A Long Way to Tipperary

The Argus

Authors note: This is an LT fill in, covering the end of the Gallipoli Campaign. All names SO far are ficticous, historical characters will be named/used where available. The local Point of Departure from historical is midnight GMT June 3rd 1915.

Chapter 1

Starting the Day

19th of June 1915

“What we’re do’n ‘ere fight’n these bleed’n wogs for I don’t know.”

“Less of that if you please Colin Bradshaw. Our lord and salvation was a man not dissimilar to those you are calling “wogs” and any man who fights as hard as brother Turk is deserving of some little respect. Now here is the periscope; take care not get a bullet in it, for that is my shaving mirror doing service as the top glass.”

“And bugger you too, Rattler me old @#%$. Jocko wears a rag on his ‘ed what ever you say. Though I’ll mind your glass….” Tubby Bradshaw slid the boxwood periscope above the parapet, ignoring two of the three rounds that greeted its appearance. “There’s the sod. Two fingers left of the tree, ’bout a bag this side of the broken rifle.” He dropped down off the fire step and propped the periscope against the barricade .

“That would be just above the dark stain Colin?”

“Aye Rattler, maybe a touch to the right.” Tubby picked up another far more battered ‘periscope’ that had no mirrors, just a scrap of bright steel cut from a biscuit tin to give a glint of reflection. He looked up at his mate perched on a raised portion of the fire step. “Ready?”

The false periscope peeked above the parapet in the same place the real one had appeared moments before. A bullet from the Turkish lines smashed into it. An answering shot cracked out, and Tubby was pulling a splinter from his palm as he looked towards his friend with a questioning glance.

David Llewellyn Jones, ‘Dai’ to his family, ‘Rattler’ to those who liked him, ‘Sally’ to those who didn’t, and ‘316 Jones’ to an Army that seemed generally indifferent, nodded in conformation. He slid the smoking brass case from his Lee-Enfield and gently placed it with the row of others commemorating Turks killed by this sniper trap.

+++

~2000 yards SSE at about the same time.

‘Another day…’ thought Lt Morant RNR to himself as he checked his pocket watch, pistol and shotgun and drained the last of his tea, ‘time to get a move on.’

Carefully placing his tin cup on the mudguard that served him as a table, he rose to a low crouch from his seat between the wheels of HMAC Indomitable, and shuffled through the yellow gloom of his dugout. Stepping out into the joys of another Day on Cape Hellas, Morant straightened his white cap, broke his gun casually over his arm and went looking for Chief Petty Officer Barrow.

A month earlier looking for a man named Barrow in a field of long low mounds, would have at least raised a smile with the young Morant. At 24, Andrew Morant was still a fairly cheerful fellow; but a few weeks on the Gallipoli Peninsula were enough to change anyone, and Morant had been no exception, men might still laugh, but they had long since stopped smiling. Thyme, rosemary and the tang of salt were, like peace; but a six week distant memory on Cape Hellas.

Finding CPO Barrow wasn’t that difficult. Even over the artillery engaged in its regular morning hate and the dull rattle of musketry from the front; the low rumble of his voice lead Morant across to a shapeless mass that was HMAC Inflexible under its tarpaulin. “Carburettor again is it Mr. Barrow?”

“Good morning sir.” said Barrow as his head popped out from between the canvas and the wall of earth and stone surrounding the Rolls Royce, his grinning face about level with Morant’s waist. “She’s up to her old tricks as usual sir; had poor Foster half dead with cranking this morning, but would she start in three turns of the handle? No sir she would not. I fear it’s the magneto sir, and there’s no spares to be had between here and Malta…..”

“But have you checked the carburettor Mr. Barrow and did you try the impulse starter or the trembler coil? Dust in the emulsion tubes…..” Less than a year before Arthur Barrow had been running a Crossley gas engine in the basement of a London wool store. Andrew Morant had been learning to manage his family’s business and racing a Morgan Blackburn under his grandmothers maiden name. Barrow couldn’t shake an innate distrust of H-T magnetos (Bosch was after all a German name); while Morant viewed all carburettors as the work of the devil.

The two stood and discussed the inner workings and current reluctance to start of a 40/50 Rolls Royce, with the informality of fellow enthusiasts. “… I shall have a look myself after prayers Mr. Barrow. If all else fails we might try the magneto from Indefatigable and see if that makes any difference.”

“Very good sir, shall we be pulling out soon do you think? Our mob I mean.”

“It would be the first I’ve heard of it apart from very stale rumour. Why do you ask?”

“Well Wheeler had it off a passing Sapper this morning sir, that we was off like….”

“From a Sapper you say…” Morant smiled. “Has anyone asked a cook for conformation? This Sapper wasn’t driving a water cart was he?” Barrow nodded to acknowledge the other common sources of rumour but was hardly convinced. “The Army wants us as a mobile reserve should the Turks break through. With the number of men being sent back for rest, I think we might be here for some time yet Mr. Barrow.”

“But ‘ow much longer are we all gonn’a be ‘ere sir? Some queer things is ‘appening…”

“Very true Mr Barrow. Calling off a big show with less than a days notice is hardly normal even here.” They shared a moment of regret for their lost chance of action on the 4th . “But I doubt we will be leaving soon. After all this effort…”

“If you’ll forgive the liberty sir, but ‘ave you ever known a buzz that wasn’t partly true?

“Well” Morant smiled. “I seem to remember we were off to Russia at one stage. There’s a fresh Division on Murdos, and we to be rebuilding for new effort. I’ve not heard anything mind, but that’s how it looks to me. And speaking of renewed efforts, I’d best be off. I can leave everything in your hands Mr. Barrow?”

“Aye aye sir. I sent Babcock and Parsons down with the ration party to fetch the last of the ammunition sir, like you said last night. Them last two boxes what we didn’t get yesterday.”

“Thank you Mr. Barrow. If our lords and masters don’t take all morning, I shall pop down to V beach and see about the extra water. Then I thought I’d see if those rotten poachers from the 29th have left us any snipe for dinner!” He patted his twelve bore affectionately. “As we should be in for an active evening, we can pipe all hands to Make and Mend until noon. After which we should be able to overhaul the Vickers and be in place by last light with time to spare.”

Very good sir. Snipe, water, make and mend ‘til noon, check the guns and be in place by dusk. Fetch the water with the Tender sir?”

“I think so Mr. Barrow. If there is nothing else?” They exchanged the first salute of the day and Morant strolled off.

+++

“They are not rags they wear on their heads you know….”

“What? Sorry….rags you were say’n?”

“Yes Colin, they are not rags the Turkish wear on their heads. Cloth it is true…..”

“They look like them pug-ree’s, like what them Raga-puts in H’gypt was wearing, more pointy like, but the same.” Tubby mumbled around a mouthful of tacks.

“Yes Colin, both are a strip of cloth; however unless I am very much mistaken, a Rajaput winds his puggaree directly onto his head. The Turkish hat, for I know not what else to call it, is wound over a wicker frame; though it may have the appearance of a turban it is actually more like our solar helmets. Look you, how they fall off a man who is shot.”

“I suppose you’re right Rattler, but I can’t say as I give a monkeys right this minute. Pass the ‘ammer.” Two swift raps pinned down another layer of barbed wire, and Tubby began winding on another few turns. “I don’t mind saying these night stunts give me the right willies… It ‘ain’t the fight’n so much as walking about over all those dead men… If I was lie’n out there, I’d be want’n peace and quite. Not some blasted size 9’s stamping a’bout all over me. Now ‘ow does that feel?”

“I too feel something in the air tonight.” Said Dai, acknowledging the unspoken part of his friends confession. “This is a superior knobkerrie Colin.” He took an experimental swipe and thumped it into the ground between his feet. “Not too heavy, not too light….. it is just right. If you could spare me a few tacks, I have these shoe laces for the wrist strap. Alas their rightful owner will not be needing them where he is bound.”

“He didn’t have any ‘baccy did he’? Him what had them laces….”

“He was not yet dead when I attended him Colin. Redistributing the Kings property is one thing, but would you have me a thief?

Chapter 2

Morning Prayers

19th June 1915

The Brigadier whose complexion matched the red tabs on his collar was less than pleased. Dull brasses and dusty boots might have been part and parcel of life on Gallipoli; but an officer with a pocket unbuttoned and a shotgun in the crook of his arm, was just a little too casual even for this place. “General de Lisle?”

