The Horizon (1993) (20 page)

The meeting took place in a large tent normally used for serving meals to the many wounded who daily waited and prayed for the next hospital ship, and ‘Blighty’. Jonathan attended, with the company commanders and
the two C.O.’s of the Royal Engineers, as well as the Gurkha detachment, and the crowded tent was soon like an oven.

Like all marines he was wary of serving under an army general, despite the Corps’s martial origins. On the Western Front it had too often been proved that senior officers had little understanding of the marines or their skills and traditions, and failed to deploy them to the best advantage. They had been used as replacements for men killed in the line, only to fall themselves in an alien environment and separated from their own. He watched critically as with his staff the brigadier-general strode into the tent, and stared piercingly at the assembled officers.

‘Sit, gentlemen.’ A sharp, nasal voice, changing to an angry muttering when he realised that there were not enough chairs.

He was perfectly turned out, Jonathan thought cynically, boots and Sam Browne polished, glove-tight uniform pressed and devoid of the ever-present dust. His batman must have his work cut out.

Nugent got straight to the point. ‘This is a very mixed force, gentlemen. Under my command it will soon overcome any disadvantages. Suvla Bay is our objective. You have all received your instructions and have had time to study the maps.’ His eyes moved amongst them. ‘We shall seize the Anafarta Hills which overlook the bay, and from there we will join with other brigades to establish a front across the whole peninsula north of Anzac. We will then be able to divide the Turkish army. To the south of Suvla Bay the Anzac divisions will break
out and advance towards us.’ He smiled quickly but without warmth. ‘The Turks will be made to fight on two fronts at once. The rest is up to you, gentlemen.’

Jonathan glanced at Waring’s grim profile. It was an impressive build-up of troops, but it seemed likely that the enemy would already know the place, if not the exact time of the landings.

The remainder of the original landing force, recruits almost to a man, had become hardened veterans, which was obviously to the good. There was hope, too, of much improved communications, unlike the last onslaught. The Royal Engineers would see to that.

Another advantage was the arrival at Mudros of new self-powered motor barges. Each was armoured and claimed to be bullet and splinter-proof, and Jonathan thought how different the landings at Anzac and Cape Helles might have been if they had been available then, instead of sending men to face machine-guns and shrapnel in towed whalers and cutters.

Each boat, or ‘Beetle’ as they were nick-named, carried a hundred men, and had a bow-ramp like a small drawbridge so that troops could disembark on the shore ready to move inland without delay.

There was the usual concern about the enormous weight of equipment each man would carry: full pack, mess gear, blanket and groundsheet, the new snub-nosed Lee-Enfield rifle and bayonet, plus all the ammunition each one of them could manage. Drinking-water was also essential, vital to the entire operation, but lighters had been prepared on another island and would be readily available.
They said
. He smiled to himself
despite the tension around him. Once he would have accepted almost anything. Now he believed only what he saw.

Brigadier-General Nugent was saying with emphasis, ‘This whole campaign can be brought to a successful conclusion, and Constantinople will fall to us. The enemy’s pressure on Russia will be reduced, and we can continue to drive them back on the Western Front.’

An army major murmured to his companion, ‘Continue? First I’ve heard of it.’

Nugent became very grave. ‘The General Officer Commanding, Sir Ian Hamilton, has relayed a message, a fine one I think, which over the years to come will inspire everyone: “
The faith which is in you will carry you through!
”’

Waring snorted angrily. ‘What’s the use of that, I ask you? They don’t need faith. All they want is ammunition, support and competent leadership!’

The General’s eyes singled him out in spite of the crowd.

‘What name, sir?’

‘Colonel Waring, sir!’

There was total silence while one of Nugent’s staff officers held out a notepad and whispered something. Nugent said with a change of tone, ‘Ah . . . a Royal Marine.’

Waring faced him hotly. ‘I think the record of the brigade here, and my makeshift battalion in particular, can speak for itself, sir!’

It was like watching two duellists, Jonathan thought.

Nugent asked quietly, ‘Do you have any complaint or
criticism of the plan to take the Anafarta Hills, Colonel – er, Waring? If so, I am sure we would all like to hear it.’

