WAR VIGNETTES.

Taranaki Daily News, 2 October 1915, Page 11 (Supplement)

WAR VIGNETTES.

PANORAMA OF BATTLE. THE FIRING-LINE PICTURE Anzac, July 22. Vignettes of battle! These are the kaleidoscopic pictures that remain mirrored in the memory. I've forgotten what the transports look like when we reached Gallipoli. I only half remember the panorama of battle when we first tackled the Turk. Yet somehow there was no forgetting these little snapshots of soldiering, the vivid vignettes which stand out in clear-cut silhouette against the background of our experiences. Somehow they seem 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, when 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 Gallipoli Peninsula, where so many young Australians fought and died for the Empire. THE COVE, , It was in Anzac Cove we first landed. In spite of the shrapnel shells which burst on the beaeli or plunged into the sea, we could take stock of the whole scene before us afloat and ashore. Straight ahead the hills rose almost from the water's edge to a height of 400 feet. To right and left were the army, stores; little mountains of bully 1 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. Under the sheltering shadow of the hill was the field ambulance —doctors working overtime, orderlies running here and there, strcfcher-bearers coming and going with thei 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 battlesmoke and belching 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 Mill,. Snipers' Nest and Cooce Gully. Every name conjures up memories. At the Bloody Angle Turks and Australasians were at death-grips, day after day, and week after week, with the trenches only a few yards apart. It was back through the death-strewn Valley of Despair that the Australian infantry withdrew after their first glorious ehaTge inland. On Dead Man's Hill the Turks lay slaughtered in hundreds after the 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 April 25 the Turks must have landed tons and tons of lead and iron in Shrapnel Valley, but we soon knew tile safety spots and the danger zones. . . . The tortuous, waterless creek bed wound its aimless way to the sea, steep hills, scrub-faced rose on either side. WSH 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 tjic skyline, were our trenches, so manned that the devils of hell could not break through, let alone the turbaned and malignant Turk. On the 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. McLaurin's Hill Is at the top. A little further down projects Braund's Hill. Little graves dot the hillside. Little wooden crosses mark the graves. THE MULES. Mules, just mules and donkeys; but they play no unimportant part in the war game at Anzac. They, too, with their Indian attendants, landed at Anzac with only the Turkish guns to voice a welcome. They, too. sheltered in dugouts when the artillery duel waxed warm. But day after day and night after night they toiled for the transport. Wood and water and ammunition and stores of all kinds had to be carried from the depots to the Bring line, and the bulk of the burden fell on the mules. Along the meandering paths they filed, scrambling up the still pinches, resting awhile on the crests. Now and then a shell would slaughter a few. Anon snipers' bullets .would take toll. But the imperturbable Indian would just carry on. We had two little donkeys on Shell Green. They divided their time between the 2nd Light Horse Brigade and the 3rd Infantry Brigade, and the boys gave them biscuits. Morning and evening the Turks shelled 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 side, but for a couple of months the lucky animals escaped seatliless. The 6oldiers swore by the donkeys' luck, and when the shells burst stood by the animals rather than fly for shelter. At last the luck turned. A high explosive burst over 30 men, scattered everywhere, wounded both donkeys, and never touched a single man. We buried one of the donkeys next day. The other, wounded and lonely, wanders disconsolate over Anzac. NIGHT. The sun, a sphere of flaming red, sank into the sea. The western horizon glowed rich and splendid, while the waters of the Archipelago like molten gold. Imbros and Sa-ms-thrace stood out in gold relief on the crimson skyline, while the icoast of distant Bulgaria softened till lost in a purple haze. Down south spurts of fire j 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 grew mystic and wonderful in the afterglow. As the deepening twilight mantled the Aegean Sea, twinkling lights appeared on land and water, while one by one the little stars joined the crescent moon for company. All blurred and indistinct wore the hills and 'hollows, and during a brief respite from the never-ending fusillade we forgot the war. But just behind was the long, long line of Australian bayonets, (Pointing towwda OoastautiJuml*

j THE GUNS. I Thick-lipped and cold, cruel and menacing, are the guns of Anzac. Deathdealing monsters are they, heartless and vindictive, but, oh! liow we soldiers love them! For they are our very best friends; lield guns, mountain guns and howitzerß. We know, when the German and 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 trendies, but we know our guns and our gunnore, and that is enough. We lie low while the artillery duel rages overhead, and the echoing hills reverberate with the thunderous roar of battle. So cunningly concealed are our guns, witli such acumen have our emplacement* been selected and built, that Tommy Turk is continually guessing. His shells search the hills and the valleys in vain. IBs 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 Are like fury till the Hun cries "hold!"