Call of the Kiwi (28 page)

“If you capture this mountain, you’ll be a general,” Greg said. “And we’ll all get the Victoria Cross. Come on, let’s go see Keeler.” He got up from his pallet, threw on his uniform jacket, and looked around for his hat. “Let’s go, Bobby! And you don’t really mean to chicken out, do you, Jack?”

Jack did not know what to say. He thought he could hear his mother’s voice: “It’s about putting God to the test.” Perhaps his mother had been right. But having stood in the Turks’ line of fire that day and fired blindly into the smoke and muzzle flashes of the other side, he was now certain he was not seeking death. So far he did not find anything heroic about this war, and he could not bring himself to hate the Turks. Driven by alliances with people they did not know, they were defending a country from soldiers fighting for a nation they did not actually know either. It all seemed nonsensical, almost unreal. Although he would fulfill his duty and prove himself wherever they ordered him to go, he did not feel compelled to go to Cape Helles.

“Do come along, Corporal McKenzie,” Roly insisted. “A mountain isn’t so bad.”

Jack joined his men reluctantly. For reasons incomprehensible to him, he felt some need to protect Roly. So he followed them through the trenches to Lieutenant Keeler’s bunker behind the lines. Keeler was packing his things.

“Him too?” Jack asked Roly.

Roly nodded. “He’s commanding a platoon. The lieutenant of the Third Division fell today.”

Greg saluted sharply. Keeler looked at him with a tired expression on his face.

“Is something the matter?” Keeler asked.

Bobby O’Mally explained. “We’d finally like to fight, sir. Stand face-to-face with the enemy.”

As Jack understood it, they were to fall on the Turks’ rear. But he did not say anything. Lieutenant Keeler looked almost disbelieving. He looked from one man to the next.

“You two,” he said, pointing to Greg and Bobby, “I’ll take. But not you, McKenzie.”

Jack bristled. “Why not, sir? Do you not trust me t
o . . .
”

Keeler held up his hand. “It has nothing to do with trust. But you’re a corporal, McKenzie, and you have a good grip on your work here. You’re indispensable.”

Something in his face made Jack swallow any reply.

“But it’s only two or three days, sir,” Roly said.

Keeler looked like he wanted to say something, but held back. Jack felt he could read Keeler’s thoughts. He recalled the maps they had been shown before the landing. Capturing the high ground, euphemistically called “Baby 700,” was a suicide mission.

“A man can die anywhere,” Jack said quietly.

Keeler inhaled deeply. “A man can also survive, and that’s what we’re going to do. We march at daybreak, boys. And you, Corporal McKenzie, work on reinforcing the trenches that were shot at today. Those trenches are the difference between life and death. So make your men sweat. Move out.” 


6

R
oly and his friends set out at first light. Jack heard the noise, laughter, and cheerful farewells. The men left behind in the trenches seemed almost to envy the men ordered to the assault unit. Many of them repeated their complaints about being on “mole duty” while the others could look forward to adventure.

Jack didn’t hear a thing about those fighting for Cape Helles for four days, but he hardly had time to worry in the interim. Major Hollander and other members of the English command were putting massive pressure on the trenching columns.

“Turkish troops are gathering; reinforcements are arriving. There could be a counteroffensive any day. The fortifications must hold.”

On the fourth day Jack staggered into his quarters, exhausted and with sore fingers. They had spent the whole day securing the trenches with barbed wire, and Jack had undertaken the bulk of the work in his sector. Unlike the miners, he had worked with barbed wire on the farm—he hated it, but it was the most effective way to fence in cow pastures. However, he had never been shot at before while putting it up. He decided to partake in the alcohol rations he had saved up over the previous days. They were allotted a small glass of brandy each day, and Jack, who rarely drank alone, had not touched his booze since Roly’s departure.

“Corporal McKenzie?”

Jack raised himself wearily from his billet. The young man standing in front of Jack’s quarters was wearing a medic’s uniform.

“We were told to bring this man to you,” he explained and pushed a filthy Roly O’Brien, now clad only in rags, into the dugout. Roly resisted, but only weakly. Jack stepped outside.

“On whose orders?” he asked.

“His lieutenant’s. Keeler. He’s with us in the hospital, and the boy was just wandering around there. He dragged the lieutenant into camp earlier this evening. Probably saved his life. He would never have made it over the rocks alone. But afterward, this fellow was completely done, hardly knows his own name.”

“Bobby,” Roly said quietly.

“See there, you heard it, Corporal. His name is really Roland. Beeston looked it up. Bobby O’Mally was killed.”

Roly sobbed. Jack put his arm around him.