“Yes Freddie, I think everybody is here now…” The general had been appointed straight from France to command the 29th Division in late May. He still couldn’t put a name to every face yet, and each week bought another replacement or some other alteration complicate matters. Traditionally each brigade would report in order of its commanders seniority; of late, they had spoken in numerical order, keeping track of precedence didn’t seem that important. So the Commanders or the Brigade Majors of the 86th, 87th and 88th Brigades gave their accounts of last 24 hours.

The flow of ration strengths, minor actions, requirements and developments told a sorry tale. The 29th had been the pride of the British Army, the last regular division of the pre-war army left intact. Professionals with only a sprinkling of Territorials. They were the last cluster of the men who had stopped the Kaiser’s army cold, with musketry so rapid the Prussian’s thought they were facing massed machineguns. Now it was a shadow of its former glory. In the 86th the first battalions of the Dublin and Munster Fusiliers were almost weak enough to be combined into the ‘Dunsters’ yet again. The 87th was in about the same boat and the commander of the 88th was almost in tears, begging for some time to integrate his replacements into battalions that had already suffered 60% casualties.

After the Infantry, the CRA gave his summation, followed in turn by the CRE and the RAMC Major. ‘The usual story’ thought Morant. The gunners either have too many targets or not enough ammunition, the Sappers have too much work and never enough men and the Robber was always busy and in need of stretcher bearers. Morant had stopped listening, long before the CRE and the RAMC decided to repeat yesterdays argument about bomb proof dressing stations. It wasn’t that he was unsympathetic; but this wasn’t his Division. He was only here to report to his superior and if his own Division was in no better shape.

The RND was another of Churchill’s bright ideas, it made perfect sense. Take a few of the Royal Marine battalions at each Home Dockyard. Fill out the brigades with battalions of Navy reservists, recruits and volunteers who were surplus to the fleet and get the navy into the land war, where all the action was going to be. The German fleet was never going to challenge the might of the RN, and it wasn’t fair to let the army hog all the attention…

Morant returned to the present as de Lisle silenced the squabbling officers and turned to the Navy.

“Commander Simpson, all is well with your Armoured Cars?”

“Prime thank you Henry; how are you and your’s today Morant?” Simpson turned to the Lieutenant who commanded his second section.

“Very well thank you sir. One car was a little hard to start this morning sir, other wise we are fit as can be…”

“And how are you stored?” The Brigadier asked.

“A little over a week sir. For everything except water, comforts, perishables and ammunition” answered Morant.

“I suppose that gives you time for a spot of rough shooting then?” he continued over the polite ripple of mirth. “Which brings me to this mornings main point. Shooting Turks!”

De Lisle was not going to be cut out of his own conference. “Freddie is very keen on shooting Turks, almost as enthusiastic as Lieutenant. Morant isn’t it, seems to be about Partridges. So all is well with you then Commander Simpson? Might you be able to spare a small party to build the Doctor’s dressing station?” Simpson nodded in a non-comitial fashion. De Lisle continued. “That seems to be the bulk of this morning business then. However, before we all go. Freddie here has some words of wisdom from on high. Freddie?”

“Thank you Henry.” The Brigadier cleared his throat. “I know some of you gentlemen will have been disappointed with the minor change of plan the other week… Well I’m sorry to say the bad news continues. We don’t anticipate any major offensive operations here in Hellas for at least another month.” At this, his audience showed little evidence of sorrow, but a good deal of surprise. “The 52nd division which as I’m sure you all know arrived last week, still needs a good deal of training before it will be fit to be committed here. We have decided to make the best use of this time by resting as many of your men as we can. We are going to be rotating about 1000 men every three days from this division, drawn equally from your Brigades. Yes Clive…” he turned to one of the brigade commanders a pale Colonel apparently much older than the Staff officer.

“Why Freddie? If we are going to have a quiet period, and I for one don’t mind in the least. Why not bring in the new boys, and rest a whole division at once? Even a brigade at a time. I don’t begrudge my lads a few days peace and quiet, far from it. But if we keep the division together, we can sort ourselves out properly. And to be perfectly honest old boy, I could do with a good nights sleep myself.” There were nods of agreement from around the room. The RAMC officer lent forward to add his medical opinion; only to meet the Brigadiers rather cold stare.

“General Weston’s word isn’t good enough old boy?” the Brigadier replied with a hint of false jocularity.

“Not really Freddie, to be…..” he trailed off.

A hint of steel crept into the Brigadiers voice as he realised he would have to keep a closer eye on his old college. “Well…. If you must have the full story. Intelligence indicates the Turk is massing his forces in Sinai and Palestine; we believe they mean to have a dash at the Canal. Neither General Hamilton or the Corps Commander want to set the 52nd ashore at the moment, on the off chance the cloak dagger boys are right for once.” He pulled at his moustache, in a confidential sort of way. “Cairo and London rather hope Abdul does make a move on Egypt, then we can push up from Basra. Enver would be stretched thinner than a scotch groat, and the only place he can draw reserves from is here!” His hand dropped from his face, and his voice took on a new verve. “Then we shall have our chance gentlemen. Refreshed, replenished, and facing an enemy without reserves we can finally push on! Catch the blighter on the hop, and drive him straight through covers. On to Constantinople; that’s the ticket. It might have taken a little longer than we had hoped; but we will get there eventually and be in Baghdad as well!” He realised this last was a bit much for his current audience, as a general coughing broke out with a half heard whisper from the back about `not with out divine intervention…’ “Gentlemen…” the rumble died. “Unfortunately, Egypt is rather short on ammunition, most of their reserve has been sent here over the last few months; and Basra has neither food nor ammunition in any quantity. With the current demand from France, they can’t provide all we are going to need here from home. So as we shan’t be very active for a while, it has been decided to return a portion of that which we hold ashore. New somewhat stricter measures will be intro….”

“I say Morant! A word if you please…” As the staff meeting broke up, Cmdr Simpson caught up with his subordinate as they left the dugout. “What on earth do you mean dragging a shotgun around in front of the tab wallahs? We have enough trouble with Hunter-Bunter* and his baboons as it is, with out you bringing the service into disrepute; and your top pocket is undone.” his voice was low, but his displeasure was more than evident.

“Sorry sir,” Morant blushed as his hand flew to his breast pocket. “I did mean to leave it with the sentry; but there was only this Staff Captain outside, and I didn’t like the look of him.”

* General Hunter-Weston

Chapter 3

The Night Before

19th/20th of June 1915

“…So you can stuff that in your euphonium and smoke it Rattler!” 954 Maurice wasn’t the brightest spark in the platoon and the laughter that greeted his latest cometic effort flattered his vanity and bought a shy smile to his meaty face. In this moment of relaxed tension, none of the men sheltered in the D-head trench were prepared for the reaction that Maurice’s crude jest provoked.

“Rattler is now?” Whispered Dai Jones in a cold, harsh tone most had never heard before. “And when have I ever held a collection plate beneath the end of your misshapen nose? Made comment on the flow of profanity and blasphemy that pours from that sewer of a mouth you have from one day to the next? An infringement on the Kings Regulations and an affront to Our Lord though it is! Do I take you to task for your drunken and whorish ways; hold you to ridicule for your sore head the next morn or the pain when you piss? No! I tolerate you as a lecherous and dissolute sinner; and respect you as a half decent soldier, a man I do not fear to stand beside in a fight. Bah!” he turned and vanished into the gloom of the main trench.

“Fark’n ‘ell….” `Slapper’ Maurice hadn’t felt a rough edge like that since his last interview with the Colour Sargent. “I’ll…”

“You’ll shut ya’ gob if you know what’s for the good.” Tubby was as quiet as his friend had been, and as harsh in his concern. “That same for the rest of you lot. Our Rattler’s a gent an’ a man’o peace after ‘is own way. I ain’t either; so less you want me to fill it with me boot, you’d best keep that mouth of yours closed.”

“Bradshaw.” In his quiet approach and long silence, most of Lt. Paterson’s little command had forgotten he was there, the rest hadn’t realised he was present in the first place.

“Sir?”

“Ten minutes ‘till stumps. You had best go and fetch Jones.”

“Yes sir.”

Tubby found his mate in another sap, pointed in the right direction by a sentry. “You alright Taff?”

“Yes Colin, thank you….. but I am so very angry.”

