Tiger Men (68 page)

‘You’re sure she wouldn’t mind me having her picture?’

‘She’d consider it an honour, Ben. I know she would.’

Oscar was really pleased with himself. He’d done his good turn for the day, and if they ever got out of this hellhole alive, which was doubtful, Perth and Hobart were worlds apart. Ben and Mary would never meet. He didn’t give a damn if they did anyway.

For the past week or so there had been rumours of a big push to be conducted against the Turk and, on the morning of the sixth of August, the troops of the 12th Battalion were ordered back to their lines to support the 1st Brigade in a charge on the Turkish position known as Lone Pine.

The attack was planned as a diversion. The assault on Lone Pine was aimed to coincide with the assault of the 4th Brigade who, along with New Zealand, Gurkha, Indian and newly arrived British troops, were to take possession of the strategically all-important heights of Chunuk Bair.

Waiting in reserve, the men of the 12th watched as the 1st Brigade made its charge, timed for 1630 when the late afternoon sun would be shining in the eyes of the Turkish defenders. The charge was swift and victorious, and by 1800 the frontline trenches were taken. Then, at 1900, the troops of the 12th Battalion were ordered forward to replace the wounded and the dead.

Hugh Stanford and David Powell led their sections in the one-hundred-yard dash up the hill, trying their hardest to avoid stepping on the bodies of comrades as they ran. Some of the prone figures were still alive; and the ever-present cry of ‘stretcher bearers’ rang out. The victory, swift though it had been, had come at a cost.

The sight that greeted them at their destination was not pretty. During the initial attack, troops had ripped aside the covering pine logs to leap into the trenches; without room for rifles they’d fought hand to hand with bayonets. The dead and the dying of both sides now lay skewered together in gruesome embraces.

The assault, however, had proved successful. In the rabbit warren that constituted the Turkish entrenchments, the Australians had secured the frontline and connecting communication trenches. The Turks had been forced to retreat to their nearby reserve and supply trenches, where they could call in reinforcements. The Australians, aware that the enemy would launch a counterattack, dug in and prepared to defend their new frontline.

The Turkish reinforcements were not long arriving. Fresh troops and weaponry poured into the reserve trenches and, once the counterattack began, it raged non-stop for two days. Still, the Australians held their position.

Then, on the night of the eighth of August, the enemy changed tactics. Instead of hand-to-hand combat they launched a massive ‘bomb assault’ from their position only yards away. The Ottoman Army was in possession of an endless supply of German-made hand grenades, a form of weapon the Australians did not have, and the Turks bombarded the trenches, hurling their bombs into the frontline by the dozen.

Harry Balfour dived for cover as a grenade exploded a little further down the line. ‘Jesus Christ, what the hell do we do?’ he yelled scrambling to his feet.

‘We hurl them back,’ David Powell shouted from nearby.

David’s idea corresponded with that of his superiors; the official order quickly went down the line. The troops were not to take cover, but to pick up the grenades and throw them back into the Turkish trenches, the closest of which was barely five yards away.

As the night progressed the battle turned into a heart-stopping game of Russian roulette. In the dark, a man had only seconds to react, to see the bomb land, to pick it up knowing in that moment he held his death in his hands, and then to throw it back.

Hugh Stanford found inspiration in David Powell. As the grenades continued to land, David went out of his way to pick them up while others stood rigid with fear. He laughed as he flung them back over the parapet. There was no doubt a mixture of adrenalin and bravado in the instant the bomb left his hand, but the sight was inspiring nonetheless. Hugh joined in the game, defying the odds with a vengeance.

Beside them, Gordie Powell did not shirk from the task. Gordie was hurling back the bombs with all the power only big Gordie could, although he was overshooting the target – a lob would have served better. But, strangely, Gordie was also reciting fractured pieces of the twenty-third psalm. Hugh had never known him to do that before.

‘The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want,’ he was saying. ‘Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for thou art with me.’ He kept chanting the same phrases over and over again.

Harry Balfour felt a thump on his shoulder. The grenade dropped to the ground and rolled away a yard or so. He stared down at it dumbly; he could hardly see it lying there in the dark.

‘Pick it up, Harry! Pick it up!’ Hugh yelled from some distance away.