“Thank you, Sergeant. I’ll see to him. How is the lieutenant?”

“I’m not sure. I’m on rescue duty; others are caring for the wounded. But I think Beeston plans to remove Keeler’s arm tonight.”

“Bobby is dead,” Roly whispered. “And Greg, they shot off his legs. One, one of those new guns that just shoot so incredibly fast. Ratatatat, one bullet after another, you know? Then everything was over. There was just blood, blood everywhere, but I, I pulled him into one of the trenches, and they came and got him. Maybe he’ll get better.”

Roly shook uncontrollably. Jack poured him some brandy.

“So how did it all turn out? Did you take the hill?” Jack asked.

“Yes, no. I’m so cold.”

Jack helped him out of what was left of his uniform and threw his trench coat over Roly. It was a warm spring night, but he understood the chill that crippled him.

“They defended the hill like, like madmen, as if there were something special about that idiotic pile of dirt.” Roly pulled the coat tighter around him.

Jack wondered if he should dare to light a fire. Roly needed something warm, and he gathered wood scraps.

“We were fish in a barrel. They shot hundreds of us; there were dead bodies everywhere. But we did it. Greg, Bobby, and I and a few others. Mostly Aussies. We took the blasted hill and dug in. But then no reinforcements came. We had nothing to eat, no water. It was cold at night, and our uniforms were damp and torn and bloody.” He pointed to the tattered remains of his pants. “And the Turks never stopped firing.”

Roly started when he heard the shooting on the front. “And then a grenade struck, and there was nothing left of Bobby. It happened so fast. One moment he was there, the next there was just blood and a hand. Greg cried and couldn’t stop. And then we were told to withdraw. But there were Turks everywhere you looked, so we crawled back, downhill this time. But then we saw the bushes and thought we’d run for cover because the Aussies’ trenches were there. We ran, oh God, Corporal McKenzie, I thought my lungs would explode, I was so tired. And then it hit Greg.” Roly sobbed. “I want to go home, Corporal McKenzie. I want to go home.”

Jack put his arm around him and rocked him. When the water in the pot over the fire began to boil, Jack let go of Roly and forced him to wash up and drink some tea. With no small amount of guilt, Jack raided Greg McNamara’s locker for his whiskey there. Though it could no longer do Greg any good, Roly needed something to bolster him.

“Everything will look different tomorrow,” he said, although he did not believe it. He knew the Turks’ counteroffensive might start at any moment.

Surprisingly, the ANZACs enjoyed a few days’ reprieve. When the time finally came, their defenses held, and they had some luck besides. By pure chance, a British reconnaissance plane flew over Gallipoli and became aware of the Turkish advance. General Bridges did not hesitate long. He had all stations manned.

Jack and Roly found themselves once more on the front line.

“To your positions and fix bayonets,” Major Hollander whispered. It sounded hollow as a ghost’s voice, and Roly shivered. The predawn air was still sharply cold, and the men had already been waiting for hours.

Jack cast a glance at the two new men in his unit. While Roly had been fighting at Cape Helles, New Zealand had sent reinforcements. Bobby and Greg had been replaced by two young soldiers from the North Island. Both men came from sheep farms like Jack. The second wave of Aussie and Kiwi volunteers no longer consisted primarily of adventurers, crooks, and poor wretches but, instead, of patriots. Many of them had lied about their age to join up. One of Jack’s men had just turned nineteen. This confirmed Jack’s suspicion from the assault on the coast: the youngest served as cannon fodder. Only their fearlessness enabled them to carry out these suicide missions without protest.

“This is the most dangerous position,” Jack whispered to his men. “This is where they’ll try to break through. The distance between the trenches is short, and their layout over there makes a sharp bend. They can provide excellent covering fire from the right and left as they attack from that niche. So I’ll need the best marksmen to follow me. Yes, here under the roof.”

Jack had ordered for the most sensitive section of the trench to be reinforced with a sort of wooden grating, and they hadn’t been sparing with the barbed wire. “And don’t fire blindly. Wait until they’re near and you’re sure to hit them. The major is anticipating an overwhelming force, so save your bullets.”

“I’d like to remain outside, Corporal McKenzie,” Roly said.

Jack nodded. “Go back to the reserve trench,” he said, aware that he was countermanding the major’s orders to hold their section of the front.

“I can’t do that.”

“Go,” Jack said. But there was no time to say anything more. The Turks had begun pouring out of their trenches and were on the attack. Machine guns began firing from the hills, and the first attackers lobbed grenades into enemy positions.

Jack aimed and fired. Load, fire, load, fire.

