AT GALLIPOLI

New Zealand Times, Volume XL, Issue 9174, 14 October 1915, Page 8

AT GALLIPOLI

THE GROUND WE WON ••NARROW VALLEY AND SCRUBCOVERED RIDGE. (From Malcolm Ross, Official War Correspondent with the N.Z. Forces.) GALLIPOLI PENINSULA. August 16. It is after the fight. The battle has spent itself like a breaker on a rockboond shore. The backwash is gathering itself slowly together for another effort. It is a good . opportunity , to make a pilgrimage to the shrine of our dead: to see the ground so dearly won. There is still desultory .firing from the guns on the cruisers and destroyers in the Gulf of Saros, the waters of which lave our curving sandy beach opposite Imbyos . and that other rugged isle w hore St. Paul worked at his Epistles. The staccato crack of an enemy maxim resounds from the hillside, and the stream of bullets hits up the sand on the beach. At intervals—intervals long enough to suggest a scarcity of high explosives—a shell from a big Turkish gun bursts in the sand er tho sea.' A sniper, who is more than a good shot, amuses himself by potting from long range at some Indians digging a grave.

WHERE THE FIGHTERS WENT.' Wo turn our backs on all this and enter a trencli on our left. The, sap bonds round on to a little flat and lcads„mto tho mouth of a narrow valley, tip,which winds a path flanked by scrub-covered low ridges. At first the' grade is easy. On the left the sad grey of olive trees contrasts with the green df tho ilex—the prickly dwarf oak that covers this rugged country. How our men fought through here in the darkness is a marvel. The prickly scrub tore their hands and bare kneos till there was not a quarter of an inch of skin unscarifiod. For three'days afterwards they fought thus, and in the end sores that'had become septic gave the doctors much work.' Wandering a little way into the scrub,at the risk of he-, ing sniped, you note the -evidences of the advance—bits of torn garments, a 1 puttee that had become loosened and torn from tho leg, a helmet lost in ■the darkness, a sock, telling the talc of a wounded foot, other garments bloodstained, clips of cartridges, . a broken rifle, and first field dressings torn by the unyielding branches of the sturdy prickly ilex -from- somewhat slender fastenings. Here and there the stench of an unburied body, fouls the hot air. On the left is an old Turkish well, the concrete coping blown off by. some shell. It is deep and narrow, and lined' with stone. On tho left, also, is a barbed-wire entanglement, with which the enemy hoped to block the; progress .up'the valley.; The Maoris went at. it under fire in the darkness. With clippers they cut ; the wire, • and by main strength they tore up the stakes. Not a man was killed! The bullets went flying, over their heads with one continuous screech. ; “I tink wo all get, killed:at that wire,” .said.one Maori. .“The bullets come ping 1 ping! over our heads all'the time;- but the Turk ho fire too high. Py gorry 1 I tink we have tho-lucky escape that time !”

FROM COVER TO COVER. At one spot the track is overlooked by, the Turkish trenches. , We can see them quite clearly on tho slopes of Chanak ..'Bair,. and there are snipers who have come farther down into the scrub to take p<R shots at the men passing up and: down the valley. It becomes necessary to run. Sandbags are piled; high at intervals, and we clash from one to another in fifty and hundred yard sprints. Cowering under the first wall of sandbags, very much out of breath; wo look at each Other and burst : out laughing. My sprinting days are almost over, and on such a broiling day one would almost prefer the risk of being shot. My companion—a famous English war correspondent-having regained his wind, remarks. “I’m not very.fond of bullets, but Ido hate running.” Then we make another dash up to the next lot of sandbags, and fling ourselves at their base. It is really too ridiculous; and we look at each otlhcr and laugh louder than before. Hero there are' half-a-dozen Tommies who are in the: middle of the same performance. One p’omted to a stone almost'touching my foot. “He got one on to that stone just now,” remarked one of the Tommies, in . a Lancashire dialect. Voluntarily I dtew. in my leg; I am bravo only when I am fairly safe, or when • enthusiasm or necessity unhinges tho door of discretion! “Three sergeants were talking- to one another at that bend this morning, and every one was hit,” said another man. .Ho seemed to regard it as a kind of joke. If one only had been hit that would have been an ordinary occurrence, and not worth mention. But' a bag of three!—that was too ' funny for words. While wc had been doing , tho last sprint it had occurred to each of us that we would walk the next, stage. We now resolved to run harder than ever! After four or five successive sprints of this kind wo wore glad to moisten our parched throats with some water at a, field dressing station of tho 13th Division that wo ran into round a bend of . tho track higher up.

