Redemption. - Redemption. Part 60
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Redemption. Part 60

The bos'n's whistle pierced the din.

"First wave assemble!"

A large lighter pulled up shipside. Reels of barbed wire, machine-gun ammo, water cans, were lowered and set in the boat.

Major Chris pulled us back away from the railing.

"The Aussies hit heavy resistance yesterday," he said.

"We're pushing up our landing schedule. The Otagos and Wellingtons will hit shore at 0515. Move your time up to 0545."

"How far inland are our people?"

"Don't know. Keep your men as near to the beach as you can. Set up your own perimeter. Landers, Goodwood, you'd better take a light machine-gun squad with you when you go scouting. See you later."

"All right," Jeremy called twenty yards down the deck, "over the side."

"Webbing open! If anything falls off you, let it go."

My lighter signaled they had our gear stowed.

"Let's go, lads!" I called.

Oh Jesus! Two steps down the ladder I got my first true view of the water. It was foaming from shrapnel and bullets! The chop of the water slammed our lighter against the side of the Wagga Wagga. The man below me fell from the ladder and was crushed between the boat and the ship.

"Keep those fucking lines tight against the ship!"

I jumped into the boat, and began pulling men into the lighter and shoving them into their places. Johnny Tarbox was in last. We let go of the ropes and a wave hurled us away from the ship.

As the Wagga Wagga did a sweeping turn and retreated to rendezvous with the other troopships, a dozen destroyers bore down on us and tossed lines to our lighters, then maneuvered so that we were behind them. Our destroyer, HMS Greenport, was already towing a pair of pontoon piers. With a group of lighters hooked onto her stern, the Greenport waited for the remaining destroyers to ready their tows, and we all moved in a deliberate line for the shore.

The wake from the destroyers, the shells, and a sea gone angry rolled and pitched us without mercy. Vomiting broke out.

"Puke between your legs!"

Suddenly our line moved underneath the curtain of smoke and there she was, Gallipoli! My first reaction was, it was like New Zealand in a drought season. Rolling hills and...

Our boat went into shock as everybody dove to the bottom. As we inched toward land the racket grew. Now the Greenport and other destroyers dropped anchor and began slamming shells into the hills.

We needed to transfer one more time, from the lighters into lifeboat-size skiffs. Fortunately the lighter was higher than the boats and we could hurl ourselves over.

Johnny pointed. "That's the first wave, Rory. The Otagos. They're ashore!"

I saw Subaltern Richards, our platoon commander, working his way to the back of our boat. Shrapnel had torn off his arm and part of his shoulder. How in the hell he remained conscious I don't know. There was no place to put a tourniquet on him. He'd be gone in a few minutes.

"Platoon Serjeant Amberson has my command," he said, and he went down fast, twitched, screamed, and was still.

"Take off his pips, half his identification tag. Get his wallet to send home," Johnny said in utter calm.

Chester did what Johnny ordered as I called for Platoon Serjeant Amberson to show his hand. He signaled back that he was in control up front.

"A couple of you grab his legs," Johnny said, reaching under Subaltern Richards's remaining shoulder. "All right, lads, heave him over the side."

I wiped Richards's blood off my field glasses. The Otago Battalion was moving inland! All morning all I could think of was getting on land, but now I was consumed with a vague notion that time might suddenly stand still and a voice from the sky might order us back to the Wagga Wagga and we would sail away....

Time seemed to flee. 0542.

Johnny jabbed me in the ribs and smiled.

"Rowers! Man your oars!"

Our wave of some fifty boats grunted forward from a half-mile out. Oarsmen rotated, sweated, cursed. The racket of gunfire was so overwhelming we had to depend on hand signals. Come on, get this fucker on land!

"YOOOOWWWW!"

JESUS! SOMETHING LIKE TO TORE MY HEAD OFF! BLOOD AND OTHER STUFF SHOWERED ME! I instinctively felt myself frantically. Nothing hurt, nothing burned. I could move my arms and legs, but I was awash in blood and...and...BRAINS! My face! My face! It was all there. My chest, fine! NO! NO! The top of Johnny Tarbox's head was gone.

I don't know what happened to me then...I was almost blacked out...I heard vague distant voices.

"Cut off his pips...get his identification tag...."

"Empty his pockets."

"All right, lads, heave him over the side."

I was hurtling down into a hole and very sleepy. Something hurt me. A sharp blow to my face! Someone was shaking me, screaming at me. My eyes crawled open.

Chester stood over me. He had me by the lapels and he came slowly into focus, slapping my face and jostling me with all his might.

"Snap out of it, Rory!" he screamed.

"What...what...?"

"Goddamn you, Rory. Get yourself together. We've got work to do."

I groped for him and hung on to him for dear life, but he shoved me off. A soldier behind him handed him a bucket of seawater, which he poured on me, and then another.

