Ardnish Was Home Page 8

  Those of us in Gallipoli will never believe that again.

  We came out of what little cover we had and ran back to our lines, with the machine guns mowing us down all the while. Men stooped to grab their injured friends in no man’s land, and drag them back to the trench only to be shot themselves. Ewan Anderson from my troop had his arm under his brother Iain’s shoulder, half lifting, half dragging him to our lines. Men were shouting, ‘Come on, come on!’ They were so close. Then some sadistic bastard gave a short burst of machine-gun fire and sliced them down in front of us. Hundreds of injured were left between the lines.

  And then the Turks lit the dried grass, and a fire swiftly approached our injured men who were trying to drag themselves towards us. With thick smoke in our eyes, we could barely see over the parapet of the trench. I can still hear the screaming of the men as the fire engulfed them.

  During our training we were told again and again that unarmed men helping the injured, not only the stretcher bearers, must be left alone. I can honestly say that not one of our men would have done otherwise before today. The despicable behaviour of the Turks has shocked us all.

  That night, our battalion was taken back from the forward trenches to get some rest on the beach for a couple of days. Lord Lovat walked among us, clearly in shock, though we knew the attack had been ordered from above him and he was not to blame. There was little talk between the men. We simply lay in rows, privately reliving the horror of that morning.

  A few days later, Sandy and I were chosen, along with Sergeant MacLeod and Tommie Mackay, to conduct an assassination of a top Turkish colonel. It wasn’t the leader, Kamal, but another one; we didn’t catch his name. We were only told that he would arrive on a horse with several fellow officers accompanying him and he would have red epaulettes and a sword at his belt. Colonel Willie had heard that he was due to visit his troops and that he always walked among his men. So, an opportunity to get him was pretty high.

  Sandy was said to be the best shot in the battalion, and it was he who was expected to pull the trigger.

  Obviously, a great sniper has to be accurate, but equally as important is his ability to lie completely still, without the flicker of an eyelid almost. The sweat pours off the face in the heat of the day, and the flies stop buzzing around only to bite you, resulting in large red lumps in which they have laid their eggs. The great sniper lies all day, impervious to all this, waiting for that second where the enemy moves first, his position is exposed, and the trigger is squeezed.

  We spent a day working out our plan of attack, and a night reconnoitring our route in. The plan was to move under the cover of darkness to a hillside which had a good view over the Turkish headquarters, where over a hundred soldiers were camped. It was a plan fraught with danger, as the ideal firing spot was only twenty yards from their observation post, and with the General around, they would be more vigilant than usual.

  We moved through our front line shortly after one in the morning, with messages of good luck from the men in the trenches. The Scouts’ success at this sort of thing had been widely recognised, and news that a big hit was on had spread, too, though hopefully not as far as the enemy.

  The Turkish HQ at Suvla was about a mile beyond enemy lines, behind a hill called Tekke Tepe, part of an old farm. On the top of the hill was an observation post where the Turkish officers could survey the hills around and look down on the beaches and our positions with their binoculars.

  We went out on a big flanking sweep along the seashore, slipping on seaweed and scrambling to get a grip along the crumbling cliff face that ran straight down to the sea in places. Then up the hill into position, well behind the Turkish-held ground.

  It took us three hours to reach the spot from where the final approach was to be made. Not a murmur was heard, just the occasional crack of a twig which made us crouch and freeze for a couple of minutes. Although we knew where their sentries were, we knew they would have patrols out, too. At one stage, the sergeant signalled for us to take cover, as he heard the murmur of voices. A dozen Turks approached, heading for our lines.

  We hugged the ground, with my heart pounding so hard I thought they must hear it. How they didn’t see us, I’ll never know. In the moonlight we could see individual features. We only had an hour before dawn, and half a mile of a very tricky approach still to make. With nothing but two rifles and three pistols between us, and a water bottle strapped to our belts, we were able to crawl relatively easily through the undergrowth. Nevertheless, in the stillness of the morning it appeared that we were making a considerable noise.

