Carve Their Names: An ANZAC Short Story Read online

Carve Their Names

  Second Lieutenant John Edward Kelly was rugged. At 40 years of age, the khaki uniform suited him well. He was a tough looking man, with short dark hair and piercing blue eyes, but this morning he seemed a little more tense than usual. Still, he strode amongst the men of One Platoon, Alpha Company, Second Battalion Australian Imperial Force (AIF), with confidence, stopping frequently to offer words of comfort or advice.

  “Out that cigarette,” he spoke, pointing at one young soldier.

  “Sir,” replied the soldier, taking one last drag before dropping it to the floor and stepping on it.

  “How do you feel, lad?” he came alongside a tired-looking soldier, who was shrugging on his shirt.

  “Do you want the truth, sir? or would you rather I bullshit and say I was fine?”

  Kelly smiled grimly and moved on. The Navy boys were already preparing the rowing boats. The fat white boats were located out to each side of the ship. Soon, the boats would be gently lowered to the ocean below, and when the order was given, soldiers would climb down cargo nets draped down the flanks of the ship to the waiting boats below. Every man aboard the ship knew this day would come. Most were excited or eager, some were apprehensive, and others frightened. But regardless, soon enough, every soldier aboard would climb onto the rowing boats. They all knew their futures were no longer predictable.

  For the most part, this excited the men, particularly the younger soldiers. Stopping, Kelly squinted out towards the horizon, but the light was still poor and he could not make out the coastline in the distance. He could see the dim shadow of another ship nearby, small white rowing boats also being prepared, ready for the advance onto the beach.

  “How do you think it’ll go?”

  Kelly turned to look into the chubby face of Major Patrick, commander of Bravo Company.

  “I can’t say, sir,” he replied. “But I guess we’ll find out soon enough. From what we’ve been told it should be quiet.”

  “Yup, that’s what I’m hoping. Anyway, John, I’ll see you on the beach,” smiled the major, moving past.

  “Yes sir,” replied Kelly.

  As he moved on, he saw a small group of soldiers sat together in a huddle, talking quietly.

  “Ready to go, sir?” one asked, grinning.

  “Yup, how about you, Jonno?”

  “You couldn’t bloody hold me back, sir!” he said, slapping a magazine into his rifle.

  Private Dan Marshall sat on a crate of rations sharpening his bayonet with smooth slow strokes. His rifle, which had been cleaned the night before, lay beside him.

  “Ready to go Danny?” asked Private Josh Hargrave coming alongside him, glancing at his watch.

  “Yeah, just killing some time,” he replied, looking up at the soldier.

  “What about you?”

  “About as ready as I’ll ever be. They’ve said it’ll be a walk over, no resistance. But,” he looked out towards the distant beach which could now be faintly seen in the early morning light, “I dunno.”

  “It’ll be fine, mate, you’ll see,” spoke Danny, bringing the bayonet up to his face for a closer inspection. He brushed his thumb across the blade and with a satisfied nod, sheathed it by his side. Grabbing his rifle and webbing he pushed himself to his feet.

  “You’ll see,” he repeated slapping Josh on the shoulder as he moved past.

  “G’day sir,” Danny greeted Second Lieutenant Kelly.

  “Morning, Danny, looks like it’ll be a fine day.”

  “Yeah, it does, sir,” the soldier said, brushing past.

  As an officer in the Australian infantry, John Kelly knew how important it was to have a strong bond with his men. If he had their trust, then they would work longer and harder for him. Kelly had owned an incandescent light and gas fitting company before the war had started. It was the good relationship he had with his employees that gave his company the reputation of being a reliable, hard-working firm.

  Leaning up against the ship’s rail he could just make out the beach in the distance. It looked quiet, no movement, apart from a couple of gulls bickering and wheeling close to the water off to the left. He heard their faint cries piercing the cool morning air. Looking down the far end of the ship he saw the silhouette of a soldier. The man was sitting on a ration crate, his leg propped up against the ship rail, a steaming cup of coffee in his hand. He was looking out towards the Turkish beach and the metal of the badge on his hat glinted dimly in the early morning light.

  It was going to be a fine day, Kelly decided. British intelligence was rumoured to be pretty good, and the word was that no Turkish soldiers had established any kind of resistance along their coastline. It would be an easy push.