“Morrie don’t mean…”

“Not with Maurice. That silly man, his words have no more weight than a feather. It is myself I am angry with. To lose my temper in such a fashion….”

“Never mind me old china. Come on, best be heading back now. We’re on our way in half a mo.”

“A euphonium! Never in all my life have I played such an instrument…”

+++

A green Very light arched across his field of view, like a small emerald flying across a velvet curtain. “By indicator. Range as set. Rate slow. With continuous fire. Commence. Commence. Commence!” On Morant’s last word, the night was swamped in the steady rattle of Vickers machine guns, each filling the air with full belt of two hundred and fifty rounds a minute. The steady professional bursts of fifty from the four guns, merging together into a continuous drum roll.

Checking his watch by the glow of a candle stub in an empty Machonichies stew tin, Morant made a mental note of the time and cast a satisfied glance across his little command.

The guns were setup high on a plinth’s of sandbags, in oversized gun pits originally intended for much more substantial artillery. Most of his men had covered their ears with strips of blanket to deaden the noise and in the strobing muzzle flash they resembled pirates more than the members of the newest branch of His Majesties Navy. Morant couldn’t have cared less about the anachronism of their dress. He was just pleased to see the No. 2’s tending their charges, the ammo coming up in a steady stream and that each gun was firm; sights fixed as if in stone on the pin hole glint of its aiming post lamp.

+++

“Bombs! Find me some bloody bombs!” The raiders had slid into the trench moments before, found their prisoner and been discovered almost at once. Lt. Paterson had fired off his Very pistol to call in the supporting fire and the nine men had gone about their business. The blocking parties of three men each had pushed as far as could in either direction along the trench, racing the spreading alarm to establish a foot hold in the Turkish line. Paterson roamed the space they had cleared looking for documents, while a young private named Dooley sat on the prisoner they had taken and Rattler acted as a one man reserve. It was he who came charging down the trench to answer Sargent Adams’s demand for bombs. Bouncing off the walls as he changed direction from one bay to another, awkwardly carrying a sandbag full of cricket balls and the two clumsy broomsticks he had found.

“Bombs, bombs here! Give me a light some one…” a waxed Vesta snapped into flame and Dai heaved the 4” canister of explosives and shrapnel on it’s 5 foot stave, over into the next bay of the trench. The other hands scrambled in the sandbag for Turkish cricket ball grenades to replace the home made 'jam tin' bombs they had expended during the first rush. In the breathing space created by the shattering roar of the broomstick bomb exploding, Rattler handed the second to Maurice.

“Ta Sally.” Rattler grinned, kicked him in the shin and ran back towards the centre of the position. “Bastard…” snarled Slapper as he used the burning match to light a cigarette and the cigarette to light the fuse of another bomb.

No more broom stick bombs could he find. But another box full of cricket balls turned up under a sacking cushion. Bombs and rifle on his left shoulder, his right hand gripping the club Tubby had made that morning. Rattler ran towards the other blocking party where occasional bright flashes of light showed his mate was playing with his latest toy. Dai was just edging past Dooley and the prisoner when an unfamiliar face rose over the parados. It was the work of an instant to backhand the newcomer with the knobkerrie. Rattler didn’t pause long enough in insuring the Turk was alone, to notice the look of horror on Dooley’s face as he saw effects of two pounds of barbed wire on a cut down pick handle.

“Careful there mate! You wann’a watch that, could be dangerous!” Tubby slapped his friend on the back and returned to causing what mayhem he could with a sawn off .303. The 12” barrel gave an almighty bark and you could almost read by the muzzle flash.

Rattler stared at the bullet crease across the back of his right hand with a curious disbelief, then gingerly bent down for another bomb.

The fire plan worked out between Paterson, Morant and a French artillery Major was quite sophisticated by their standards. Two Vickers guns from Paterson’s battalion were set to fire on fixed lines, sweeping the top of the Turkish trench, leaving only a 10 yard gap where the raiders were to attack.

Morant’s men firing from much further back served a different purpose. At over two thousand yards, the machine gun bullets came out of the sky at close to 70 degrees and beat a patch of ground about 50 yards by 70. Being able to reach down into trenches where men thought they were safe, the fire from the four Vickers had more in common with shrapnel balls from a howitzer shell. Two guns were aimed to close off the section of trench being raided, the second pair played in the same way along the length of support trench immediately behind it.

With all this fire lashing about the place, it was hard to tell exactly where any particular bullet had come from. None the less Dai was sure the bullet that had almost taken his hand off at the wrist, had been fired by his own battalion. And Dai wasn’t quite sure how to take being shot at by his fellow Marines.

+++

“Ten minutes! Step up the rate! Look alive there, it wouldn’t do to keep Johnny waiting.” By now each gun was pausing every six or eight belts to replenish its water jacket. Thus far the condensers fitted to every gun (nothing more a length of rubber tube and a petrol can), were keeping up with demand. But at a belt and a half every minute, it wouldn’t be long now before some of the extra water Morant had ‘organised’ that morning would be needed.

+++

The increase was immediately apparent to the men in the trenches, Paterson who had joined Maurice’s group on the right, had been waiting for it. “Alright lads, not long now.” He had been debating his next step for some time, this wasn’t something that could be pre-planned; should he withdraw towards the centre slowly, or rush it? `At the rush’ he thought, `Jocko has his dander up, and we don’t have enough room to pull anything fancy here.’ “Sargent Adams. When you hear my whistle.” He held the brass object up so there should be no mistake. ”Straight back to the rally point. Straight back, we will not be waiting hear me?”

“SAR!” yelled Adams over din, he all but came to attention and saluted. Paterson had no idea why Adams had left the Wooden Tops before the war and he was actually mildly curious; but mysteries aside, `having a guardsman around certainly added a touch of class to any brawl’ he thought.

“Right then. Five minutes….” He ran off to the other end of the lodgement, stopping to warn Dooley to ready the prisoner.

+++

The hail of bullets increased as Morant's guns stepped up the rate of fire yet again. Now they were rattling through a whole belt in a single burst, reloading and firing again, five hundred rounds every minute.

+++

Peep! Peep! Peep! Dooley, the prisoner and Lt. Paterson were already over the parapet as the rest of the party came hurrying back. Paterson counted them over into no-mans-land, pleased to note only a one man couldn’t move unaided despite the various wounds they had all collected.

Sargent Adams raised his Very pistol and after a nod of conformation from the officer, another green meteor blazed into the heavens. “Now run you boogers run!” he chivvied his men away from the trench in a curious half run, half crawl.

+++

“Baker and Charlie!” Morant yelled over the din. “Baker and Charlie. Range two thousand, range two thousand. Rapid fire.” The bark of the machinegun fire diminished by half as the gunners reset their sights calling out the new range and with a touch to the elevating wheels and cries of “ON!” the barrage resumed.

When the fire which had been suppressing the support trench shifted down onto the Turkish front line, the new beaten zones were spread unevenly across the target area. This was only a minor complication though, it was a common problem that all gunners knew how to deal with, so did Morant now. As he crept along in front of the gun pits, lighting some of the alternate aiming points and blowing out the old. He reflected that his father had been right, professional advice was always worth paying for. “Able shift fire! Baker shift fire…” A new roar sprang up in the east as the guns and howitzers of Major Vladimir Peniakoff’s battery fired five rounds each into the Turkish lines.

The theory of ‘Plunging fire’ had been mentioned briefly in the Machine Gun Course, Morant had taken at Whale Island before joining the Armoured Car Division. The topic had come up again the day before when, with Paterson and Peniakoff they had been planning this part tonight’s little raid. The Frenchman had been a font of useful information about indirect fire. Between the three of them they had plotted out the most likely target areas behind the Turkish front. So it was that with his weapons set up over surveyed positions, a spare thirty thousand rounds of .303 and plenty of water. Morant intended to put theory into practice, giving each of the chosen targets a good hosing down as soon as the raid was over. Purely in the interests of scientific discovery of course.

+++

The covering fire from the south had long since ceased, any attempts the Turks might have made to follow the raiding party in to the night had vanished in a rain of high explosive and falling bullets. However the ten men lying out in no man's land were far from pleased.

Science, geology in this instance was being less kind to Paterson’s men. It’s one of the general rules of war, that the defender usually gets the best ground. On Cape Hellas, not only did the defenders have a favourable elevation; but eons of wind and water had eroded the topsoil to such an extent, that the bed rock was barely below the surface along many stretches of the Anglo-French line. Unable to dig down, the soldiers had built up, like in parts of Flanders where the water table prevented entrenchments, barricades of sandbags (and other things) had been thrown over the rocky ground.

