THE LAST LOAD.

Waipawa Mail, Volume XXXVI, Issue 7708, 15 April 1916, Page 4

THE LAST LOAD.

A HOSPITAL SHIP AT SEA. THE OFFICERS’ WARD FILLS. (From Malcolm Ross, Official War Correspondent with the N.Z. Forces). (Published by Special Arrangement). On days when bullets fell like heavy hail, and shrapnel and high explosive came tearing through the air towards trench and pier and bivouac, one watched with curious interest the sweating stretcher-bearers with straining thews carrying their inert burdens down tbe narrow paths of the “deres” to the dressing stations, and from the latter to the casualty clearing stations. One saw also, with a sadness relieved by their uncomplaining bravery, the line of blood-stained wounded marching slowly along the winding, dusty sap to the jetties where the motor launch was waiting to take them to the safer haven of the hospital ships. The badly wounded and the very sick were carried down under cover of the darkness. The Sea of Saros in its summer calm reflected the graceful lines of these ships floating between the blue of a cloudless sky and the deeper blue of the glassy water. In the night-time their lights sent shimmering lines of red and green and gold towards the shore—beckoning fingers to the sick and wounded. There was always a ship, sometimes two or three ships, there waiting—waiting for its load from the backwash of the battlefield. As soon as one went another took its place. Imagination followed them to the outer islands, and the other lands where they unloaded their battered freight, and wondered how many moons would come and go before they dimly through the greyness. Abdul steamed away with their last load. The day came much sooner than we expected. CLOSING SCENE OF A GREAT DRAMA. On a grey morning, with the smoke of our burning stores rising in a straight column and mingling with the mists that shrouded the heights of the Peninsula, two war correspondents, whose home had been at Anzac and No. 2 Outpost, left the shores of the Peninsula for the last time to witness from a warship the closing scenes of the great drama. Looking hack at the receding outlines of the high land looming through the smoke and mist above the leaden water, one remembered the broad atmospheric effects of Turner, the dim blurred efforts of Whistler. The warship itself appeared suddenly as a spectral form out of the greyncss. The little pinnace—short of coal and water—came to a dead stop under the great white-painted hull of an Allan liner—a hospital ship awaiting her last load. It was the fate of one of the war correspondents to watch the closing scenes from a port-hole in this ship, the while the officers' ward slowly filled with sick and wounded. Tt was Sunday—day of battles—and while the Padre was cheering the sick, and the nurses were dressing the wounded, enemy shells wer bursting in our trenches. They had blown up a mine and were “strafing” Hill fit). The Apex got its share, and Suvla, too. Our own depleted batteries made feeble reply, for it was the “last day,” and nearly all the guns had gone. All this one could see beyond which the Navy could shoot unaware of the fact, was sending us our last load. It came as a sad surprise to find two of one’s own friends already in the cots occupied by the wounded. One, hard hit, was struggling bravely against the Grim Warrior, who so often settles the accounts of wounded soldiers. But a few hours before, we had laughingly said good-bvc to one another at Anzac, promising ourselves a good time in Egypt, or England, or wherever we were going to in the near future. Brave fellow! He almostwon through. ANZAC STORIES. By noon the officers’ ward began to fill. Two Ghurka officers, the one moaning, the other sadly silent and inert, headed the procession. They were victims of the explosion on Iliil (iO. The little Kubadahar ,in great pain, fought with liis hands—they were small, like a woman’s —as they lifted him from stretcher to cot. Fidlowing these two came other wounded and some sick. The sick had been lighting disease and doctors in a vain hope that they might he with the “Dielmrds” at tlie finish. One was an Anzac battalion commander, a man who had seen the world. Straining his memory for a few Indian phrases learnt in the long ago, he tried to calm the wounded Kubadahar. He could not rest in his own hod, but wandered through the ward, going from cot to cot, gazing at each patient very much as a curious robin might look at objects that were strange to him. To the doctor who ! questioned him he said he was quite well. But another Anzac officer told us the true story. He had been wounded in the landing, and wounded again—riddled the ollicer called it—in the Lone Pine affair. You will remember that there were seven V.C’s. for Lone Pine. Shipped to England, he had finally broken loose from the doctors, paid his passage back to Egypt, and rejoined his battalion. But the strain had been too great. Wounds and sickness had told their tale. He had broken down at the finish. The word “debility” had been written opposite his name. The officers’ ward filled slowly until darkness descended upon us. Through beyond which the Navy could shoot the port hole we could see the wellremembered beacon lights—signals at night. A few lights still glimmered in the dug-outs of the almost depopulated corps and divisional headquarters. Fitful gleams from incinerators pierced flic darkness, and the glow of the still burning provision depot illumined the sky. THE REAPERS’ TOLL.