Jack had used the word “inferno” carelessly in the past, but after that day he never would again. Slipping on the blood of their comrades and tumbling over their bodies, the attackers leaped into the trenches, where men stuck bayonets into their bodies. Fountains of blood rained down onto the shooting platforms. Jack heard cries of pain and a howl of horror. Roly? But he couldn’t look back. Any mistake could cost him his life.

One of the young soldiers lunged halfway out of the trench to attack the oncoming enemy with his bayonet—and paid with his life. Shot through with bullets, he fell back into the trench next to Jack. Someone else replaced him. Jack saw an armed grenade in the hands of an oncoming Turk. He fired, but the shot was glancing, and the man still managed to throw it. Too short, however. The ground in front of Jack exploded, and debris and body parts rained down on the men in the trench.

“The mine is collapsing,” Jack heard Roly call out. “We need to run, everybody out.”

Roly dropped his gun and tried to climb out of the trench, but another soldier pulled him back. Jack saw out of the corner of his eye how he then attempted to push his way through the men to get behind the lines. Another grenade exploded in the trench—a rain of blood and earth.

Roly screamed, and Jack threw himself to the ground. A few Turks used the opportunity to push through, and Jack spun around and attacked. Desperate as an animal in a trap, he stabbed and struck all around him. It was hopeless to try shooting there. This was close-quarters combat. Jack stuck his bayonet into the men in front of him without thinking, eventually striking with his shovel because the bayonet was too cumbersome. He tore giant wounds in them—almost separating one soldier’s head from his body when he struck the man in his throat.

“Get the dead out of here,” he roared at Roly. Jack and the others were able to kill the Turks who made it into the line, and they returned to firing. The flood of Turks did not abate. More men broke through, but in their rush, they ran right into the barbed wire. Jack watched in horror as they got entangled and fell into the trench with the wire, bleeding from hundreds of scratches. Jack’s men were snagged in it themselves, and all around them grenades continued exploding. Swirling dust and powder smoke darkened their vision. Jack heard Roly whimpering as rocks and limbs rained down on them. The boy must have crawled into a corner somewhere. Jack was just relieved that he was not in the way anymore.

Major Hollander saw things differently. When things died down for a few seconds, Jack heard him roaring.

“What is this, soldier? Take up your rifle and shoot. Damn it, Private, I’m talking to you. This is cowardice before the enemy.”

Jack had a bad feeling.

“Can you manage here on your own?” he asked the youth who had been defending the trench next to him.

“Of course, Corporal. But maybe someone could do something about the bodies.” The young man began firing again, but Jack knew what he meant. A jumble of leftover planking, body parts, and barbed wire had wreaked havoc with their section of the trench.

After orienting himself, Jack discovered Roly cowering in a niche—as far away from the embrasures as possible, half buried in filth and rubble, trembling and crying like a child.

“The mine, the mine, Mr. Lambert.”

“Soldier, stand up, and take your weapon,” Major Hollander ordered, kicking at the young man, but not even that brought Roly to his senses.

Jack threw himself between his friend and the major. “Sir, he cannot, sir. It’s as I told you before, sir. Let them take him away when the rescue team comes. He’s in a total panic.”

“I call it cowardice before the enemy, McKenzie.” The major moved to haul Roly to his feet.

Just then, another grenade exploded behind them, and more Turks leaped into the trench, howling as the barbed wire tore into them. Jack looked for the young man from the North Island before leaping back into the fray. He was lying on the ground screaming. The grenade had shredded his right arm, and his blood was mixing with that of the enemy.

“Medic!”

No one paid any more attention to Roly, and Jack eventually ceased to think at all. He merely struck and shot, losing all sense of time. Finally, around five o’ clock, the firing stopped and the wave of assaults ebbed. The Turks must have recognized that the battle could not be won like this. Major Hollander, as bloody and filthy as his soldiers, drew out his pocket watch. “Teatime,” he said.

Jack let his gun fall. He felt leaden with exhaustion and emptiness. It was over. The corpses of friend and foe were piled all around him, but he was alive. God did not seem to want Jack McKenzie.

“Get rid of these swine and then off with you to the rear.” The major indicated the casualties lying in the trenches. “This trench will be manned by the reserve.”

The major struck his foot against one of the corpses as if to reinforce his command. Suddenly the man moved.

“So dark, the mine, so dark, the gas, if it catches light.”

“Roly,” Jack called and bent down to him. “Roly, you’re not in a mine.”

“That cowardly son of a bitch is still lying around?” The major leaped on the whimpering Roly, ripping aside a board that the man had used for cover, and delivered a brutal hook to the chin.