Built up over time and with a great deal of effort. These walls were in places twenty feet thick, ten feet high and protected from behind by second wall to produce a `trench’ almost entirely above ground level. The front face of these barricades sloped down to meet the natural surface, presenting a steep but not unclimbable ramp up to the parapet. Like so much of trench warfare this slope took its name from cool world of classical fortification and it was this Glacis (or rather the Turkish machinegun sweeping it), that was keeping the raiders thirty yards from the final safety of their own lines.

“Persistent bugger ain’t ‘e?”

“Very true Colin, if I did not know any better I would say that boyo did not like us.”

“I don’t think ‘e does much at that mate, I just whish ‘ed shut up for a bit.”

“Quiet you two!”

“Thank you Sargent…” Paterson had had enough of hanging around, and the growing restlessness of his men indicated to him that it was time to do something. “I had hoped to slip over when this lad was changing belts.” He spoke softly to them all. “But his loading number is just to quick, I dare say they have had a bit of practice.” This was greeted with a low chuckle that even the prisoner joined; not that he had understood a word.

“Nobody wants to go up through that lot. But if we go any further east we run into the French, and they don’t know who we are; west…” he left it unsaid, but all knew that the rising ground would lift them into the machinegun fire. “So I’m sorry to say, one way or the other we are going to have to run the gauntlet.”

“Well sir, if I may?”

“Yes Jones?”

“I have this cricket ball, left over from the bomb fighting. With your permission sir, I would be happy to return it to that machine gunner over there. It is after all the property of the Turkish government.” He rolled on his side and fished the grenade out of his pocket.

“Why Jones, I do thank you for your kind offer and we must respect government property. But man it’s a good four hundred yards, and friend Jocko is hardly asleep. Thank you..” he reached across and touched Dai’s shoulder. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

“Sir, if I did not think I could make it, I would not have offered; ‘tis better than sitting here getting my arse shot off!”

“Jones…” Adams warning rumble.

Paterson’s response was nothing more than a low “Follow me.” As he started to crawl westward.

Chapter 4

The Morning After

20th of June 1915

A gentle lightening of the gloom, as dawn started to filter through the canvas told Morant that he should have been asleep hours ago. The radium painted dial of his travelling alarm clock only confirmed a new day was beginning and the swish of a shell overhead showed that Jocko was awake too. As he lay sleepless on his cot, the implications of the Brigadiers news the day before started to tumble in his head. ‘How was this going to effect trade?’ That was the big question, Morant Senior had always told his son that the way to make the best of a situation was to fit your self into the local economy, what ever it was; and his son had listened well.

On Cape Hellas, being in the Andrew was better than any Lodge. Between the RND, the RNAS and the other minor shore detachments, there was a substantial community of blue jackets on Hellas. With a skilled but largely unoccupied workforce (every man being rated Petty Officer for his technical proficiency), opportunities for working `in the local economy’ were boundless. The Royal Engineers who ran the beaches were always happy for some professional help, either in the maritime line or more usually with maintaining their equipment. More blacksmiths and carpenters than mechanics, they often need some assistance with the more complex items in their charge. He even found that he had some useful skills himself.

But his real joy was the Tender. Transport of any type was thin on the ground and what little was available usually found it’s self tied up with the artillery. For everything else it was manpower. Parties for this, parties for that. ‘Rest’ was a nebulous concept anywhere on the peninsula. An unattached vehicle that could take almost 3 tons at a pinch, would have been a licence to print money if money had any importance. In this case it was the key to Aladins cave. He would almost have been willing to cannibalise one of his Armoured Cars to keep the Tender running. It was his belief that this single shabby, over loaded and over worked car had done more good in this campaign than the rest of his unit combined.

Morant wasn’t in the game for profit. It had certainly helped to make his command a happier and more comfortable one. A few lengths of timber or some cases of .303 that the MLO hadn’t ticked of his list; in exchange for a hand with the Sappers pumps or steam engine might not have been exactly legal. But it was hardly graft either. Now that his own people were provided for, most of Morant’s commercial activities were directed at supplying the needs of others. The covering fire the night before was almost totally a product of this trade. He had supplied the men and guns, all else had bartered for; ammo, water, spare barrels. Both the French artillery support and their assistance in setting out the indirect fire plan had come from a load of 6”x 4” and some corrugated iron.

So how was the new order going to tangle his little web of mutual obligations. This was the question he pondered in his wakeful hour before dawn, and he was thinking on it still when a gun unlike any he had ever heard before fired nearby.

There were another two shots while he was slipping into his trousers and shaking out his boots. A third as he was buckling his pistol belt over his tunic and a fourth greeted his appearance in the new day. With a Burberry over his shoulders against the chill, one hand adjusting his cap, the other rubbing a bruised thigh curtesy of Indomitable. Morant eagerly set off in search of this new distraction.

At the scene of last nights labours, things looked very different. His sandbag mounds had been removed, the spent brass cleared away and the gun pits were occupied by four small cannon that looked almost as out of place has his machineguns had. Dwarfs in the shoes of giants. The gun crews were small neat men in ragged shorts, that at first glance he took for Indians. A Captain stood on the same vantage point that Morant had used, scanning for the fall of his shot with a pair of binoculars.

“Morning sir… Drew Morant RNASACD.” he offered his hand.

“And the top of the morning to you too Mr. Morant. Cameron Marlowe. Hong Kong and Singapore Mountain Battery.” He took Morant’s hand and shook it firmly. “We are the Singapore half actually; the boys from Honkers are still up at ANZAC, poor dears… Moved in this morning, just thought to let Johnny know we had arrived. Hope our banging away didn’t wake you?”

“Pleased to meet you sir, no I was already awake.” He surveyed the hive of activity as the gunners settled in. There was no sign of his ammo, the sandbags were being built into new dugouts as he watched and his water had vanished utterly. Worst of all, the little forest of exactly placed aiming points had been removed. ‘Well…’ Morant thought. ‘I suppose it was about time we made our own positions anyway.’ Fatalisim being one sure defense against despair.

“Can I interest you in a nice hot cup of tea?”

“Oh no thank you sir, I haven’t….”

“Never mind about the water old boy, plenty to go around.” He turned and called “Mat Nor! Buat satu lagi the untuk tuan." Over his shoulder. “There now, Mohamed will have us set up in a jiffy. No, someone was smiling on us today. We turned up here expecting a desert only to find a veritable Golconda, an Army & Navy store in miniature. Food, water, a heap of .303 though I don’t know what we can do with it. Sandbags, even some aiming points with lamps! Homemade it’s true, but better than we had before….” If they had just come from ANZAC, Morant was hardly astounded that these people had snaffled every thing in sight. “Oh but I speak too much. I’m afraid it is an occupational hazard of a life at the bar. And what do you do in these parts Mr. Morant? Your acronym, while impressive could well be as Greek to me.”

“I have a section of Armoured Cars just over that rise…” He gestured back the way he had come. “a hundred yards or so. Royal Naval Air Service Armoured Car Division, to give us our full glory. Taken all together it is a bit of a mouthful….”

“HKSMB is not much better I afraid.” The pair shared a moments reflection on those who bestowed such names. “Quidvis recte factum, Quamvis humile preaclarum?”

“Sorry sir?” Latin! Not at sunrise; certainly not on an empty stomach in the middle of a war.

“I do beg your pardon. I was asking in my awfully clumsy fashion, if your cars were Rolls Royce or some other make? I have a Lanchester at home you see, but I am thinking of moving on… after the war of course.”

“Yes sir, Rolls Royce 40/50’s, we collected them straight from the factory in Manchester. My father had one of the first Lanchesters sir, the two cylinder model with tiller steering. He has never forgiven my mother for making him replace it with a Napier…” he paused. “Sir, if you will pardon my curiosity. But I’ve never seen guns like those.” He gestured to the diminutive weapons. Morant was almost tempted to ask which museum they had been stolen from, they looked like left overs from the Indian Mutiny.