Time passed, and the ship’s wireless buzzed the signal for departure. The anchor chain rattled. The screws began to turn, and the ship steamed slowly ahead carrying her last load across the Gulf of There had been no Turkish attack; there were still empty cots in the hospital ships; ♦ lip p vac nation was almost at an end. ’ v-shed. and with their wounds dressed, the patients one by one fell into the troubled sleep that,

is their lot. Even “Debility” was in the land of dreams. The wakeful, with all their recent hopes and fears now behind them, lay thinking—listening the while to the slow, monotonous throb of the engines, and the soothing swisli of water along the ship’s side. The night nurse—a tall, bright, capable English girl—went quietly through the ward, smoothing a pillow here, talking softly to a restless patient there. The Subadahar awoke with a moan and a cry of “Water! water!” The Kister was quickly at his side. In his delirium, his little brown hand gripped her slender arm with all its power. The grip hurt; but she bore it uncomplainingly as she tried to calm her patient. Over the other Indian a doctor, with another Sister in attendance, was bending thoughtfully, listening. For this one there was nothing more to be done. Thef lowered the curtains from the brass rods above his cot, and left him there, with a light brightly burning. He had never once spoken. Unconsciously and without a moan he had passed into the Unknown. The Reaper had claimed his last toll from the Hill; he had lightened the last load from the Peninsula. When we looked again the cot was empty. Then the slow throb of the engines became still slower, the swish of the water along the ship’s side died away, and there was a splash in the dark water. The fire-bars at his feet were carrying him down—one more body to dot the line of sleeping soldiers marking the ways of the white ships from Gallipoli to Lemnos and Malta and Alexandria—even to Mother England. On the floor of the sea these lines still lie, with the deep shadows of the submarines passing over them after all thp living have sailed away. It is not only on the heights of Anzac that our gallant dead find sepulture. Yet we would fain believe that not one life has been given, not one drop of blood shed in vain. BATTLE SCENES. The other Indian, knowing nothing of all this, had fallen asleep, and quiet reigned once more, in the ward. The silence was broken with a ringing voice of command. “Get that gun! Get that gun!” It was the voice of “Debility.” He was fighting his battles over again in dreamland. One pictured the scene—the brave Anzacs leaving their trench: charging forward to almost certain death: the usual machine-guns on the Hanks mowing them down; then the enemy trench —bombs and the bayonet! Moving quickly but quietly through the ward the Sister was at his side soothing him back to slumber. Then silence reigned again. There was not even a moan. It was weirdly uncanny. In less than ten minutes the quiet was broken with another ringing command: — “Hang on the Force! Hang on the Force! Steady there, men! Stick it out!” Yes, without a doubt, it is Lone Pine. He has won his trench and is holding it. But there is a fringe of dead along the parapet, and a thousand dead—friend and foe —inside the trench. The seven Y.C’s. —aye many more have been honorably won. When dawn had come we were once more at anchor, and the circle of brown hills that rise above the Lemnos Harbor lay around us. Five hundred sick and wounded that had been transferred to a trooper in the earlier stages of the; evacuation were now reembarked. Again the anchor chain rattled in the winch, and this time the ship headed full speed for Egypt. A little less than two days brought us into port again. The two New Zealanders in the officers’ ward parted company, for they were going into different hospitals. The sorely stricken one was still brave and cheerful. They said good-bye, promising each other a dinner at Khepheard’s in the near future. But that dinner, like many another promised dinner in the great war, was never eaten. Opposite the name of the one, next day, appeared the three words that have meant tears in many a distant home—- “ Died of wounds.” While the ship lay empty at the quay he had set out, smiling, on his last, long journey. But he had come bravely through with the last load.