But Harry couldn’t move.

Hugh’s call had gained Wes Balfour’s attention. He saw the grenade resting near his brother’s feet and he knew that Harry had left it too late. In the split second before it went off, he threw himself upon the bomb, dying instantly, his chest ripped to pieces.

The Turks, imagining their enemy weakened by the grenades, entered the trenches. Fighting continued hand to hand with bayonet and rifle, man against man, desperate and bloody.

Oscar O’Callaghan dodged as a Turk lunged. He felt the blade slice through his left arm and lunged forward with his right, driving his own fixed bayonet deep into the man’s stomach. Nose to nose, the two of them stood motionless in the mayhem and Oscar watched the expression on the young soldier’s face change from shock to the acceptance of death. Then, as he ripped back his rifle, the last light of life left the man’s eyes. His wounded arm hanging uselessly by his side, Oscar turned and prepared himself for the next onslaught.

The fighting continued throughout the night and, although the Australians maintained their position, dawn revealed the terrible price paid. The trenches were littered with the dead, those bayoneted and those blown to pieces. Many who’d been unlucky in the Russian roulette stakes had suffered severe facial injuries which, if they survived, would leave them hideously scarred for the rest of their lives.

Hugh Stanford and David Powell had lost four men from their sections, amongst them their close friend Wes Balfour. Harry was discovered at dawn in a traumatised state, his brother clutched in his arms, drenched in Wes’s blood. He’d been like that throughout the chaos of the night.

Shortly after dawn, the platoon was drawn out of the line and returned to the reserve trenches while fresh troops were brought in. The wounded, including Oscar O’Callaghan, whose bayonet injury was severe, were evacuated to the casualty clearing station. The men took no further part in the battle, which continued to rage for the whole of the next day.

Back in the reserve trenches, Hugh, David and Gordie worried for Harry’s sanity. He had refused to relinquish his hold on Wes’s body and his arms had to be prised apart. Now, he sat staring blankly at nothing. They washed his brother’s blood from his face and his hands – they couldn’t do anything about his uniform, which was drenched – but then they were covered in blood themselves, either their own or someone else’s. They spoke to him soothingly, told him it wasn’t his fault, but Harry continued to stare at nothing. Then, later in the afternoon, he started to shake uncontrollably. His head quivered, his hands fluttered and his whole body shuddered. It reminded Hugh of Rupert when he was upset and having one of his fits, so he did exactly as he would have done with Rupert. He took Harry in his arms and cuddled him.

‘There, there,’ he said, stroking his cousin’s head and rocking him in his arms, ‘there, there.’ And Harry started to cry. He continued to cry throughout the night, and Hugh continued to cuddle him as he always had Rupert.

The battle concluded the following morning, the Turks conceding defeat, but it was a pyrrhic victory for the Australians. There was disastrous loss of life on both sides. They would later learn that the four-day assault on Lone Pine, which had been planned purely as a diversionary tactic, had cost the lives of two thousand Australians and seven thousand Turks.

T
he Gallipoli campaign came to an end in December 1915, when the British finally admitted defeat.

At seven o’clock on the morning of the twentieth, Turkish troops advanced on the ANZAC trenches to find them deserted. During the two previous nights, forty thousand soldiers had been secretly and silently evacuated from the peninsula. The withdrawal of troops had proved the only truly successful operation in the entire eight-month campaign.

‘Well blow me down, look who’s here.’ Oscar grinned as he greeted his mates with David’s catchphrase, which had become their common salute. ‘And all in one piece, I see.’ They were too: Gordie and David Powell, Hugh Stanford and Harry Balfour. Looking pretty good considering, Oscar thought. Even Harry, who he’d been sure would never see out the campaign, had got through.

They slapped one another on the back, laughing and embracing, grateful to be alive and glad to be reunited.

‘In time for Christmas what’s more,’ David said as they settled themselves on their canvas army stools and lit up their cigarettes.

It was Christmas Eve and, having been evacuated from Gallipoli, the ANZACs had just arrived at the vast tent city of Abbassia Camp in Egypt. Oscar had arrived well before them: he’d been at the camp for the past fortnight.