“Yes, yes. My beauties, my precious. Two and three quarter inch screw guns Mr. Morant. They fire a lovely little twelve and a half pound shell six thousand yards as true as kiss my hand. They break down into 6 mule loads do you see…” the dispatch of another 5.6kg shell punctuated his speech and announced the arrival of the tea. “… though I’m only allowed animals for two guns. Ah here we are. Bagus man. Terima kaish Mat Nor.” To his guest. “This water tastes a little stronger than usual; but it’s hot and it’s wet so we must be thankful for small mercies.”

They both took a draught of the tea and Morant was barely able to control his grimace. “Petrol, Cordite, Rifle Oil and Graphite.” Morant spoke around the taste in his mouth; a taste he privately though it would probably need lyre to remove.

“I beg you pardon?”

“Your tea. The flavouring in the water.” he explained. “The usual touch of petrol, or it might be kerosene from the tins. Cordite and the rest from the Vickers…” They had obviously broached the cans his men had emptied the guns into before carrying them home.

“Oh my dear man, it wasn’t your water was it now?” A look half way between horror and concern gripped his face. “…and the rest of our bounty would be yours as well I expect. Oh dear oh dear.”

Morant admitted that yes, the stores and equipment were indeed his; but that while he would welcome the return of the .303, Marlowe should keep the remainder. “...I can hardly ask your men to tear down their shelters and the rest can be replaced. Though might I suggest reserving the tainted water for washing?”

“And a valuable suggestion it is too, are you sure….”

Conditions on ANZAC must be worse than Morant had heard if the eager tone in Marlowe’s voice was any indication. “Of course, no trouble at all. As a matter of fact…” he looked around the growing encampment with a knowing eye. “I rather think we might be of some help to each other.”

“Oh indeed…” the erstwhile barrister at the Malayan Bar cocked an eyebrow but other wise looked quite inscrutable.

+++

“Bradshaw. You seen Sally around?” Adams large square head poked through the flap of what was laughingly called a dugout. “Come on man…”

Tubby prised one eye open, and looked at his Sargent. “Sorry gov, ‘aven’t got a clue. What’s up?” he yawned.

“Just some queer cove in a funny uniform’s looking for ‘im. In the second reserve trench ‘e is chatting to the colonel. So if as you see’s Sally… ‘old ‘ard, ‘oes that under that ‘esshin then?”

“Oh, that’s just Dooley” said Tubby around another monumental yawn.

“Lurk’n in ‘ere is ‘e. UP YOU!” he reached in and shook the nearest portion of the huddled figure “I’ll not ‘ave you idle’n away the day whilst other men labour.”

“Christ, Sarge. Give the lad some peace, third day ashore, ‘an ‘e was out with us all night.” Tubby had managed to drag his other eye open by now.

“’is name’s on the list for the ration party. If ‘e wants ta argue the toss, ‘e can do it wive the had-jew-tent…” Dooley for all intents still asleep, was fumbling about for his equipment. “h’and as for be'n h’out ‘all night’ Mr Paterson timed us ‘e did. We was in an’ out o’ that trench in less than a quarter hour all told.”

Tubby was less than impressed with this quibble, and a quibble it was. For while they might only have spent 15 minutes in the Turkish trench, it had taken them 3 long hours to crawl home.

The source of noise and disturbance gone, Tubby closed his eyes and went back to sleep.

“Good day to you Colin, here drink your tea while it is still hot.” Tired or not this was a summons no man could refuse. Awake now, with both eyes open, Tubby saw a vision not unlike an angel. It wasn’t Rattler sitting cross legged on the other side of the dugout, rather the enormous bully beef tin mug of tea, no wait three of the biggest mugs of tea Tubby had ever been blessed with seeing. Oh joy, oh rapture!

Putting the mugs carefully on the earthen floor, Rattler reached into the front of his shirt and extracted a familiar looking tin box. “Would you care for a digestive biscuit to go with your tea?” Tubby nearly passed out again with the shock.

“Arrowroot?” was all he managed to croak in reply.

“I do believe so.” Dai nibbled at one. “Quite fresh too, hardly stale at all really…”

Sitting back of the fire step, soaking in the afternoon sun. Half a mug of tea in one had, a quarter eaten milk arrowroot biscuit in the other and a ciggie smouldering in the corner of his mouth Tubby was probably one of the happiest men on earth.

The tea had hardly tasted of bully at all, just the faintest skim of fat on the surface, one could almost believe it had been made with real milk and fresh water. Half way through his second mug (they had split Dooley’s; he obviously wasn’t going to be back for some time) Colin was almost ready to go back to sleep again. But his was a noble sprit, even in this one moment of true pleasure he remembered his duty. “Rattler….” Taking another drag on his Woodbine and languidly brushing the flies from his tea. “Adams was after you, some odd fella down around the officers or some….”

“I found him thank you Colin, or should I say he found me…”

“What ‘e want?” the inquiry was polite at best; at that moment Tubby couldn’t have cared if the man had wanted to stand them both a night at No. 11 Red Shutter street.

“Apparently he is trying to raise a concert party and desired my assistance. Alas the Colonel found he could not spare my services, it seems there is a war on…”

“’e wanted you ta' sing?”

“No Colin, I have a poor crake of a voice. It was the Baritone he wanted me to play….”

Chapter 5

Well After Noon

20th June 1915

“Are you familiar with the system here sir?” Captain Marlowe and Morant had left the Tender parked in a narrow gully and were walking down the gentle slope towards W Beach.

“A System? Please don’t tell me there is a system here. It would ruin the impression of perfect anarchy.” This was Marlowe’s second encounter with Cape Hellas Beach. However the first time had been at night and he had half a battery of artillery to get ashore. Now he felt free to leave the navigation in the hands of his ‘Native Guide’ and was drinking in the sights like a tourist. While familiar with the postage stamp Bedlam of ANZAC Cove. To Marlowe, W looked 100 times worse. ‘A Leicester Square collision between a Circus, a Jumble Sale, the Coronation Fleet Review and a Boy Scout Jamboree’ he thought. Chaos was too mild a word to do the scene justice.

“I know it looks like a right Bartholomew's Fair sir, but it actually works quite well. The bits you can see here do anyway…”

“Really?” If doubt could drip, Marlowe would have been standing in a puddle.

“No, honestly it does. Commander Unwin is the NTO, he’s responsible the ships...” Seeing that the name didn’t register he expanded. “Edwin Unwin, of the River Clyde?” The name of the landing ship, bought an ‘Ah’ of recognition from Marlowe. “Yes sir, deserved a VC that day if half the tales are true. Well he controls the ships. The staff wallahs tell him what is needed and he sends the right ship to the correct beach. The lighters are run by MTO; but he answers to the NLO who’s the Beach Master and he actually commands the seamen….”

“How we seem to love indecipherable initials.” Laughed an increasingly bemused Marlowe.

“Sorry sir. ‘Naval or Military, Transport or Landing Officer.’ ‘Transport’ looks after the transports, and ‘Landing’ means loading and unloading.” Morant explained.

“Would it not be easier for all if L stood….Oh never mind.” A dirty mule heavily laden with Fantassies of water, barged past Marlowe with all the grace of a camel.

“Do look out sir. You really must watch out for the water mules, they’re not noted for respecting rank.” Morant took them off on a slightly less congested route. “As I was saying sir, The MLO is responsible for taking the cargo from the lighters to the right dump, or visa versa. He then tells the QM what’s where. Simple isn’t it?”

Marlowe didn’t quite trust him self to answer that one honestly. He just nodded wisely.

“The QM keeps the lists of course, the Commissariat issues the chits and the Royal Engineers actually do all the work. It’s almost perfect!.” Morant was still amazed by this paragon of a system.

“To be perfectly frank old boy, it sounds like a complete dogs breakfast to me.”

“I beg your pardon? A mess… No, everybody does their job with out stepping on someone else’s toes. And nobody is actually responsible for anything.” Morant was perplexed by his friends lack of perception. “I agree it’s not perfect sir; we still need the Staff to tell Commander Unwin to send us what we really need. But as a going concern, it’s a gem.” This time they were alerted by a ringing bicycle bell and narrowly avoided being run down by a messenger rattling past on a bike with no tyres.