  “Morning, sir,” offered a young soldier as he moved past, rifle in one hand, webbing in the other.

  “G’day mate,” Kelly replied to the man’s departing back.

  Kelly could hear the faint scrape of metal on metal as someone finished off the last of his breakfast, probably Bully Beef. The quiet burr of soldiers talking and laughing with one another increased as more men rose from slumber, readying themselves and their equipment for the coming day. As he considered making himself a coffee, the quiet but firm voice of a messenger, probably sent by General Marks could be heard moving down the ship through the scores of men.

  “First battalion, climb aboard the boats, second battalion, prepare to board.” He repeated this command continuously.

  Rifles were slung as the soldiers climbed onto the boats.

  “Oi! Jacko, wake up you idiot, we’re off!” Kelly heard one soldier say. This was followed

  by chuckles as the bleary eyed Jacko came into view, throwing on his shirt and slinging his rifle.

  One by one the vessels were lowered slowly towards the waiting ocean. To Kelly, leaning on the rails of the ship, the rowing boats below looked like toys bobbing in a child’s bath. Oars were extended into the sea and slowly but surely, each boat packed full with soldiers began its slow journey towards the beach in the distance. The seagulls had gone Kelly noticed, and all that remained was the dark outline of a silent beachhead that would soon be teaming with men. Pulling out his pistol, he stared at the cold steel before loading the revolver. Returning the weapon to the leather pouch at his side, he watched as the second batch of boats were prepared and then lowered to the waiting ocean below. When the command was given for the second battalion to start boarding, Kelly made a point of being one of the first to push himself over the rail and onto the cargo net to begin the long, slow descent.

  “Come on, Brett, it ain’t hard, mate,” came a quiet voice from the back of the boat, which was followed by a few chuckles.

  “Yeah, I know it ain’t hard,” replied Brett swinging his leg over the edge of the boat and sitting down, unslinging his rifle before laying it across his legs. “Ya bloody gallah,” he muttered.

  “So ya reckon we’ll get into a stoush, sir?” came the keen and distinct voice of Godfrey Claystone from behind Kelly.

  “Dunno Godfrey,” replied Kelly turning in his seat to look back at the soldier. “I doubt it, intelligence has it there’s no Turks around for a day’s ride.”

  “Bit of a shame, was look’n forward to a good stoush.”

  He knew that almost half the soldiers in his platoon were country boys who could shoot a rabbit at full sprint through the eye at 200 yards. If Johnny Turk were about, then he’d probably wish he’d been elsewhere when Kelly’s boys arrived on the beach.

  As the boat began to move, the rope attachments were disconnected. Kelly marvelled at the glass-like surface of the sea. It was if they were on a lake, about to set off on a short tour of the local scenery. The
scent of oiled weapons soon brought him back to reality as slowly the craft began to move away from the ship. Off to the left, Kelly could see another ship in the distance, with small bloated rowing boats also being towed forward by the steam powered tugs. The tiny white blobs that were the boats of One Battalion could be seen as they neared the beach. The small dark figures of the soldiers were disembarking and wading into shore.

  “Beautiful morning,” came a comment from behind somewhere.

  But no-one had a chance to respond. The sharp, distinct crack of a rifle broke the silence. Another shot responded, followed by three more in quick succession. The dull bark of a machine gun burst into life followed by the sharp stinging reply of a Lee Enfield. The rifle fire intensified until it reached a crescendo and amongst the noise, the men aboard the rowing boats could just make out the faint shouts of the soldiers struggling onto the beach. Every now and then the piercing scream of a wounded man rent the air, his voice filled with…was it pain? No, not even agony, it was disbelief mixed with something beyond anything any of them had ever heard or felt. Within seconds, all hell had broken loose. Kelly looked out towards the beach, which in the space of less than half a minute had changed from a peaceful haven into a war zone.

  “What the bloody hell’s goin’ on?” asked Josh Hargrave.

  “Christ knows,” was the reply.

