of ammunition. I have a feeling they won’t give up that hill as easily as they did this one.’
After lunch, the battalion formed up just below the crest of the hill. Stephen lay with his men, feeling the heat of the sun through his shirt and weighing his heavy revolver in his hand. Kinsella was grinning at him from a few feet away, his face already burned red by the sun, but the rest of the men seemed distracted. Some of them were looking at the ships in the bay, some at the Munster Fusiliers forming up on the eastern side of the hill. When everybody was in position, a whistle shrilled at the far end of the line and they scrambled out of their trench and set off across the broad grassy saddle.
Even the first few yards seemed harder than the night before, the ground rougher and the going slower. But not a shot was fired, and only the swishing of the long brown grass around their bare knees broke the uneasy silence. Then, when they were about halfway across, the Turks hit them hard. Mortars, artillery, machine guns. Men fell like ninepins and the rest instantly dropped flat, crawling and twisting like rabbits through the grass. Stephen scrambled behind a rock not much bigger than his head, and a bullet cracked into it, fragments flying into his eye. Half-blinded, he looked around for his men; there were khaki lumps scattered through the grass, whether dead or alive he couldn’t tell.
‘Pull back! Pull back!’ he shouted, crawling towards a shallow gully a few yards behind. Bullets were whipping through the grass and it was a queer feeling to be crawling like that, head down, back exposed. Then he slid into the gully and found it already full of men cowering down under the solid thatch of bullets snapping overhead.
‘Don’t just lie there!’ he burst out, unsettled by the fear that was plain on their faces, ‘Shoot back! Fire, for Christ’s sake!’ And he snatched up a rifle from a wounded man, drove home the bolt and emptied the magazine at Green Hill. He couldn’t see a thing, but it had the desired effect. Stung into action, the men followed his lead and soon they were lining the edge of the gully, shouting and cursing and blazing away.
If it was only bravado, at least it distracted them from the danger they were in. Their shelter wasn’t more than a foot deep and every inch of it was covered in khaki; some men living, some dead, many wounded. One shell in there would kill them all, but they were pinned down and they would be cut to pieces if they tried to get back to their trenches on Chocolate Hill. Their only chance was another naval bombardment to give them cover, but they might all be dead before anybody thought of that.
‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph. It’s on fire,’ Kinsella shouted in his ear, and he pointed to the right.
‘What?’ Stephen was in the middle of reloading a magazine and found the brass cartridges greasy and slippery with sweat. It didn’t help that his hands were shaking.
‘The grass is after catching fire. Look!’
His eyes followed the pointing hand towards the centre of the saddle. The Turks had concentrated their mortar and artillery fire there, and some of the shells had set the dry grass on fire. Fanned by the hot wind, the flames were spreading quickly, covering everything with thick smoke. Stephen watched with a mixture of dread and hope. If the flames spread over here they would be cooked alive. On the other hand, the wind was blowing the smoke in this direction. He waited, waited, watching the black pall spread across the spotless blue sky, and then scrambled to his feet.
‘Fall back,’ he shouted, and he could hardly see the men in front as they ran through the smoke. In minutes they were back in their own lines, Turkish bullets flying high and wide. Small comfort to the hard-pressed men, most of them terrified and shaking. It took grim determination to pull together the remains of his platoon and make them dig in and prepare for a Turkish counterattack. After half
After lunch, the battalion formed up just below the crest of the hill. Stephen lay with his men, feeling the heat of the sun through his shirt and weighing his heavy revolver in his hand. Kinsella was grinning at him from a few feet away, his face already burned red by the sun, but the rest of the men seemed distracted. Some of them were looking at the ships in the bay, some at the Munster Fusiliers forming up on the eastern side of the hill. When everybody was in position, a whistle shrilled at the far end of the line and they scrambled out of their trench and set off across the broad grassy saddle.
Even the first few yards seemed harder than the night before, the ground rougher and the going slower. But not a shot was fired, and only the swishing of the long brown grass around their bare knees broke the uneasy silence. Then, when they were about halfway across, the Turks hit them hard. Mortars, artillery, machine guns. Men fell like ninepins and the rest instantly dropped flat, crawling and twisting like rabbits through the grass. Stephen scrambled behind a rock not much bigger than his head, and a bullet cracked into it, fragments flying into his eye. Half-blinded, he looked around for his men; there were khaki lumps scattered through the grass, whether dead or alive he couldn’t tell.
‘Pull back! Pull back!’ he shouted, crawling towards a shallow gully a few yards behind. Bullets were whipping through the grass and it was a queer feeling to be crawling like that, head down, back exposed. Then he slid into the gully and found it already full of men cowering down under the solid thatch of bullets snapping overhead.
‘Don’t just lie there!’ he burst out, unsettled by the fear that was plain on their faces, ‘Shoot back! Fire, for Christ’s sake!’ And he snatched up a rifle from a wounded man, drove home the bolt and emptied the magazine at Green Hill. He couldn’t see a thing, but it had the desired effect. Stung into action, the men followed his lead and soon they were lining the edge of the gully, shouting and cursing and blazing away.
If it was only bravado, at least it distracted them from the danger they were in. Their shelter wasn’t more than a foot deep and every inch of it was covered in khaki; some men living, some dead, many wounded. One shell in there would kill them all, but they were pinned down and they would be cut to pieces if they tried to get back to their trenches on Chocolate Hill. Their only chance was another naval bombardment to give them cover, but they might all be dead before anybody thought of that.
‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph. It’s on fire,’ Kinsella shouted in his ear, and he pointed to the right.
‘What?’ Stephen was in the middle of reloading a magazine and found the brass cartridges greasy and slippery with sweat. It didn’t help that his hands were shaking.
‘The grass is after catching fire. Look!’
His eyes followed the pointing hand towards the centre of the saddle. The Turks had concentrated their mortar and artillery fire there, and some of the shells had set the dry grass on fire. Fanned by the hot wind, the flames were spreading quickly, covering everything with thick smoke. Stephen watched with a mixture of dread and hope. If the flames spread over here they would be cooked alive. On the other hand, the wind was blowing the smoke in this direction. He waited, waited, watching the black pall spread across the spotless blue sky, and then scrambled to his feet.
‘Fall back,’ he shouted, and he could hardly see the men in front as they ran through the smoke. In minutes they were back in their own lines, Turkish bullets flying high and wide. Small comfort to the hard-pressed men, most of them terrified and shaking. It took grim determination to pull together the remains of his platoon and make them dig in and prepare for a Turkish counterattack. After half
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