A WHITE-MAN TURK.

Taranaki Daily News, 10 May 1916, Page 2

A WHITE-MAN TURK.

AN ANZAC INCIDENT. (By "Pah" in Auckland Herald). Tin- burning Anzao sun hung midway in tin; heavens when consciousness returned to me. My head seemed bursting with all the fearful piercing pains that man could suffer. My parched, swollen lips could not frame words, simply emitting awful, pain-wrung sounds. Living white-hot fires burned all about and over me—no turning, no writhing could escape the searing heat. I screamed in agony, a death-cry of despair; the effort, which calmed my deliriousness somewhat, brought my elusive consciousness to a steadier state —I realised where I was. It ivas at ten o'clock that morning that order;- had come that a general Are attack was to be made on the Turkish trenches at Anzac in order to draw in end hold there large, fresh Turkish reinforcements, which were on their way to Aehi Baba. Only the Autralian at Lcue Pine Ridge were to leave their trenches, and they were to advance but Ijalf-'way towards those of the enemy, firing vigorously till word was given to retire. How we had laughed and rejoiced at the plan! What a bit of fun to make Johnny Turk think we were at him again, and then, after thoroughly scaring him, to return to our trenches for lunch! We were really anxious for the word to start.

WOUNDED AND ALONE. These flies are torturing me; they are three or four deep fighting savagely to get under my hand at the wound; they are crawling in my mouth, nose, everywhere, biting with savage fury. I can't endure it; I can't reach my water bottle; my throat and mouth are cruelly sore and swollen, and the thirst is, like fire raging in my vitals. I remember when word was given to advance—those ages ago it we swiftly, joyfully jumped out of our trenches and sped half-way across towards the Turks, who fired at us in a mad panicky frenzy, their machine guns belching forth impulsive showers- of leaden death. But we had surprised them, and we reached our objective with only a few casualties. Then we lay an hour in the blazing, scorching -,un, firing spiritedly at the Turkish trenches, at their sandbags, at anything we could see. The Turks got some of us during that hot, trying hour, and suddenly I felt all sense leave me. I slipped close tql the ground an inert, almost lifeless thing. I had been shot in'the head.', BETWEEN THE' TRENCHES. : : Water! Water! . . .1 feel as though this torturing, choking thirst wilt drive me mad. I can't stand it much longer. And perhaps my mates can't hear me, for the wind is blowing frord their trenches inland towards the Turks, I must shout louder. . ".' Water! Help! . ; My throat, my head! Is it possible to suffer like this, and yet live? Here between the trenches, helpless, and living a long, pain-racked death; I lie l at the mercy of flies in myriads, flies persisting, relentless; of a sun just past midday, that scorches my very heart and soul, seeming to sear the marrow in my bones; and with a thirst that is driving me insane. I haven't even the power to end it nil. Left for dead when our boys retired, taking all the wounded with them, what is there before me now? . . i . Help, help!

A TURK TO THE RESCUE. The rifles in our trenches are steadily popping away, and bullets fly only a couple of feet above me. Suddenly a sense of something happening is brought to me by the increase of our fire—rattling, rapid; more rapid, heavier, like swift thunder. My face is towards the Turks, and I see a form from their trenches, bent double, dashing across the open towards we. Has he heard me, and is he coming to r««euc me, or to finish the work the bullet had so nearly done? It doesn't matter; the latter even would be a kindness, which I should welcome with all my heart. I hope he doesn't get hit. Why ever do our boys fire at Mm so? The millets hiss across like a hailstorm; he can't come through it. Why can't they leave him alone? Thank heaven, he is nearly here!. . . Hey} Here! This way!. . . He's heTe; good old Johnny Turk. Wafer, give me water. ... Ah! that's life; that's real life, I've drunk.

CARRIED TO SAFETY. Now, what is he going to do with me?. . . Carefully, Johnny, carefully; mind my head. ... I ant on his shoulders, and I suppose he will dash across to his trenches. Can I bear the shaking, and yet survive! I don't care, anyhow. . . What! No"!. . . He turns and slowly walks towards my own trenches; my own! And ho treads slowly, carefully, as if he were carrying a hurt man on his farm at home. The boys in the trenches can't believe it; they don't shoot, just wait to see what happens, what it all means. When Johnny Turk reaches the trench parapet, and quietly hands me down to my mates, then, along the whole line of Anzac trenches within sight, bursts out real Anzac cheers, cheers from the heart for a man who is a hero, though our enemy. Johnny Turk quietly refused to accept anything from our boys, who wanted to give all they possessed, and with a quiet salute he turned and walked sedately back to his own trench; for the latter part of his way watched in reverent silence till he disappeared from sight in the Turkish trenches. Our boys wouldn't fire a shot for the rest of the clay at-the trench opposite, which held that Johnny Turk—a white man through and through.