  Kelly was trying to work it out for himself. As they closed the distance between themselves and the shore, he thought he could make out faint muzzle flashes along the ridgeline above the beach. It was still quite dark. Although the eastern sky was a brilliant orange and the clouds painted a shade of pink, it was still hard to make out exactly what had happened. The distinct sound of a magazine sliding into the body of a rifle came from behind somewhere. The shore was closer now, and with growing horror, Kelly could make out the dark shapes of dead Anzac soldiers on the beach. Some floated in the water, others lay half in the sea, the water gently rolling their bodies back and forth as if they were in a peaceful sleep. Several soldiers were firing from the kneeling position as others sprinted up onto the beach. One man spun like a top as a bullet tore its way through his shoulder. Another, waist deep in ocean, was firing up towards the enemy providing limited cover for the men advancing onto the beachhead.

  The steam tugs disconnected their tow lines, turned away and powered back to the waiting ships behind, to pull in the next wave of boats. Aboard Kelly’s boat, oars were slid over the side and soldiers grunted as they strained, slowly building up speed as they rowed towards hell.

  “My God,” someone said quietly.

  Something powerful ripped past them with a snap. Having never been shot at before, it took the soldiers aboard the boat several seconds to understand that the projectiles zipping past them were bullets. More bullets hissed or cracked past, and with their heads low, the soldiers continued to row, adrenalin and fear lending them strength. There was a loud thud and a soldier at the front of the boat slumped forward, motionless. As the underside of the boat scraped along the sand, it slowed to a halt.

  “Onto the sand!” roared Kelly.

  Needing no second invitation, men threw themselves overboard, bullets ripping and whirring through the air. A bullet whizzed past Kelly’s head as he waded ashore, revolver in hand. He could see from here that there were Turkish riflemen and machine gunners on the ridge above. It

  seemed the entire Turkish army was here to greet them. Firing three shots from his revolver, Kelly ran forward. A soldier in front of him fell. Thinking he had tripped, Kelly stooped to help him back to his feet, but continued on as he saw the large hole in the back of the man’s skull. Firing three more shots up at his adversary, Kelly watched a small black dot arch out over the ridgeline in a lazy descent. On any other day someone may have mistaken it for a ball thrown by a child. But not today. The grenade landed in the sand some fifty metres behind Kelly. The officer dived to the ground, fear gripping him.

  “Grena-” he began to shout, but the rest was rendered into silence as the explosion shook the ground, sand and shrapnel thrown into the sky. Pushing himself to his feet, Kelly brought his revolver up to open fire again, but realised his weapon needed reloading. Sprinting forward, he leapt over a body and side stepped a man who took a round through the chest. Off to the side of Kelly, a soldier was kneeling, firing up at the Turks. There was a burst of pink mist from his leg and he fell to the ground writhing, clutching at his thigh, screaming. Diverting his advance, Kelly unceremoniously grabbed the boy, who could not have been more than seventeen, by the ankle and dragged him forward to safety. Finally, hidden from the view of the Turks, Kelly released he boy who was still screaming and collapsed to the ground.

  “You’ll be okay, son,” he managed between gasps.

  Opening the revolver, he let the spent cartridges fall to the floor, before pushing six new bullets into place. Closing the weapon he lay there catching his breath. He could feel sand in his boots and down his back. Kelly noticed one soldier whose rifle was completely jammed with sand. He was desperately trying to clean the weapon. Bullets hammered into the sand or ripped through the water as men ran ashore. Some were cut down, while others sprinted forward to join the Anzac soldiers hunkered up against the sheer beach cliffs protecting them from the Turkish onslaught above.

  As more boats arrived on the beach, the death count amongst the Australian and New Zealand soldiers rose. The beach was littered with corpses now. Some soldiers knelt beside fallen brothers or friends. One man was shaking a dead soldier, screaming for him to wake up before a bullet took him in the head taking half his face with it.

  “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus,” repeated one soldier like some desperate litany, his eyes closed, his voice pleading.