“The people we need to see today are the Sappers who run the show. Colonel Togrant is in charge, but he leaves most of it to his deputy. ‘Too Grant,’ there’s a lark, the tight fisted old bounder wouldn’t give Florence Nightingale a tuppeny packet of bird seed!” Sensing gossip Marlowe perked up, as a Barrister he had a deep professional affinity with sloth, apathy and character assassination. Morant continued. “He’s far more interested in fishing. Still he will invite a chap to supper… The Gent we’re here to see is a Major Owen. He’s another odd customer. Messes alone in a little cave down on the point. It’s a nice little place; quiet, out of the shell fire. And he has fitted it out a treat; chairs, a proper desk complete with a photo of his Lady. It even has it’s own thunderbox and masses of books.” Morant turned them through a maze of boxes. “Anyhow, as there are two of them, we call Owen ‘One” because he is the person to see and naturally Togrant is ‘Too.’

This arraignment seemed as needlessly convoluted as the rest of this mad house. Feeling the need to impose just a little order on the world. Marlowe asked “Why not just use their names?”

Morant voice had dropped to a confidential whisper as they approached a very well built dugout that was obviously their destination. “Oh, didn’t I mention it? They share the same first name, ‘James.’ Morant knocked on the door frame.

“Ah, young Morant! Make it quick man, I’m up to my neck in letters at the moment, correspondence every bloody where. I’d have to spread myself mighty thin to do half what these people expect….”

“Sir, may I present Captain Marlowe of the Hong Kong and Singapore Artillery.” Jim One looked up at Marlowe and offered his hand.

“Marlowe.”

“Captain Marlowe has just come down from ANZAC.” The Majors face clouded, assuming the expression of one about to fend off a robbery with violence. Morant continued. “He really needs a few engineers stores sir; but his men desperately need some new uniforms…”

“Do I look like a man with eight arms Mr. Morant? Happy as I would be to supply the good Captain with everything he desires, there is a war on if it had escaped you attention…”

“…And” Morant continued smoothly. “Captain Marlowe has a dozen pack mules with saddles and drivers, that I’m su….”

“Well you should have said so in the first place! Sit down the both of you…”

“If you please sir, I need to go down and have a word with the Beach Master’s crew. I have the Tender here, so if there is anything I could take back… Captain Marlowe. When you are finished here, you will find me down by the beach, just follow the swearing and ask for me.” He smiled and took his leave.

“I do worry about that man some times, he seems to have a finger in every pie and a pie for every finger….” The two older men watched the departing figure weave through a group of porters from a Maltese labour battalion.

“He certainly is active…”

“His people are chandlers in Southampton, or so I’m told. I suppose it’s no wonder then that he knows the length of a piece of string…” Jim One turned back to his guest.

Marlowe was not quite sure what to make of this. “I broke my fast in his lines this morning and there were no apparent signs of wealth; perhaps a little more jam and tobacco were in evidence, I was offered tinned peaches! But then from ANZAC, I have no…”

“Oh, there’s no indication of advantage.” The Major tapped the side of his nose with a broad and slightly grubby thumb. “The wheels might be slow but they do grind exceedingly fine don’t you know. We keep an eye on people… No, but I do believe he would deal with the very Turks if he could. He was in this office not a week ago with some wild concept of importing eggs at five piastres and selling them for two with all parties coming out in front! Now sir, as to your stores; we are a little hard up for water at the moment and dreadfully short of sheet steel, though I might let you have a little coal, just a little mind….”

+++

“’ere’s your water ration.” Dooley dumped two canteens in front of his tent mates and collapsed on the ground.

“Thank you Daniel. But you are back early man. We did not expect to see you so soon.”

Daniel Thomas Dooley felt like death. “The Screw said I only ‘ad to do one trip after last night.” If there was a part of him that didn’t hurt, it was to numb to be evident as he slowly sat up and reached for his own canteen.

Tubby, looked up from `chatting’ his shirt. “Make you a cuppa Danny?”

“Na’ thanks…” Generally upright now, he uncorked his ration and took a healthy swig. “Paaaaa…!” Not only did Dooley spit out a good eighth of his daily water ration, he proceeded to throw up the bitter bile that was all his stomach contained.

“Oh lord! Are you all right Daniel boy?” silently Tubby put down his shirt and started some water on their small fire as Dai lent over Dooley.

“Fark’n ‘ell!” gasped a very queasy Dooley. “What the bloody ‘ell is that shite!”

“Ah that would be the water. I suppose you will only have drunk it as tea or soup before now. Don’t worry, you shall soon get used to it.”

“Fark that! What that geezer say ` It was green and it was stink’n’…” He gagged a little more.

“Sorry, Daniel I do not know to whom you are referring, nor do I recall such a passage in any of the Scriptures…” Dooley made a very uncouth comment about the Scriptures and crawled away to die.

“He’ll never live meet the ’ang man that one.” muttered Tubby as he placed another sliver of packing case on the fire and both returned to de-lousing their shirts.

Lt. Paterson strolled across and squatted down on his less than meaty haunches to join them. “What was all that about, does Dooley need to see the Robber?”

“No sir, he just took a little too much water. He will recover in time, though he may not be fit for toni…”

“Ah yes, about this evenings ball. I am very sorry to announce gentlemen; it’s has been cancelled. The three of you are on the first relief. I have the second, so I will be joining you and Mr. Crater at 11 pip emma. There are some new night orders, so be careful. You’re not fire for any reason no matter what the provocation unless directly attacked. Mr. Crater will explain the details. I know I can count on you Dai; and if you should stray Lance Corporal Bradshaw here will put you straight.” He smiled at Rattlers look of pleasure for his friend (combined with the prospect of an early night), and Tubby’s complete bafflement. “Congratulations Colin, it appears that Macfee’s wound was a Blighty. And there was you Dai, not wanting to get your backside shoot off!” He held out his hand to the quickly recovering Tubby.

“Why thank you sir…”

“See you keep that stripe, they might send them along with the rations; but they come off as easily as they go up.”

“Sir!” Tubby had managed to digest the all the news, and was far from unhappy as he scrambled to his feet and snapped off a Brigade of Guards salute.

“Oh, one final thing, you’re not the only happy man around here. Lance Sargent Pierrepoint has a son, to be called Albert so I take it.” Paterson walked off the next shanty and Tubby collapsed back to the ground like a pole axed steer.

Rattler laid his hand gently on Tubby’s shoulder. Tubby smiled and said “Careful now, that’s assaulting your superior officer in the face o’ the enemy!”

“Oh Colin….” It wasn’t a particularly funny joke, but it was enough to keep the pair laughing like loons, until `Lance Corporal Bradshaw’ knocked over the water can and put the fire out. They went back to `chatting’ lice.

“Well at lest we should see tomorra’ then.”

“True Colin, if I may be so bold to your eminence; and Daniel may yet live to meet the hangman in the morning….”

“`Albert Pierrepoint.’ I like it, nice….A cheerful sort’o name is Albert.”

+++

Marlowe did indeed find his friend by heading for the worst patch of profanity he could hear and asking directions. The advice made perfect sense as soon as he had realised that most of the ‘crew’ were Australian rateings. When he found his man, Morant was in an area run by the RE; his sleeves rolled up, doing something odd with a funny shaped block of metal and what looked like a sheet of mud. Their driver, Foster was cutting something from a piece of lead foil, that judging by the wreckage scattered about had been torn from a tea chest.

“Captain! I’ll be with you directly. Foster leave that, I’ll finish it. You...” he turned to an RE corporal who was lurking in a corner. “ guard this lot with you life. But touch nothing! Hear me. I find this messed up, and I’ll have your guts for gaiters. Foster don’t leave the explosives.”

As they walked back to the Tender, Morant continued. “I tell these people if they must run their engines flat out all the time, then they must increase the oil drip and use a rich mixture! The silly sods complain they make too much smoke and burn too much petrol. But really… So how did it go with the good Major?”

“Oh very fine, very fine indeed. For a weeks use of my pack train, the requirements of the service permitting, I received more than I had ever hoped for! Two hundred feet of four inch by four inch wood, corrugated iron, canvas and not only new shirts and shorts for my men, but boots as well!” he turned to humbly accept the congratulations of new friend.

“So he took you to the cleaners then!” Morant’s reply shook Marlowe to the very core. “Jimmey is a downy old bird, so he is. He rooked you on the terms, the labour was a fair trade; but in a weeks time your animals and men will be fit for the knackers. Never let you assets out of your sight for more than a day. Half or alternate days are the way to go… Sorry if I upset you sir. But at least he didn’t offer you double or quits…Did he? His dice are notorious.”

“Oh but I could do with a cool ale…” Marlowe felt so very tired.

