrub, much of it vicious thorn. It is a virtual paradise for snipers who, having first had time to study the more likely routes to the top, can position themselves to tremendous advantage. It is not the height of the various ridges that is extraordinary but the steepness and abrupt changes of direction and the general slope which make it almost impossible for advancing infantry and virtually inaccessible for practical or co-ordinated artillery fire.

The entire battle area from extreme north to south is a mile and a half in length and exactly a thousand yards from the beach to the furthest point. In all, it is an area no larger than three-quarters of a square mile. Unbeknownst to many of the urgently climbing troops they often enough rush right past snipers, concealed in the bushes and behind rocks, who take their time to pick their kill.

The sun is well up by seven-thirty when the second wave comes in to run a well-aimed gauntlet of shrapnel, sniper and machine-gun fire. Those on the outer extremity of the beach will lie in the wash and the sun for two days before they are removed. Others, drowned by the weight of their packs, will float to the surface in the next few days. The boats and rafts bringing in supplies will become accustomed to the soft thud of a body as they bump it aside, for if there is no time to attend to the wounded, there is no space left in their minds for the dead.

Ben loses five men from his boat, Matthews and Jolly among them as they sit together one row behind him. Matthews is hit in the throat and, pitching forward, spews blood onto the pack of a soldier named Parker seated on the thwart next to Ben, who grabs him before he pitches against Parker. Warm blood spews over Ben’s fist and he sees that the Mauser bullet has torn open Matthews’ throat and lodged in his spine. Matthews seems to be looking directly into Ben’s face. The soldier’s eyes remain bright, alive, for a moment longer, then as suddenly glaze in death. Ben lets him fall forward onto the wooden grating on the bottom of the steel boat, the private’s rifle bumping against his arm.