  Kelly looked away from the man and noticed Sergeant Goodrich in the near distance. The sergeant was knelt, speaking to three young officers. The officers had fear in their eyes but they seemed to be listening to him intently. There was little wonder. Kelly had served with Sergeant Goodrich during the Boer War. The man was a steadfast senior NCO and was a veteran soldier. Looking back out to sea, Kelly could see more white boats slowly advancing across the flat ocean. They would need cover as they landed or more men would be killed. There was nowhere to go. Were they to reboard the boats and make their way back out towards the ships, they would be cut to pieces from above. There was no alternative but to take the beachhead. Kelly watched Goodrich point up as he spoke. He noticed the young officers follow his finger up towards the Turkish position above, and although their eyes were full of fear, there was also stoic determination there. Obviously there was nothing for it but to take the position, or at least die trying.

  “First platoon follow me!” roared Kelly climbing to his feet and scrambling up the slope.

  To the far right he could see that some soldiers had already reached the top and were fighting their way forward. One man lay half way up the slope, propped up against a large bush, blood bubbling from his mouth. Two stretcher-bearers were clambering their way up towards him.

  Doggedly he attacked the slope, determined to close with the enemy. He could hear the men of his platoon climbing up the slope behind him, some swearing loudly as they lost their footing. Grabbing on to a Rosemary shrub he pulled himself up, but his hand slipped and he almost fell. Reaching up he clasped onto the shrub again, the bruised leaves emitting the strong pungent aroma of Rosemary. With the smell filling his nostrils, Kelly regained his footing and continued on. Moving around a dead soldier who had taken a bullet through the throat, his slouch hat half covering his face, Kelly ran on, the rifle cracks and machine gun bursts growing louder.

  “Come on men,” he shouted over his shoulder, digging his hand into the sand and pulling himself up.

  With a last ounce of effort, he ran up onto the ridge and confronted a Turkish machinegun nest. As the gun swivelled around towards him preparing to open fire, he brought his weapon up and shot. The gunner slumped forward, a cloud of pink spraying the air behind him as the bullet
entered his head. The second man scrambled for his rifle, but Kelly shot him through the chest. A second gun had brought itself to bear, and as it fired, Kelly threw himself to the ground, grunting as a rock smashed into his pelvis. Crawling forward, he took cover behind the sandbags of the nearby gun emplacement.

  Private Dan Marshall pushed himself over the lip and immediately dived to the ground as bullets stitched the ground in front of him. Lying behind the sandbags of a nearby machinegun nest was Second Lieutenant Kelly. Bringing his rifle to bear, Dan squeezed the trigger and shot at a distant gun emplacement. With grim satisfaction he watched the gunner disappear from sight. Pushing himself to his feet, Kelly sprinted forward, jumped over the sandbags and ran towards the next machinegun nest. Bullets zipped by him, others kicking up dirt as they thudded into the ground nearby. Jumping up onto the sandbags he fired several times into the surprised Turk, his body slumping to the ground, blood beginning to stain the uniform red.

  Climbing to his feet, Dan watched Second Lieutenant Kelly jump up onto the sandbags of the next machinegun nest and open fire with his pistol. To the left and right, Anzac soldiers were also advancing. Turkish troops were beginning to withdraw, although some machinegun nests refused to fall back.

  “Got the bastard,” yelled Josh Hargrave from Dan’s right as a retreating Turk fell from view.

  “Come on men,” came the faint yell of Kelly waving his arm, signalling his men forward.

  Anzac soldiers were making good progress along the beachhead, although they had paid a huge price. Dead soldiers littered the beach, lined the slopes and lay scattered along the plateau like forgotten, blood covered rag dolls.

  “Sir!” Dan shouted a warning, bringing his rifle to bear as a Turk stood behind Kelly. Without warning, the enemy soldier fired point blank into Kelly’s back. Dan fired a moment later, the bullet taking the enemy soldier through the stomach. Running forward, Dan reached the gun emplacement, jumped over the sandbags and grabbed the officer, shaking him. Giving up and leaning back, the soldier looked into the peaceful face of Second Lieutenant John Edward Kelly. Blood had seeped from the side of his mouth and his dead eyes were staring sightlessly over Dan’s shoulder. Kneeling up and pulling the butt of his weapon into his shoulder with a snarl, Dan shot a retreating Turk in the back. Working the bolt he pulled the trigger again and shot a second round, which took a Turkish soldier through the head. Although the Turks had retreated and the firefight had subsided, the men of ANZAC, many of whom were still landing on the beach below, knew that would not be the last they saw of them. The Turkish soldiers would be back.