“TABLE TOP.” The steep spurs and precipitous sides of “Table Top” were now on our right, and ono. marvelled how our men had got up there in the darkness. The Turks had bolted from Table Top! Half a dozen could have held the position against our men—the- Wellington Mounted Rifles —coming up in single file. But we had another bit of luck hero. No sooner had our: men gained the position than 150 Turks, driven out of one of their forward positions by other New • Zealanders, attempted to scale the heights. The 'W.M.R. were on them in an instant, and, recognising their position was well-nigh hopeless,: they all laid down their arms and surrendered. Our. men took 158 Turkish prisoners! The track winds and twists and gets steeper.. A mule-train laden with ammunition and stores passes, and the protruding boxes in the narrow way threaten us with broken, ribs. The steep hills have now closed in on us, and we are safe from snipers, t Far below, the gloriously blue and placid waters of the Gulf of Saros come into view". Up, up, tip .wo climb. Our men had . no track here —naught but-steep hillside, dense prickly-scrub, and Turkish bullets. We wonder more than ever how they stormed the position. The English correspondent who has seen much war becomes enthusiastic. We have a few words with the BrigadierGeneral, whose attacking column’is now resting.

IN THE TRENCHES AT LAST. The view becomes more extensive and more beautiful as we climb. Presently we are in the trenches—the trenches we now hold on Rhododendron Ridge—-the highest on the Peninsula. The rhige itself is strewn with bodies, swollen and festering in the hot sun. No man dare go out to bury them. Some are in strange attitudes, but mostly they have fallen forward on their faces, suggesting ‘‘the stout’ heart to tho stae brae.” Quite close are a New Zealander and a Ghurka; farther along the ridge a Turk; and. yonder, three men who had fallen together. Near one trench is a bit of a body that high explosive has dismembered. Some of these are among the “missing.’’ They may never bo. identified : they will occupy a common nameless grave on Rhododendron Spur, far from their homes in Mother England, 'in sunny Australia, in distant New Zealand, and among the hills of India. In the cleft of the summit hill away on the left is a heavy toll of Turkish dead. The men—Cheshires, Wiltshires, Welshmen, and others tor the time being occupying the position-—are living in little dug-outs just below us. , They take turns in the trenches.' The Turks In front have sapped forvAardi land have • made ■ a short • trench facing us about fifty yards away. One shows his head above the top, and in an instant the machine-gun at our elbow is spitting at him, each crack making a puissant throbbing in our cars, while, the stream of bullets hits up the’parapet in dust. The cracking and the throning cease; and when the dust has cleared there is no more sign of the Turk s head. Whether there is a bullet through it or not w© cannot say, but if not it has been a very close call for that particular Turk.

“THEY ARB GOING TO SHOOT.” An" officer comes along and tells us we must he out of the trenches by 5 o’clock. The guns aro going to bombard, he adds, and there may bo a few “shorts.” AVo have no desire to be involved in shells bursting short, so make the best uso of the four minutes left us. As wo round a corner in , the trench a Turk throws n bomb, and a Tommy, endeavouring to throw it back, has his right hand blown clean off. A ligature and bandage are quickly applied, and later in the evening ho passes us on. a stretcher carried down the winding path on his way to England. He has seen the last of the great war- Looking back to tho spur on Rhododendron Ridge one oannot, help thinking that he is a lucky man.

We stop awhile to take som© photographs and to watch the bombardment. Then back down the stoop path between the stunted ilex. Men aro ducking into their dug-outs. A machinegun from the left is hitting up the dust on the track. We cut out a hundred yards in quick time between two bursts ,of fire, and escaped unhit. All this is at the end of a long and tiring day, that, commenced at Imhros at 5 a.m., included a trip across the Gulf of Saros, a call at Suvla, a sea trip to Anzac, and a walk back along the hot; dusty path to our new position. After this ; other .pilgrimage bully beef and hard biscuit and tea, and , the writing of dispatches; till midnight.: Then tho interests and incidents and. issues of war, .even in our minds, are effaced by welcome slumber, that not even the crack of .rifles and tho booming of the bigger guns can disturb. :