Waring was unmoved, and touched his bristling moustache with one knuckle as Jonathan had seen him do so often.

‘If we cannot take the hills, sir, we will be fighting on two fronts, not the enemy!’

‘“Cannot” is out of the question, Colonel. It must be done. It shall be done.’ He glanced over their faces. ‘We attack on the 6th. The Royal Navy will be giving us full support.’

Now the reason for Soutter’s bitterness and sense of shame became clearer. He had known then that apart from the destroyers and hundreds of Beetles and small auxiliary craft, the main naval support would be offered by two elderly cruisers,
Endymion
and
Theseus
, which had been built during the eighteen-nineties, and were completely out of date in weapons and armour.

That afternoon Jonathan watched the final preparations for embarking this huge army of regulars and volunteers. Now that a decision had been made and passed to every company and platoon, the atmosphere became almost cheerful as the lines of tents were broken down, and the walking wounded gathered critically to look on.

Perhaps the Turks would be stretched to the limit and could no longer face attacks from two flanks. He recalled the Australian colonel who had made the comparison between the enemy defending his homeland and their own emotions if the Germans had been smashing their way up the beaches of Kent and Sussex.

All these men, and many more on the island of Imbros where another armada was preparing to head for the enemy shore. Would these islands ever see such an army again, and how many would ever live to see England once more? Voices all around him, from the north of England, Scotland and the Dales, the round accents of the West Country and townies from the London Territorials. The youth of a nation, of a commonwealth.

Lieutenant John Maxted found him on a bluff, contemplating the seething activity on the bay.

‘I’ve had a letter from Chris Wyke, sir!’ He became more subdued. ‘Came with that last hospital ship.’

Jonathan smiled. ‘How is he?’ It was suddenly important. A familiar face in that other world.

‘He’s well, sir. He’s getting some leave – expect he’s had it by now! Sends his best wishes to you and his chaps.’ His eyes clouded over. ‘What’s left of them.’

They stared down at the Beetles and launches, the dust from marching lines of khaki.

‘Did he have that champagne?’

‘Didn’t say, sir. But he wishes us luck.’

Jonathan glanced at his watch. ‘Go and tell the Colonel that we move in thirty minutes.’ Waring would still be seething about the slight to his Royal Marines. It would never occur to him that he had had exactly the same contempt for the Australians.

‘And, John . . .’

‘Sir?’

‘It’s not a battalion this time, it’s the whole bloody army. Safety in numbers.’

It was a lie, and perhaps the lieutenant knew it. But he
seemed to cheer up immediately and strode away saying, ‘I’ll bet he did have that champagne, lucky bastard!’

Harry Payne appeared, seemingly from nowhere. ‘Starter’s orders, sir.’ He handed Jonathan his revolver. ‘We’ll be at Battalion H.Q. then.’ His eyes crinkled in a sly grin. ‘That should be well back from the firing line, if I’m any judge!’

They walked down the crumbling slope towards the beach, and the sea.

The eventual disembarkation of the first troops did not begin until ten-thirty on the night of August 6th. Each company and platoon commander had a fixed mental picture of the bay, opening up ahead of the flotillas of boats with horn-like headlands at each end. At the top of the bay was a strange narrow strip of sand which separated a large salt lake from the sea itself. And beyond that lay the real objective, the line of the Anafarta Hills.

Yes, they all had it fixed in their minds; but in broad daylight it might seem very different. To the south-east of the bay there was supposed to be a small hill, Lala Baba, which although only shown as two hundred feet high would easily command the beach, as an air reconnaissance had reported that there were strong trenches. Lala Baba was to be the first hinge of the attack. Waring was thunderstruck when told at the very last moment that there had been a change in the plan. All three brigades of the Division were to have been landed on selected beaches on the seaward side of the horn-like Nibrunesi Point. Instead, this brigade was now to be sent
directly inside the bay to land on the long sandspit which separated it from the salt lake. There was no consultation, and Waring had muttered angrily, ‘Afraid the Turks will beat them to the hill! They just don’t
think
!’

