The Horizon (1993) (15 page)

Soutter said, ‘The marines
must
be supported, sir. They’ve been in action almost without a break since
Impulsive
’s landing parties were massacred. These are not seasoned soldiers – by rights they should be in Port Said continuing their training, doing guard-duty on the Canal.’

Purves glared at the
Impulsive
. Smoke was drifting from her wounds as well as from her funnels. ‘Do you think I don’t know? As far as I can tell it’s the first ridge on the left front of our positions which is the real threat. That’s where the snipers and enemy machine-gunners are. Our marines cannot advance while that ridge is in Turkish hands.’ He waved vaguely at the two blackened muzzles immediately below the bridge. ‘Our guns could wipe them out in a single day if we could stand closer inshore. Their heavy artillery has put paid to that!’

Soutter’s glance fell on the navigator as he entered more calculations in his log.

He could find no fault with the admiral’s comment. To order the gunnery officer to open fire at a more realistic range, perhaps ten or twelve thousand yards, was like passing a sentence of death on the marines as well. No range-finder was that accurate, especially when the guns had to fire into rugged territory which was poorly described on the chart.

He said bluntly, ‘Well, sir, they won’t be able to hold on much longer. The Australian 4th Brigade can offer some support but they are hard-pressed, too. The Royal Marine Brigade on the other beach has had so many casualties I think they may be withdrawn for regrouping at Mudros.’

Purves turned and gazed at him calmly. ‘You always were a canny dog, Soutter. You show an excellent grasp of the facts, but you manage somehow to avoid the one true issue.’

Soutter met his eyes with equal hostility. ‘I imagine that, as we are in command of this inshore squadron, the admiral has put the decision in your hands, sir?’

Purves did not reply directly. He appeared to be watching their nearest escort, a small destroyer regularly deluged with spray as she zig-zagged abeam of her massive consort.

‘Lieutenant-Colonel Waring is a very experienced officer.’

Soutter wondered how he would present it if the worst happened.
If?
There was little doubt now. He thought of the grave-faced R.M.A. captain, the one officer who had given heart to the inexperienced marines. Was he still alive? Soutter had seen the wounded for himself. Left
too long without proper dressings or water: men and boys driven to the edge of despair and anguish and then beyond even that.

And their own captain of marines, Bruce Seddon, who enjoyed playing whist with the commander: what of him?

He said, ‘I was not impressed with Colonel Waring, sir.’

‘I have known him for some years.’ Purves sounded less certain. ‘A fine record.’

‘He has no experience of a war like this.’ Soutter added bitterly, ‘Who has? I am not suggesting that Colonel Waring lacks courage. At Omdurman or Trafalgar I am certain he would have distinguished himself.’

Purves tugged his cap over his eyes and said angrily, ‘I didn’t make the damned rules. I don’t suppose anyone in England cares a jot for this campaign in any case. Damned civilians – they want to be safe behind their fighting men. I’ve no time for them!’

Soutter thought of his quarters down aft, of the clean bunk where Colonel Ede had found peace for the first time since the landings at Gaba Tepe. Those hard-won beaches had already been rechristened by the army and were now called Anzac Cove, a name written in blood.

Just to lie there for a while without every eye on the bridge upon him; to drink too much like the red-faced man who was now sitting carelessly in his chair. As soon as he thought of it he knew he would do neither.

Purves muttered, ‘There’s another R.M. battalion on its way to support Waring. If we waited one more day,
two at the most, the new battalion would relieve them, at least to get some rest.’

Soutter almost felt sorry for him. Almost. ‘We can’t afford it, sir. If the Turks overrun those positions it would take an army corps to fight its way back. Even then they might be repelled.’

Purves pulled out his watch and beckoned to his flag-lieutenant, who was hovering nearby.

‘Warn the wireless office. Signal to the Flag, coded and Top Secret.’

Soutter walked to the gratings and climbed up to obtain a better view of the shore. Even above the noise of his ship’s fans and a winch near Y Turret, he could still hear the far-off clatter of machine-guns and dull explosions, guns or bombs he could not tell. There was so much haze and smoke it seemed the whole coastline was smouldering. He heard Purves dictating the signal, his voice quite empty. Very soon now that smouldering would burst into flames.