  I prayed that the Turks were drowsy towards the end of their sentry duty. We could see the knoll that we had identified the previous night as the spot for their observation post. With our faces down, we inched up the hill until we were behind the clump of thorn bushes which we intended to hide in.

  Getting in wasn’t easy. Our hands and faces were covered with scratches from the thorns by the time we made it. There wasn’t much room in the small copse. We lay, facing out at different angles, to watch out for the enemy. Sandy moved forward to the edge, to a position from where he could take his shot.

  Our position seemed excellent: the thick leafy bushes gave tremendous cover from the view of the observation post, as well as shelter from the heat of the midday sun. The 200-yard distance from the hill above the enemy HQ was ideal for Sandy to get his shot off.

  There was only one problem, one of which we were all too aware. Effectively, we were on a suicide mission. With the enemy position right beside us, we were going to be sitting targets for their Gatling gun; we knew that its 200 bullets a minute pouring into our bush would spell the end for us. But Colonel Willie had told us of the necessity of getting the Colonel.

  ‘If he is dead,’ he said, ‘this could well turn the war in our favour. We have chosen our best men for the job.’ And then, to me, as we set off, he said, ‘Make sure you come back, my piper. I need you.’

  Sergeant McLeod had devised a plan that would at least give us a chance: the second the shot was fired, the rest of us would make a dash for the observation post with our pistols and bayonets, and try to get them before they could see that we were in the bush right in front of them. We would then make our escape down the back of the hill, and Sandy would follow as best he could.

  Dawn broke to the sound of movement in the camp below us. Fires were lit and coffee brewed. Four Turks came up to relieve those in our neighbouring position, carrying mugs with them. The smell drifted across to us. And so, with much loud discussion and a sharing of a cigarette, the night watch headed back to camp. At least we now knew their numbers.

  We lay there as quiet as mice, the sweat pouring off our bodies, careful not to move. Having had a sleepless night, I became drowsy in the heat. We had been in position well before dawn, so I had been unable to move at all for ten hours. I was worried about getting cramp, and I couldn’t even turn my head to look at Sandy, who was peering down the barrel of his gun.

  The first we would know of anything up would be the crack of Sandy’s rifle, and then we would be up and charging at the observation post. I fought to stay awake and alert. My thoughts drifted back to home. What would Mum be doing now? Was Dad all right with his bad leg? It would be the hind stalking now, he would be limping off with his garron to meet the stalking party. The hay and potatoes would be in for the winter and the peat cut and drying behind the house. They must be struggling without Sandy and me there; before the war we had done a lot of the heavy work. If I shut my eyes and concentrated really carefully, I could envisage myself there.

  I let my mind wander further. Mother would be a bit lonely now with all her family gone. She’d also be the youngest person in Peanmeanach. The school had closed, and there was only a handful of old folk left in the village. She would be knitting; she usually is. I got a letter from about her two weeks ago. They seemed well, but you could sense the worry she had for Angus and myself.

  There was another change of shift. Th
e Turks’ observation post now had eight men in it. They stood and smoked and talked, so close we could hear every word. Half of them set off back to their camp. It must be mid afternoon by now; I was getting hungry. Maybe the Colonel wouldn’t come today; perhaps we would still be here tomorrow. The flies were not too bad now. A month ago, they would have been everywhere. In the summer, in our trenches with the dead bodies around us, when you received your food the top of it was a mass of flies within seconds. As Sandy and I lay there, we couldn’t do anything to brush them off – a flick of a head or wrist might alert the enemy.

  Sandy murmured, ‘I can see him clearly. I’m going to shoot.’

  Even with his warning, I still jumped about three feet in the air when the shot was fired, and scrambled to get up.

  Sandy fired twice more. I broke through the bush, brandishing my pistol as I rushed for the Turks’ observation post to our right.

  I saw a terrified face and caught sight of a rifle being raised. I saw him struggling to wrench the gun round towards us, a flash of steel and then an enormous thump. I had been shot in the shoulder. I spun round and fell. Their machine gun fired a burst, then I heard shouting and several pistol shots.