The sea was quite choppy and the Beetles were tossed about like leaves. Jonathan guessed that the boats were overloaded anyway, the men crammed together like sardines, barely able to move because of their weapons and equipment. Occasionally faces lit up in the fierce glow of gunfire while the warships fired at enemy flashes without any knowledge of their accuracy. The southern beaches were laid bare by the brighter glare of shrapnel as the Turkish gunners fired over what were probably prepared and sited positions.

It took longer than expected to guide the Beetles and their attendant launches with towed supply boats through the entrance of the bay itself. In the first rays of pale sunshine Jonathan saw the huge drifting clouds of smoke, as the landings and the defences showed themselves for the first time. It sounded as if the main landings outside the bay had gone well, and the troops were probably digging in to await the next counterattack.

The sunshine spilled over the distant line of hills and filtered through the smoke. Jonathan steadied himself and trained his binoculars on the sandspit and at the pale outline of the dried salt lake beyond it. There would be casualties; he could already hear the officers shouting instructions from one of the leading boats, the rasp of steel as bayonets were fixed, with great difficulty with men packed so tightly. But once on that sandspit they
could cross and find cover until the next order to move forward.

Lieutenant Maxted gasped, ‘God, what’s happening, sir?’ A leading Beetle had slewed round and another only narrowly missed colliding with it. Jonathan felt his skin go cold. Something unnoticed, unforeseen, and it was happening right now. The beach could not be reached; the steep shallowing of the water was too much even for these boats.

Waring blew his whistle and shouted, ‘Signal our boats!
Steer south!
’

Breaking away from the original formation of floundering craft, Waring’s flotilla turned heavily and headed towards the beach to the south-east. Jonathan stared abeam and saw the soldiers abandoning their boats and starting to wade ashore, all advantage of cover and speed denied them as sniper fire and machine-guns cut them down in dozens, then hundreds as they straggled onto the sandspit, already exhausted and without proper supervision. But Lala Baba had been taken in the early morning. Later Jonathan heard it was the work of the Yorkshires and the West Yorkshires, who had charged up the hill and forced the enemy to fall back. As the light grew stronger he saw many Turks lying along the shore of the salt lake, cut down even as they retreated. Piles of khaki corpses marked every foot of the fierce attack.

Gasping for breath, the marines abandoned their boats and dragged themselves below the cover of Lala Baba. If the hill had not been captured, it was unlikely that any of them would have lived. Dazed and wheezing like old
men, they watched the havoc on the sandspit until more covering fire from the ships forced the enemy to fall back again from their defences. Snipers still marked their targets, and many more men fell before the rest of the division could dig in or find cover.

In short, shambling rushes they eventually crossed the salt lake, while shrapnel burst overhead, cutting down some of the men who had never been under fire in their lives.

And all the while, more and more soldiers and supplies were being landed. The sun rose higher, and the attack lost its impetus. Men fell asleep; exhausted, they lay like the dead around them despite the humming drone of sniper-fire, the bang of shells. Eventually a runner found Waring, his eyes red-rimmed, his hands cut where he had thrown himself down to avoid an enemy rifle.

Waring snapped tersely, ‘From Brigade. We’re to attack the enemy’s position here . . .’ He unfolded his map and sand drifted from it like dust. ‘Hill Ten. A strong position apparently.’ He peered round for his own runner and added scornfully, ‘The army have fouled it up again!’

It took another hour for the changed instructions to be passed to Waring’s company commanders, all of whom were found except one whose Beetle had received a direct hit from some light artillery and capsized. It was unlikely that there would have been any survivors. The weight of their packs and ammunition would have seen to that.

‘We shall go around the
other
side of the salt lake,
Blackwood. Longer but firmer.’ Waring pointed suddenly, his voice furious. ‘Stop those men drinking all their water!
Take their names, you dolt!
’

The distant gunfire intensified by the hour. It was probably from Anzac where they would be trying to break out through the enemy lines, the other prong of the attack which would cut the Turkish army into halves.

Jonathan lay among the rocks and levelled his binoculars on the distant hills. All the names he had learned by heart, with their rolling objective bathed in sunshine: beyond reach, without hope.