Tomorrow the ships would repeat their bombardments, each to her allotted sector, but the shells would be at extreme range to fall on the enemy’s support lines or reinforcements on the march. And this time there would be no need to avoid the one ridge ahead of Waring’s men, because by then the marines would have stormed and seized it, or they would all be dead.

He glanced curiously at the marine bugler who was always in attendance: one of
Reliant
’s own detachment which was over there somewhere in the smoke. Then, angry at himself and ashamed at the intrusion, he looked away. The youth was standing rigidly at his position but
he had heard Purves dictate the signal and his eyes were shining with tears, which he made no attempt to staunch.

Soutter seemed to hear the words he had read at the last Divisions before leaving Mudros, as if someone else were speaking them aloud on the bridge.

And there shall be no more death, neither sorrow nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away . . .

Lieutenant-Colonel Jack Waring glanced around the command dugout, the cave now hated by everyone who visited it. In the flickering light from the small lamp his eyes shone like stones as he watched his companions. They looked as if they would drop once they found somewhere to sit or lie down. Their eyes were staring, and flickered with alarm at each unusual sound, the far-off crack of a sniper’s rifle or the thud of a grenade on the northern sector of the cove where Australians and New Zealanders were still holding out.

Jonathan Blackwood sipped a cup of brackish water but barely tasted it. The attacks had continued for most of the day, as soon as the big warships had retired out of range of the Turkish guns. The Turks had come across the dusty landscape in yelling waves, to be met by the company’s murderous machine-gun fire and the endless bark of rifles. Each time the enemy had retired, leaving piles of dead and wounded, and each time the marines, gasping from thirst and exhaustion, had prayed it was the last.

Then, just before dusk had drawn its copper glow over the ravines and gullies, they had attacked once more. At
the critical moment one of the machine-guns on the left flank had jammed, and even as a corporal had rushed to clear the stoppage a grenade had exploded in the trench. The place had been too confined to allow the crude bomb its full effect, but the explosion had killed Second Lieutenant Dane of the second platoon and five other marines, who had been ripped apart in the blast. Jonathan had recalled the Australian captain’s warning and had yelled, ‘On the parapet, lads! Fight them off!’

And in the light of an early flare and the dull copper sky, the marines had scrambled up from the firestep and onto the parapet, firing blindly through the smoke, until with their magazines empty they had faced the enemy for the first time, bayonet to bayonet. Anger mixed with fear was a terrible combination, and when the Turks had broken under the ferocity of the defenders’ steel, some of the marines would have chased after them, their minds unhinged by the pain and savagery of battle.

All told they had lost twenty men and two officers including the luckless Cripwell. The remainder were barely able to stand and stared at the lip of the trench; they no longer wondered how they would die, only when.

Waring said crisply, ‘A bad day, but it might have been worse. I have had a message from the beach. More boats will be attempting to land supplies and ammunition tonight. With luck some of the wounded can be taken off too.’ He looked at their dulled expressions. Captain Seddon of
Reliant
’s marines had his wrist in a sling, after seizing a Turkish bayonet to ward it off while he waved an empty, useless revolver. Livesay’s head
was in his hands, his fingers dark with dried blood, his breathing heavy and painful.

Young Tarrier was peering at a map, but stopped when Waring said, ‘We are getting support in twenty-four hours, from the new Royal Marines division at Mudros. The Australians will also send fresh troops once they have regrouped.’

They all looked as Tarrier asked hoarsely, ‘But how can we hold on, sir?’

Waring eyed him with cold dislike. ‘We must defend our sector of the beach until we are relieved.
Hold the line
. There is no alternative course open. We have the sea at our backs, and few would survive retreat once the enemy retook this defence line.’

Livesay said wearily, ‘It can’t be done.’

Waring snapped, ‘And what do you think, Captain Blackwood?’

Jonathan glanced at the lamp’s flickering, smoking wick. What a story this cave could tell. One day.

‘The fleet can’t drive the Turks off that ridge without causing heavy casualties amongst our men. No naval gun is that accurate. We need a proper system of spotters ashore.’ He tried to clear his brain. What was he saying? It no longer mattered. At daylight the enemy would attack again, knowing that the defenders could not survive another day. The lucky ones would die instantly. The others, like the man he could hear sobbing and pleading outside in the trench, would linger, alive and aware. He had lost a hand and a foot when the grenade had exploded. Better he had died: his pitiful cries for help were having a damaging effect on his listless companions.