  I could taste blood, and everything went dark. In my subconscious I could hear my mother talking to me: ‘Come into the house now. Everything will be all right. Come and sit on my lap, try and sleep.’

  Once, at home, there had been a terrible accident. I had found a body on the beach, up towards Singing Sands. It was Fraser, Sandy’s father, lying in the seaweed, the waves pushing him up, then pulling him back with their movement. He was still hanging onto the oar he had been washed up with. He must have fallen overboard and died of exposure. His wife and Sandy were running down the hillside – her terrible keening, the wail piercing the heart like nothing I will hear again.

  I was ripped out of my nightmare, only for it to be replaced by a real-life one. My eyes snapped open as I was hit. I could make out the sallow skin of the Turk, his black eyes boring into me. Again, his fist smashed into my stomach.

  I lay retching. My right arm hung useless from its badly injured shoulder. Another Turk stopped my assailant and pulled me into a sitting position.

  I knew I was going to be beaten up, although what I could tell them that was of any use was unclear. The Turks had developed torture into a fine art, and I was going to be the next victim upon whom they could develop their sadistic expertise. My mind slipped back to home where Johnny had come over to take a look at my tooth. It was one of the back ones and it had gone rotten. The side of my face was hugely swollen, and I was in agony. The Bochan was the expert at this on Ardnish peninsula, and rather than go and see the expensive dentist in Fort William and spend all day getting there and back, everyone gave the Bochan a shout. I was just a wee fellow then and didn’t know what to expect. He tied a blindfold over my eyes, Mother held my hand, and then he put a length of fishing line around the tooth. When I least expected it, there was a crash and mighty yank as the door was slammed and the tooth was ripped out and catapulted across the floor.

  I was jerked back to real life, and agonising pain. I remember clearly the first half an hour of being thumped and kicked in and out of consciousness, and then their officer went away and the level of brutality increased even further.

  There was an open fire and a pot of boiling water. One of the Turks seized it and threw it across my face. I heard myself let out a scream, and then there was silence as I blacked out.

  I remembered nothing for a considerable time. I was lying in a foetal position on the ground. My face was throbbing, my eyes were hellish sore, and the searing pain was heightened by the fact that I couldn’t see if it was dark or light. My entire body felt pulverised, with my right shoulder in particular in a bad way. We must have been inside a farm building; I could smell the familiar scent of musty hay.

  Then, over time, I became aware that I was not the only person lying there. I could hear moaning, and a rattle as breath was inhaled and exhaled through near-defunct lungs. The person tried to speak. It was in Gaelic. At first I didn’t know who it was, then it became clear – it was Sandy. I rolled over towards him, onto my injured shoulder, causing such a spasm of pain that I again lost consciousness.

  When I came to, Sandy’s face was right beside mine. We spoke falteringly about the events of the last few hours, how he had succeeded in getting the Colonel, how maybe it would help in turning the war our way. They knew I was a goner, they had seen me go down. The others had shot the four Turks and then sprinted off back the way we had come. They had become separated, and Sandy had found a bush he could lie up in until darkness. As soon as it was dark, he set off again. He had been so close to getting away. If the flare hadn’t gone up at the exact moment that he was rushing head-long down the gulley, back towards our own troops, he would have made it. Or if there hadn’t been a Turkish patrol right there at the time. The Turks returned to camp to hear of the death of the Colonel, and then they had tortured him. His testicles had been cut off, and he was bleeding heavily.

  We spoke about Ardnish and the best days of our life. He said less and less, his voice growing quieter. I held his hand and knew he was dying. I gave him the last rites, struggling to remember the words my brother had used after Sandy’s own father had drowned. Was it only last year?

  ‘Imich as an t-saoghal seo, O anam Chriosdail, ann an ainm Dhe an t-Athair . . .’

  ‘Go forth, Christian soul, from this world in the name of God the Father . . .’

  Tears ran down my face as his soul slipped gently away to God, then I wept for myself and the pain I was in. And then in my homesickness I sobbed for his mother and the people of our village who held him so dear.