"Johnny!" I screamed, "Johnny! Johnny! Johnny!"

"Johnny Tarbox is dead! What is my name? Tell me my name!"

"Johnny..."

"Fuck, I'm not Johnny. He's dead, Rory. Tell me my name, you son of a bitch!"

"Chester," I whimpered. "Chester Targood..."

"That's not my fucking name!"

I dropped my face into my hands, but he grabbed me by the hair. "What's my name, you no good asshole? Tell me my name."

"Subaltern Chester Goodwood, Seventh New Zealand Light Horse."

"Where are we?"

"Gallipoli."

"What's your job!"

"Soon as we get our people ashore and unloaded and join up with Jeremy...he'll secure a perimeter and we'll find a paddock and stake it out."

"Who's running this half of the platoon?"

"Platoon Serjeant...Amberson...up front...I'm all right now, Chester."

"Where are we?"

"Heading into Brighton Beach. Jeremy's boat is a little behind us. Send Johnny's pips and pistol up front to the Amberson lad."

"Look at me," he demanded.

I did and assured him I was on "go."

"Give me Johnny's pips and pistol. I'll take them up front," I said. "I'm going ashore first with a squad. You take the rest of the lads, unload, and hang out near the beach."

"Don't go too far inland," Chester said.

"Take the semaphore flags out of my pack," I said. "By the sounds of this racket, we're not too far from the front lines. You and Jeremy catch up to me as fast as you can."

I pushed to the front of the boat. Jesus, I was shaky. My head was working but my legs didn't want to mind. I found the Platoon Serjeant.

"What's your name, Serj?"

"Chipper Amberson. Call me Chipper. You're Rory Landers. I saw you destroy the Aussie at Port Albany."

"Well, he's on our side now. Chipper, you hang back on the beach with Chester back there, the kid with the glasses. Get the boat unloaded and hold. Now, I need the light machine gun with me. I'm going a little inland."

"Corporal O'Rourke!"

"Here."

"Bring your squad in with Lieutenant Landers."

"Righto."

The boat banged into land, throwing us awry.

"Over the side!"

Shit, we were waist-deep in water. I assembled O'Rourke and his three lads and looked back at the boat just in time to see Chipper Amberson ripped open by machine-gun bullets. He went under with the boat cracking him and then a blob of red pushing up from the sea. God Almighty. He was an officer for three minutes, maybe.

Chester was at my side and told me he had control. I waved for Corporal O'Rourke and his lads to follow.

I could see Chester turning command over to a warrant officer and then running down the beach waving Jeremy's boat in.

OH DEAR GOD IN HEAVEN!.

For the first time in years, Mary's name came to my lips in prayer. Brighton Beach was littered with dead and dying men! There were only a few yards of beach to be had and then a steep uphill climb. The bodies were thick, thick like seagulls after a fishing trawler, dozens, hundreds, lying still or screaming or moaning while others were trying to put on iodine and wrap them up...like...I walked over the beach unable to step between them...sorry, mate...medics will be here soon...sorry, mates...shit, one of my squad went down.

We were in thick, prickly brush five and six feet high. It was no gentle slope, we were fucking going fucking uphill and the brush held dozens and dozens of dead men tangled in it.

I found a concave area big enough to hold the four of us and we huddled in.

"O'Rourke, I'm Rory. We've worked together at Lemnos." Turning to my left, I said, "What's your name, pal?" slapping a young Anzac on the shoulder.

"Happy Stevens from Palmerston North."

"Rory Landers. How many rounds have we got?"

"Two hundred."

"Not enough. Happy, get back to the beach. Find Chester Goodwood."

"Righto."

"We need a box of maybe three or four hundred more rounds. We'll stay right here."

"I'm gone," Happy said as he crouched and dashed for the beach.

"You read a map, O'Rourke?"

"They didn't make me corporal for nothing."

I opened my map. It was sticky with Johnny's blood. I looked uphill. Too steep. Something wrong. I studied the curve of the coastline. The jut of land called Gaba Tepe was nowhere to be seen to the south...but north...a large knob of landfall and then a long, long sweep of coast.

"If this is Brighton Beach I'll kiss your ass at battalion assembly," O'Rourke said.

"North?"

"North," he agreed, "we're north of our beach."

"Looks like they brought us ashore into the middle of the Turkish Army." I cleaned my field glasses. "Dead men as far uphill as I can see." I could make out Otagos pushing toward the Aussie line just beyond my sight. "There's a battle going on up there, maybe a little over a half-mile. The terrain is really dirty," I said, passing the binoculars to O'Rourke.

"Seems like the Turks are above our front line on higher ground and firing into the beach," he said.

"You've got it," I answered. "They're hitting us up here and down there with artillery. We're in a soft spot for now. Jesus, there goes a landing boat...blew it to hell."

I caught a semaphore flag just twenty yards away behind some brush.