Waring touched his moustache. ‘Suppose we commanded that ridge?’

Jonathan said, ‘Is that what
they
expect, sir?’

Waring shrugged. ‘Something of that sort. If we took it we could prevent frontal attacks and allow the squadron to concentrate their fire on the enemy support lines.’ One hand tapped impatiently on the stained map.

Jonathan said slowly, ‘Eight hundred yards across open ground, and then up to the top.’ The others were watching his lips as if they had all gone suddenly deaf. ‘The Turks haven’t attacked us at night.’ His mind was grappling with the immediate problem. He had witnessed it in France: the night raids, unlike any field training or staff college, unlike anything orderly or civilised. Grim-faced Tommies arming themselves with sharpened entrenching tools, knives and nail-studded clubs. They had become part of the mud and dirt that were a soldier’s lot. Methodically, ruthlessly, and without hope, they had gone out under the flares and through the wires to extend their positions, to kill or to die.

‘If there was a diversion . . .’

Waring’s eyes glittered from either cheek. ‘The boats coming into the cove – they’ll provide a tempting bait.’

Major Livesay seemed to emerge from his despair like an angry bear. ‘Bait, sir? Sacrifice our own people?’

Jonathan rubbed his own reddened eyes. ‘It’s our only chance. Choice does not come into it.’ He did not look at Waring: he knew the triumph he would see there. Even in the face of death Waring would not alter.

Waring said, ‘That’s settled then. Pity we’ve no light machine-guns, but once our people are in position a
party can carry one of the others up to the ridge. That’ll dampen their fires a bit if their flank is under our guns for a change!’

Major Livesay said dully, ‘I shall go, sir. I’ll take only volunteers.’

Waring was already studying the map. ‘You will detail the
right men
, Livesay. Volunteers are not always the best material.’ He glanced up and gave the major a twisted smile. ‘Besides, if you rely on volunteers, you’ll likely be tackling the ridge on your own!’

He gave his humourless braying laugh, which brought an instant response of shrill curses from the dying man outside.

‘Keep him quiet, somebody.’ Waring looked at Tarrier. ‘I want a runner sent to the beach with a message to be transmitted to the ships. Pick a good man. I don’t want him down there in the gully with all the other corpses!’

Jonathan found that he could watch the colonel without anger, and it surprised him. The navy had been requested to perform this thing, and Waring, the callous, arrogant bastard that he was, would carry it out, no matter what.

Waring added as an afterthought, ‘As second-in-command I think . . .’ His glance fell on Captain Seddon who was rocking quietly back and forth and holding his bayoneted hand. ‘On second thought.’ He smiled at Jonathan. ‘You go. As a gunner you might be of some use up there, what?’

Jonathan shrugged. ‘Who else, sir?’

Waring frowned at his abruptness. ‘Lieutenants Maxted and Wyke. Pick the N.C.O.’s yourself.’

Livesay lurched to his feet. ‘
I’ll
deal with that.’ He hesitated by the blanket curtain and said, ‘What time shall we move out, sir?’ His face was stiff. A man already dead, Jonathan thought. He was married, with two boys who would doubtless end up in the Corps. But at this moment his family would still believe him to be safely in Egypt with nothing more dangerous than the mosquitoes to deal with.

‘Report to me when you’re ready.’

Waring watched him leave and remarked, ‘I suppose that’s why he was given a company of green recruits!’ Waring’s M.O.A. entered and after searching through a heavy pack produced a full bottle of White Horse. ‘Drink, Blackwood?’

Jonathan would have given almost anything for a glass of Scotch. He seemed to hear Harry Payne’s voice in his ear.
You don’t need it, sir. Not like some
. He heard himself reply, ‘Later, sir. When it’s done.’

He walked out into the darkness and watched another flare light up the gullies where the sunset had disappeared.

He heard voices calling faintly from the long slope of no man’s land which separated their shallow defences from the nearest ridge; men dying even while he stood there. As some of his own had done. Thankfully they had managed to recover their bodies from in front of the trench. God alone knew when – or if – they could ever be buried. If you showed your head for more than a few seconds you were dead.