The Gallipoli Series
Gallipoli
A Series
This is a new 'book' you could call it, about the tragic Battle of Gallipoli, which has set up a stage for more then one nation in this modern world. This 'book' I am writing is a 'Series' and is a collection of Episodes following the story of one man.
It follows the windy rail of history very closely, and will be better (and shorter) then the long novel of MisGuided Life, and shares little simiarlities. Enjoy these short, but hopefully enjoyable, portrays of soldier life in Gallipoli.
10th Battalion in 1908
Episode One
April 25th 2000
ANZAC Cove
On a ridge in the Dardenalles stood a figure. Not a tall commeorative figure, one of Simpson and his DOnkey, or displaying the courage of the brave soldiers who fought in the small cove tucked away in between two towering ridges, it was a old, hunched figure. In its hand was a walking cane, and from a distance it looked like a rifle, as the sun tried to throw itself into the sky from the rippling sea. This old person bowed their hand then turned slowly and struggled back. Their age represented with their walk, and the tall, straight figure which came hurrying over and grasped the old man's arm tightly, helping him along gently.
They walked on until they walked into a field of small, white, stony momuments. In between these momuments was a diffrent bush, each sporting a diffrent, blossoming flower. The taller figure let the old man go and he waddled slowly over, then pacing in front of them.
"Here!" he moaned gently, and the taller stepped forward slightly.
"This is defintely the one, Dad?" asked the woman, looking down in apparent sadness at the momument.
"Oh yes, this is them..." he replied, looking down at it. A single tear dropped from his face and spashed over it, and the old man dropped poppies onto the grave.
"I'll have never forgotten the names..." He whispered.
April 25th 1915
Gaba Tepe
Swish
Swish
It was that lovely, swishing sound of water. That sound you encounter when you wade into the water. Quite like a fishermans boat, long crafts of wood were now rowing in towards land. There was a long, uneven line of these long crafts all rowing towards the cove. The cove was a mere 600 metres long as calculated by British mathmeaticians. On either side was two, tall ridges. Each ridge was silent, and covered with old scrub and bushes. The beach of this cove was small and comforting. It was something which somehow gave the image of safety to the soldiers waiting nervously in the boats rowing towards this cove.
On one particular rowing boat a single man stood in the mass of soldiers all seated behind him. THis man, with his cap and neat khaki uniform, observed the beach quickly, muttering things which only he could hear before he turned suddenly. He coughed to gain attention.
"Quieten down!" ordered somebody in a strong, but currently quiet tone, "The Captain's talking!" Immediatly the voices stopped and only the soft patting of paddles could be heard.
"Good. Thank you Sergeant." thanked the Captain, but he pushed on before a reply, "Now... you may be wondering what cove this is..." he started,
"Do we need to know the name, sir, aren't we to fight not to learn about geography?" mocked a voice from the back.
"Shut up Pirvate unless you don't like you're head." threatened the Sergeant from near the Captain and glared at the man.
"... this is Gaba Tepe. Before Private Aurey interuptted we are here to take it. Once we've landed on the shore there will be little to no resistance, fortunately. Secure the beachhead and then wait for my commands. Do not proceed behind it and stay together at all times. That is all." FInished the Captain, nodding and then sitting at the front. The Sergeant though walked (As best he could) to the back of the boat where he stood warningly near the Private who yelled out.
"Little resistance?" asked a man near the Sergeant.
"Yes... thats what the Captain says."
"Is there any possibi-!" start the man,
"No, Private Fordham, there is not." snapped the Sergeant. Fordham quietened down, and crawled on his knees to a spare seat where he sat. To his side sat a nervous man with glasses, who was fidgetting with his hands and staring out into the bay.
"Are you okay?' asked Fordham in concern, noticing his pale color.
"No... I mean yes. I expect nothing will happen?" He asked nervously, glancing at Fordham quickly.
"Yes, if there was they surely would've fired by now?" assured the man confidently. He smoothed his creased unfiorm, shouldered his Enfield rifle in a determined way and sighed, waiting. The whole boat jolted as there was a deep, purring rumble to the south and the Captain even stood, frowning and watching, then muttered and sat down unconcerned.
It was then that the moment the nervous, sweaty soldiers had been waiting for happened.
As the neared the beaches and came very close, there was a united, horrible, crack of gunfire. There was the deep boom of cannons and artillery, and the terrible whistle like a kettle as they rounded in from above like some sort of Devil's child. There was suddenly yelling in more then English, and screaming in no recoginisable language.
The water threw itself up, and fell like it was raining as the soldiers aboard the boats either ducked or rose. Private Fordham rose at once, his rifle in hand and a excitied but scared look on his face.
"Row faster!" Fordham cocked his rifle and shot randomly over a soldiers head, while orders were roared athem. A man in front was tipped into the water, struggling with death. Fordham edged forwards, then ducked in nerves. His rifle started shaking not from the shells now ripping up the water around them but nerves. He looked at a neighbouring boat and saw its entire left side suddenly fall like some godly scythe had cut them away from earth. He felt his weight thrown forward as the boat embedded itself into the sand and everyone rose.
And the whistles blew in unison.
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