  Men came to check up on us and saw that Sandy had died. They went off again. Later, one came back and gave me water. I don’t know why as he must have been expecting me to follow Sandy soon. I know I was. He held my head up and tenderly poured water from his bottle into my mouth. Then he made a pillow from a jacket, probably Sandy’s, all without a word. It is funny how when the Devil is in everyone and Hell is where we are, there often appears a saint whose ray of godliness brightens our world.

  Much later, more shooting started. There was the sound of panic-stricken Turks shouting and people running past the enclosure where I lay. And then I heard my name being called in Gaelic. I responded weakly, but they didn’t hear me, so I lay there hoping, praying. The voices moved off; the shooting became more distant. I could hear no one now. They were chasing the Turks, I guessed. The lads will guess we have been tortured, so there won’t be much quarter given for them, I thought. Footsteps entered the steading, and then Sergeant McLeod was saying, ‘We’ll soon have you home, young Gillies. I’ll just get the lads to make a stretcher.’

  When he returned he asked what had happened to Sandy. I told him. I also told him about my shoulder, the beating I had undergone, and the boiling water thrown on my face. He was horrified. I think if any Turks had been captured then, it would have been difficult to stop the soldiers from shooting them.

  Soon the rest of the Scouts returned. None of them had been shot and they were very cheerful with their success in routing the Turks until Macleod told them about Sandy’s death and my torture. A stretcher was made by threading poles from the Turkish tents through their coat sleeves, and I was lifted onto it. While this was happening, a grave was being dug for Sandy. They decided they couldn’t carry his body back to our own lines.

  The trip back was hellish, even though I was drifting in and out of consciousness for most of it. My ribs were sore on the opposite side from my bloody shoulder, so whichever side I lay on, I was in real pain. There is no doubt at that time that death would have been preferable. The Scouts took turns to carry the stretcher, cursing as they stumbled and fell. The trip took an eternity.

  I was told later that Colonel Macdonald was nearly court-martialled for sending the rescue party in for Sandy and me, for exposing a whole troop to danger for the sake
of two men who were almost certainly dead. It was this sort of thing which made the other soldiers so envious of the Scouts, and I was profoundly grateful for his actions.

  Chapter 6

  LOUISE’S JOURNAL

  Earl Kitchener, the Secretary of State for War, has travelled here, and is based on the battleship Lord Nelson anchored beside our own Gloucester Castle. I saw him from a distance. He seems very popular with the men. We’re experiencing strong winds and heavy rain every few days, and are preparing for winter. Wriggly tin and wooden spars are being unloaded to reinforce the trenches. The horses and mules have blankets now.

  Our rota’s working well, and the mixture of time at the Casualty Clearing Station and on ship makes everything bearable.

  I was onshore, helping with an operation on a man’s foot, with the dreaded Dr Sheridan handling the scalpel. As usual, he never looked me in the eye. I itched to take the knife from him. I just can’t trust him to use it properly.

  The tent flap opened, and a Lovat Scout officer said that a good man was coming in, he was in a bad way, and that I was to look after him. The stretcher bearers were exhausted, sweat pouring down their faces. They seemed to have carried the man a long way. He was laid on the floor of our operating tent and Dr Sheridan felt his pulse.

  I looked over his shoulder and it was as if I had been punched. I recognised Donald Peter, my soldier from the train. He was unconscious, with his red hair soaked with sweat, and a ghastly sheen on his face where he had been terribly burned.

  I stood in shock, mouth open, as he was laid on the operating table. I felt faint and had to be helped to a chair by one of the soldiers. I told him I’d be fine and composed myself as quickly as I could.

  Dr Sheridan was cutting his shirt off. ‘I can feel his pulse, but only just,’ he said.

  DP was barely conscious. ‘I’m not sure if we can save this one,’ Dr Sheridan said. I couldn’t disagree. We’d had many on the operating table who’d looked a lot better and still died. My professional training took over and I was soon busy with boiling water and instruments.