‘What happened to you?’ Hugh asked. ‘We heard you’d been taken to Malta for treatment, but we were sure they’d send you back.’

‘Yeah, you lucky bastard,’ Harry said, ‘how’d you manage to get out of the rest of the donnybrook?’

‘Brains, Harry, that’s what it takes,’ Oscar tapped a finger to his forehead, ‘all a matter of brains. You just have to fool them into thinking you’re dying. They don’t send dying men back to the front. I decided to wait it out in comfort until the campaign was over,’ he said breezily.

They all laughed, although Hugh suspected Oscar’s nonchalance was a total sham. The medics were not that easily fooled, even by a trickster as smart as Oscar O’Callaghan.

Hugh was right. Oscar had very nearly died. He’d contracted a serious infection at St Andrew’s Hospital on the island of Malta, his survival indeed surprising the medics. Instead of being sent back to Gallipoli, he’d been sent to Egypt to convalesce.

The boys sat around sharing news from home and reading out bits and pieces from their latest letters. They’d been greeted by a new mail delivery upon their arrival, and it had perked everyone up amazingly. In fact, spirits were high throughout the camp. Australian reinforcements had been arriving in Egypt by the thousands since October, and their presence breathed fresh life into the weary troops who were now determined to put Gallipoli and its horrors behind them.

Oscar did touch briefly upon the horror, however: a little later in the day he took Hugh aside to ask him about Harry. Harry seemed perhaps a little too bright-eyed and jumpy, perhaps a little too animated, Oscar thought, but certainly a whole lot better than one could ever have expected.

‘How is he, Hugh? I’ll never forget seeing him that morning, hanging on to Wes like he was. I thought he’d lost his mind completely.’

‘I think he did.’

‘He seems all right now though.’

‘He’s not really. I doubt he ever will be. He has the most shocking nightmares.’ Hugh shrugged. ‘But then I suppose everyone does. The biggest worry about Harry is the way he puts himself at risk these days. He should have copped it by now given the chances he takes.’ Hugh glanced across at his cousin and shook his head, perplexed. ‘I really don’t know, Oscar, it’s as if he’s trying to pay the price for Wes’s death with his own.’

‘You want to watch yourself, mate.’ Oscar sounded a warning. ‘If Harry’s determined to get himself killed, then you’ll just have to let him. No point trying to save him and copping it yourself. That wouldn’t be doing either of you a favour.’

Hugh nodded. ‘Yes, you’re certainly right there.’ He was grateful for the advice. ‘Anyway, the bullets have dodged him so far. For someone who thumbs his nose at death Harry seems to be leading a charmed life.’

‘The luck o’ the Irish,’ Oscar said, adopting the lilt of his clan, ‘must be a drop o’ the Celtic in him.’

They shared a smile and rejoined the others.

Christmas Day turned into quite a party. The Australian Comforts Fund had supplied billy tins packed with sweets and cigarettes and biscuits, which were doled out to the men, lending a festive air to the proceedings.

Gordie Powell produced his harmonica and struck up the first in a round of Christmas carols. He was quickly joined by another man on a concertina and soon the sing-along was under way.

Men started to gather in droves, several mouth organs were added to the band and before long the carols gave way to popular songs, requests being yelled out from the crowd.

‘“Jeanie with the Light Brown Hair”,’ a voice called – Gordie didn’t need to search the faces to know where that one had come from.

‘“Too Ra Loo Ra Loo Ral”,’ another man yelled.

‘“On the Road to Mandalay”,’ said another. Then ‘Oh You Beautiful Doll’, ‘When Irish Eyes Are Smiling’ . . . On and on they went, the requests coming in thick and strong, the men belting out the lyrics and the sound ringing loudly through the clear desert air. It wasn’t a particularly harmonious sound, it was true, but no-one cared: it was joyful.

We’ll make a bonfire of our troubles and we’ll watch them blaze away

And when they’ve all gone up in smoke clouds,

We’ll never worry should they come another day . . .

Hugh Stanford lent his voice to each song as loudly as the next man, but he couldn’t help thinking ‘Blaze Away’ was the one that most summed up this Christmas Day of 1915.

And as the bonfire keeps on burning,

Happy days will be returning.

While the band keeps playing

We’ll let our troubles blaze away.