War Vignettes.

Pukekohe & Waiuku Times, Volume 4, Issue 90, 1 October 1915, Page 4 (Supplement)

War Vignettes.

(By Tropper Bhiegum, in " Sydney Morning Herald.")

ANZAC, July 22

Vignettes of battle! These are the kaleidoscopic pictures that remain mirrored in the memory. I've forgotten wliat the transports took like when we reached Gallipoli. I only half remember the panaroma of bati o ■when we first tackled the Turk. Yet somehow there is no forgetting tuese little snapshots of soldiering, the vivid_ vignettes which stand out in clear-cut silhouette against the background of cur experiences. Somehow they 6eem more like tableaux vivants than a moving picture show. Certainly the impression is not blurred by action. So the mind like a camera plate retains the scene down to the minutest details. Perhaps, wmii we think of the big things that our own lads have done, these little visions may •seem hardly worth chronicling. But the censor won't let me take photographs, and after all it might interest the old folks at home to scan these hurried lines, and construct their own mental pictures of the rugged and inhospitable Gallopoli peninsula where so many young Australians fought una died for Empire. THE COVE. It was in Anzw Cove we first landed. In spite of the shrapnel shells which burst on the beach, or plunged into the sea, we could take 6tock of the whole scene before us —afloat and ashore. Straight ahead the hills rose almost from the water's edge to n height of 400 feet, To right and left were the army stores; little mountains of bully beef and biscuits. Scores of soldiers moved hither and thither on fatigue duty, giving Anzac the appearance of a thriving port. At least 500 men were swimming in the cove entirely indifferent to the enemy's shells. I'nder the sheltering shadow of the hill was the field ambulance —doctors working overtime, orderlies running Here and there, stretcher-bearers coming and going with their burden of wounded and dead. To seaward, transports lolling lazily on the placid bosom of the Mediterranean, torpedo boats streaking about after submarines, warships wreathed in battle—smoke and beK-rt-ing broadsides. Aloft a circling aeroplane. ... SHRAPNEL VALLEY. There are weird names now on Anzac, Hell Spit, Shell Green, Casualty Corner. Valley of Despair, The Bloody Angle, Dead Man's Hill, Sniper's Nest, and Cooee Gully. Every name conjures up memories. At the Bloody An-

gle Turks and Australians were at death-grips, day after day, and weeK after week, with the trenches only a fiw yards apart. It was back through the death-strewn Valley of Despair that the Australian infantry withdrew after their first glorious charge inland. On Dead Man's Hill the Turks lay slaughtered in hundreds after their fierce attack on May 19. And we all know Shrapnel Valley. Here the Light Horse lay all through the night of the 20th, learning what shell-fire really meant. Since the first landing on first landing on April 25 the Turks have landed tons and tons of lead aud iron in Shrapnel Valley, but we soon knew the safety spots and the danger zones. . . The tortuous, waterless creek bed wound its aiiuloss way to the sea. Steep hills, scrub-faced, rono on either side. Wild flowers, pink and white, and lilac and yellow, and blue, faced the uplands where we first landed ; but they are all gone now. On the crest of the hill, sharply silhouetted against the skyline, were our trenches, .so manned that the devils of hell could not break through, let alone the turbaned and malignant Turk. On th« ledges behind —rather ragged and unkempt now —lounged the reserves, ready in case of attack, but knowing well that their comrades in front could easily hold the line. MacLaurin's Hill is at the top. A little farther down projects Braund's Hill. Little graves dot the hillside. Little wooden crosses mark the graves. THE MILES. Mil's, just mules and donkey--; but they play no unimportant part in the war game at Anzac. They, too, with their Indian attendants, landed u.t An. j'.ac with only the Turkish guns to voice a welcome. They, too, sheltered in dug outs when the artillery duel waxed \< .inn. Hut day alter day and n:ght after night they toiled I'm- the transpurl. Wood and water and ammunition and store- of all kinds had to he i-arried from the depots to the firing line, and the bu'k of the burden fell on the mules. Along the meandering [■it!:., they filed, scrambling up the stiff pinches, re-ting awhile on the crests. Now ami then a shell would slaughter ii few. Anon snipers' bulh Is would take lo'l. Hut the imperturbable Indian would iu-t tarry on. We had two little donkeys in Shell Green. They diV'ded their time between the 2nd Light If-U'se brigade, and the boys gave Origad". ami the boys gave them biscuit'. Morning and evening the Turks i,bc!led our lines, and Shell Green was plastered with pellets and splinters. Yet by some miraculous chance the donkeys escaped harm. Men were struck down on either sitb, bet for a couple of months the lucky animal* rsrr.'ied scatiiless. The soldiers swore by the donkey*' link, and when the shells burst stood by the animals rather than ,'!v for shelter. At lust tit' luck turni !■!. A high explosive burst over o'l men, scattered everywhere, wounded both donkeys, and never toucher! » s.c -de man. We buried one of the don-

keys next day. The other, wounded and lonely, wanders diseonso.'ato over AnNIGHT. The sun, a sphere of flaming red, sank into the 6ea. The western horizon glowed rich and splendid, while the i waters of the Archipelago shimmered | like molten gold, lmbros and Samathraee sood out in bold relief on tne crimson skyline, .while the toast of distant Bulgaria softened till lost in a purple haze. Down south spurts of fire and booming thunder told of the British warships still hammering away at the forts of the Dardanelles. Slowly there was unfolded for the millionth time the miracle of nature's transformation scene. Like a white-hot furnace cooling, the blazing west turned to rose-red and amethyst, lilac and purple. Faithful as an echo the mirroring sea reflected the softened shades of the sky, and the chastened waters g«rw mystic and wonderful in the afterglow. As the deepening twilight mantled the xVegean Sea, twinkling lights appeareci on land and water, while one by one the little stars joined the crescent moon for company. All blurred and indistinct were the hills and hollows, and during a brief respite from the neverending fusilade we forgot the war. But just behind was the long, long line of Australian bayonets, pointing towards Constantinople. Thick-lipped and cold, cruel and menacing, are the guns of Anzac. Deathdealing monsters are they, heartless and vindictive, but, oh how we 6oldiers love them ! For they are our very best friends; field guns, mountain guns, and howitzers. We know when the German ami Turkish artillerymen start their snarling hymn of hate that our gunners will soon be barking defiance. Enemy shells may roar and thunder, shrapnel may claim its victims, high explosives may wreck our parapets and trenches, but we know our guns anu our gunners, and that is enough. We ho low while the artillery duel rages overhead, and the echoing hills reverberate with the thundrous roar of battle. So cunningly concealed are our guns, with such acumen have our emplacements been selected and built, that Tommy Turk is continually guessing. His shells search the hills and the valleys in vain. His gunners, too, are skilful and brave. They take position in gullies, behind hills, and in villages, and blaze away at our lines. But our aeroplanes circle overhead to spot them. Then our guns get busy, wheel into action, and fire like fury till the Hun crie-- "hold!" HOME.

Then when our spell in the trenches is over, and we seek the seclusion or Cur dugouts, there come visions that jiro not vignette? of war. I see th<» old homestead in the Hunter Valley. Hard bj Eninghi it stands, where the Williams River meanders through the encircling hills, and flows on townrds Coalopolis. There are roses 'neath the eld-fashioned windows, and from the fields there comes the scent of lucerne ripe for the scythe. Magpies carol in the big trees, and the wattle blooms gold down the river. I wonder will I ever see dear old Erringhi again?