“Beer is it? PO Foster’s the very man to ask. Any chance of a beer Foster?” He turned to their driver who was walking a few paces behind.

Foster, a man who had discontinued shaving several weeks before and now sprouted a fine blond growth, pushed his cap back on his head and considered the concept of beer. “Ahhhh. I all ways ‘as one at eleven. At home that is sir. Nothing likes a nice draft. But I’m sorry sir. The only slosh I’ve seen ‘ere ‘bouts is marked S.R.D.”

“I know…. Seldom Reaches Destination” said Marlowe still feeling dejected.

“Stores. Reserve. Dilute. h‘actually sir. Ain’t it the Army all over? Two nouns and an adjective in the one acronym, ‘an they expect us to make sense of it!” This sudden burst of alliteration surprised Marlowe; but didn’t seem to register with his companion.

“Now there might be some chance of a decent Scotch if you can pay in cash.” said Morant. “I don’t drink it myself; however I have seen some Black & White around.”

“Any chance of Dimple.” Asked Marlowe perking up.

“No, that’s a reserved supply.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, Haig never leaves France. Look sir. I have to finish off down here, I’ll be a few hours yet. Foster will see you home. He’s a good man and steers clear of temptation for all his talk. That is as long as we keep him clear of his mate Wheeler; between them they can get some steam up…”

Chapter 6

The Path Less Traveled

21ts of June 1915

“I thank you for your time and I take it ye are all happy with these reports? No amendments, no additions?” After a life time in the Royal Marines Archibald Paris had never learned to love paper work. Even as ‘General Commanding, Royal Naval Division’ his firm belief was that ‘bumph’ was the greatest enemy of true efficiency. Paris might have been more a leader of men than a brilliant soldier but he knew how to get things done and that the devil was in the detail. He liked his ‘I’s’ dotted and his ‘T’s’ crossed.

The small pile of paper he rapped on with his knuckles like an auctioneer closing out a deal, was no more than 20 pages of concise almost cryptic lists. Lists that covered his two Brigades, Artillery, Medical and Divisional Troops. Paris didn’t demand every formal phrase required by the Kings Rules, Regulations & Admiralty Instructions. He maintained that no ‘Daily Report’ needed to be more than one sheet of lined foolscap. One side for a table of Sick Lists, Ration Strengths, etc. The other, for a chronology of the past 24 hours or a statement of the issue. The table might run over onto a second page; but any battalion that needed more than a line or two per hour was obviously busy enough to warrant a separate report on it’s own sheet of paper.

That this spartan regime continued to serve him as well with a division as it had in his smaller commands, was mostly due to the regard in which he was held in by his subordinates. No one even dreamed of cooking a ‘Paris Sheet’ and the trust he gave his men was returned with a solid loyalty; even if some bounder had felt like trying one on, it was just too damned dangerous. Paris was a man whose bite was very much worse than his bark.

“First to the sugar. The 29th Indian Brigade will be joining us tomorrow, they are to take the single battalion front across the top of Krithia Spur as our new left flank, one up and one back. Of the other two battalions, they are to be a small reserve and I’ve no doubt at all we may find some other work to keep the devil from idle hands. The rest of you will shuffle across in due course, taking the next two sections to our right from the French. And I have some hopes for I’ll not deny it, but there is a chance the 42nd, will be coming up on our right hand as well.” This list bought a buzz of satisfaction to the assembled officers, three battalions of the Gurkha Rifles and another of Sikhs was a most impressive reinforcement. The 42nd were more old friends, a TA Division drawn from Lancashire and Manchester. But most welcome was the move to the right. The next sector across held some very important ground, positions which could enfilade much of the RND’s line.

The RND could find no rest while the Senegalese were in possession, the French claimed the Africans were the equal of Gurkha's and nobody who had seen them in the May battles could doubt their aggression in the attack. But they lacked the steadiness of the Nepalese in the defence and without their French officers they had a tendency to retreat. The RND had plugged gaps and retaken ground the Senegalese had abandoned in the past, so this ‘sugar’ was very sweet indeed.

“Now for the Medicine. It’s not too bitter I find; but I am afraid to say that it means no rest for wicked. Not even for the very tired. Tomb…” he nodded towards his Chief of Staff. “Has the details; but broadly speaking we have a great deal of digging to do.” A general groan rose in response to this news. Even if very few of the officers present had swung a pick themselves lately, their men certainly had and everybody was thoroughly sick of it. “And some more porterage too.” He added for good measure.

“Sir, if I may. Most of our lines are down below seven foot, there's always room for improvement of course. But surely we don’t mean to tunnel up to Achi Baba?” Lt Commander Bernard Freyberg DSO, was never one to be backward about coming forward.

“Not quite Cyril. While I do agree that we are well on our way to becoming navigators. No competent pilot would have made such a dreadful land fall in the first place.” His pun might not have bought the house down but it did raise an appreciative chuckle.

“Tiny’s inboard, he can swim home!” quipped Lt. Colonel Ninnis RMA who ran the Divisions engineers, this bought a full blooded laugh from the men gathered in the reinforced and extended shepherds hut that served as DHQ.

“That will be quite enough from you Bill. If I might continue…” The general was not at all displeased with this demonstration of good humour. “Word has come down from on high that our communications and sanitary arrangements are not up to scratch. Not by a long chalk - and I happen to agree with them. I read you reports gentlemen, even if you don’t. Sick lists are rising in a most unpleasant manner and if something is not done about it we shall have more men sick than wounded. I say more sick than wounded, it’s enough to ruin the reputation of an archangel it is.” Paris looked to his Medical Officer for support.

“Flies are the big problem of course.” Surgeon Commander Hills confirmed. “I’m glad some one up stairs has decided to do something about it at last. Though this is the first I’ve heard of any new moves sir, apart from that silly business about hanging fly papers on bushes!”

The Fly Papers had been suggested by some genius in Sir Ian Hamilton’s Mediterranean Expeditionary Force HQ, in response to the urgent requests from ANZAC and Cape Hellas for Creosol and other disinfectants. It was an oft told joke on the Staff and bought another rustle of mirth from the audience.

Hills continued slowly. “I know we can’t do much about the corpses; but our own refuse breeds a good deal of the vermin, eliminating that source would be a start in the right direction sir. The Sappers tell me they have come up with a decent Box Latrine and if we are going to do something about hygiene sir. Installing these in both the trenches and rest areas would in my opinion be an excellent first step.”

“Done sir. A Box Latrine for every platoon…”

“One for every ten men would be better sir.”

“We must walk before we can run Doctor, but we’ll make them of two holes each if that will suite.” Paris replied and nodded to Tomb who jotted “Latrines Box, 2 holes, soldiers for the use of. 1 per Plt.” on his pad with the note “see Doc.”

The General continued. “If the good Doctor is satisfied with his thunder boxes, we can move on to the major works. You gentlemen are best placed to sort out exactly what needs doing where, so I will just give you the gist of it.” This was normal practice and surprised no one. “As you might have gathered, London has pushed us to the back of the stove for the moment. France and Egypt have priority and so it looks like we might be here for some little time yet. Now I’ll not attempt to deny it, the current state of our affairs is far from perfect. Our lads are spending too much time labouring about and not enough resting, it’s the ruination of good soldiers so it is. I see that fatigue is already hurting their fitness and eventually it will effect moral. I’m certain the Doctor will agree when I say that our current sick list isn’t all due to blue bottle flies .”

“Yes sir, even the…”

“Quite so, I thank ye Doctor. As there is no’ much to be done about the loads that need shifting, it stands to reason we must make the journey as easy as we can. I find it takes the better part of half an hour to move from one end of Coronation St. to the other and Sesame St. is the same. There’s little to be said of our existing saps and trenches, but that they were dug to no plan and little system. I grant ye that one can't argue with tactical necessity or the needs of the moment, even so they simply will not do for the long term. So what I need from ye gentlemen is to cut our Gordian knot. I want to be able to walk from the front line to the back of the system in less than twenty minutes; fill in gaps, cut detours and bypasses, fill in trenches if you have too….” Paris continued on in this vein for a little longer, emphasising that speed was not to come at the expense of defensibility. “…The two are not incompatible. And as for you young Morant; you sir, have been idle far to long.”

“Sir?” Morant started with surprise

“I do believe that ye’er Commission is to serve as a Lieutenant in the Royal Naval Reserve, not to act as General Dealer in Ordinary to His Majesty’s forces - no, don’t attempt to deny it, man.” His gentle mocking tone and the twinkle in his eye made it clear to most that he was being facetious.

Morant was the minority. Transfixed like a rabbit caught in beam of a searchlight, with all his many sins of omission, commission and intent cascading through his head he was hard put to do more than stutter. “S-sir?”

Paris perceived his little jest was not having the effect he desired so he smiled and asked; “Not content to be a sailor playing at cavalry, I understand you are trespassing in my own coverts. Supporting fire by land being the rightful preserve of the RMA. Though I’m given to understand your registered fire was quite successful?”

If Morant had been reassured by the smile, this display of omnipresence completely ruined the effect. The question did however give him lead. “Y-sir. Very well thank you sir, w-we think.” Morant collected the remains of his wits. “That is Lt. Paterson and I believe it was successful sir. The fire certainly assisted Lt. Paterson’s operation, he remarked on how little pressure he came under from the defenders both in holding his lodgement and in his withdrawal sir. He especially remarked on the lack of any real counter attack and that the one Turk to enter the trench they controlled appeared to be more interested in finding shelter. It’s hard to say how the rest of the barrage went as we were shooting into dead ground for the most part sir.”

“Indirect fire, from a machine gun at night?” Paris had not heard of this detail, as a gunner by trade his curiosity was aroused and to satisfy this as much as to apologise for the discomfort he had inflicted on Morant. He asked “Surely the even the Army wouldn’t let you souvenir their dial sights?”

Morant not wanting to ‘show off’ in such august company kept his explanation short. “Oh no sir, it was easy. We just borrowed some surveyed gun pits that the Artillery weren't using and set out aiming stakes with a theodolite. Then set the ranges on the guns own sights, trued them up with a spirit level and aimed them at the stakes sir. Adjusting the hight of the aiming lamps to suit. A Froggie from their 1st Division helped me with the technical bits sir. He said it was no harder than for regular guns sir.”

Paris nodded in approval. “I look forward to reading your full report…”

Morant took the hint. “Yes sir.”

“… and further more, as our resident expert on motor cars and so on, your are to see to our roads.”

“Sir…” Morant’s mind had already started to compose the report he would have to write that evening. Being saddled with the miles of goat tracks that wound across the peninsula was far from welcome news. “Roads sir?”

“Corps want to bring in motor lorries to replace men and mules.” There was a general rumble of approval at this splendid idea from such an unexpected quarter. “As I told General Weston myself; if it will stop them pinching our men to fetch and carry when they should be sleeping, then they have my full support. And you Lieutenant Morant are going to be providing that support.” Paris took folded sheet of paper from Tomb, handed the map tracing to Morant and continued. “That is Corps’s idea of what is to be done, our part is in yellow. There is to be a Staff planning conference the day after tomorrow to discuss the matter and Commander Ninnis will be representing the division, he has more than enough to do as it is so ye will kindly assist him by doing all of the work.” At this Ninnis, a short solid man smiled, nodding with relief that this wasn’t to be yet another burden on his time.

“Aye Aye Sir.” Morant accepted his orders with a reasonable show of enthusiasm.

“I know ye’er no engineer Morant nor a professional soldier for that matter, I expect Bill Ninnis will be able to spare you some one for a day as an advisor, and we might let you have Captain Brunet as well. Ye should know the area well enough by now and ye have the rest of today to do a reconnaissance. Sort out what you mean to do tomorrow and have a report for Ninnis by the day after.” He dismissed the matter and moved on to the next. “Now rest rotations. It’s come to my attention that the men we are sending off to Lemnos for rest are being used by the authorities there for port duties. I have complained to Corps, even so from now on each party will be accompanied by some Officer, Subaltern or Midshipman. They are to be provided with a written order from me to the effect that neither they nor their men can be used in this fashion. This means fewer and larger parties gentlemen. However as we should be receiving some replacement’s by the end of the week we can kill the two birds with one stone. Rotations will be by Platoons, each to absorb its replacements whiles't it is resting. I have received a proposal from Major French with respect to training of bombers….”

+++

“Och if I’d only had a camera! The expression on your face was priceless mon!” Lt William Gilmore of the 5th Royal Scots was generally well liked for his good humour. Alas one of his ‘Ladies from Hell’ hadn’t quite shared the general opinion and shot him from behind. The bullet had missed his heart passing between his chest and arm, but gone on to take a chunk out of his bicep. So temporarily unfit for active duty, he was serving as a liaison officer between his own 88th Brigade and the 1st Naval Brigade.

“You’re still here? Haven’t they found out who shot you yet Happy?” Morant had no time for levity; but he smiled anyway. “Or are you just scared of being hen pecked? Sorry Billy Boy, can’t say and chat. I’ve got some real work to do.” Leaving Gilmore floundering for a reply, Morant hurried off looking very purposeful.

+++

“Mr. Barrow, there you are!” Morant ducked under the canvas flap and joined his deputy next to HMAC Invincible.

“We have a job sir?”

“How on earth did you guess?” Asked Morant quite surprised.

“Oh there was a bit of a buzz go’n round this morning. Is it Malta or Egypt we are heading for sir?” asked Barrow.

“What! No nothing to do with that man. The good General has decided that as his motor experts we should now be responsible for the Division’s roads.”

Just as Morant’s had done when he had been given his orders, Barrows face seemed to drop as he contemplated the miles of foot paths, mule tracks and the few hundred yards of barely passable roads that covered the divisional area. “We only have fifteen men…” he brightened. “So then that can’t be expecting us to do much now sir, can they.”

“They are going to bring in lorries to help with the movement of stores.”

“Oh. I see sir…” They were doomed. It was all clear to Barrow now, doomed to spend the rest of the war swinging shovels or up to their elbows in greasy, oily, cantankerous trucks. The re-possession of his magnificent Rolls Royce’s was only a matter of time now. They were doomed… His face melted into a haggard emptiness. It was in a tone half regretful for their loss and half resigned to a future in the guts of some Peerless or Thornycroft, that he asked. “What are we to do sir.”

The light under the tarpaulin was to dim for Morant to see the sparkle fade from Barrows eyes or the extra ten years that creased his cheeks, however he couldn’t help detecting the despondent note in Barrows voice. “They just want a plan for some new roads. I know we will probably have to help build them; but that’s all the more reason to plan them properly in the first place. So cheer up! If you can’t take a joke…”

Chapter 7

Lost Souls

21st of June 1915

The sound of gunfire was a constant anywhere on the cape, the entire sector was within range of the Turkish artillery and under observation from the high ground to the north. Even from where he was standing on Hill 114 just above W Beach, Morant could see Achi Baba and the range of hills that built up behind it formed a dun brown line along the northern horizon. Pyre’s of dust rose from all the usual hot spots. From S beach in the shelter of Eski Hissarlik across to Krithia about half way across the peninsula and so to Y beach. X beach seemed to be in for an extra heavy dose today.

Morant walked across the rolling country, 12 bore loaded with 5’s and 7’s. One eye for any bird stupid enough to have flown over from the Asian side, the other noting the nature of the ground. Every so often he would stop to consult his map, the thick sheet of linen paper folded to display the relevant section and hold another sheet of tracing paper in the correct alignment.

He had come this close to the Aerodrome to have a look at its surface. It had only ever been an emergency landing field, the gunners in the hills had seen to that. But lately it had been attracting over a hundred shells a day, fired at an old Voisin that had crashed and been repaired as a decoy. Morant had already examined the aircraft and found it more packing cases than clear timber, more holes than fabric. If it distracted the enemy guns then it was worth more left alone than as fire wood, which is about all it was good for else.

Supposedly he was meant to be surveying the route for some new roads to connect the beaches with the forward dumps but Morant believed in killing as many birds as possible with a singe stone. Since they had arrived on Cape Hellas, he and his men had been porters, mechanics, carpenters, labourers, gunners and longshoremen. They had even been unofficial infantry. At one time or another most of ‘B’ section had sneaked off to the front to have a ‘crack’ at the enemy, he had himself on a couple of occasions.

In short, they had done every thing bar what they were paid for. Yes, their cars were tuned and titivated every day, cleaned and polished ready to move at the first call. They took the occasional spin along the rotten tracks, getting to know their area and giving the Turks something else to shoot at besides the poor bloody infantry. But in t