Pine last night. Then, presently, the Turks (game men) sneaked right up to the trenches and slung in half a dozen bombs. They were “duds.” Instead of relighting them and throwing them back as our boys generally do, the bombs were allowed to lie there until morning, and then examined. The fuses were instantaneous. If our chaps had put a match to them they would have instantly been blown to pieces. So Johnny Turk was “had.”
Afternoon—I’ve just been indulging in a duel with a Turk, shot for shot. I’d fire, and the dust would fly up against his loophole. Then slowly and cautiously the tiny circle of light on the trench parapet which was Johnny’s loophole would fill up with half his square, grim face. Watching like a cat watching a distant mouse-hole I’d see his rifle-muzzle slowly poke through the loophole, then a spurt of smoke with the crack—ping! and his bullet would plonk into the sandbag above my loophole. Then my turn. I’d wait with my rifle-sights levelled evenly at that distant tell-tale gleam of light, then immediately it was blotted out by his cautious face, I’d fire. Instantly he would duck. And vice versa, and so on. It was thrilling I waited for each of my turns with every sense keyed to concert pitch, thrilled through and through. No doubt Johnny the Turk felt the same. I tried to kill him, and he tried to kill me. Yet we have never seen one another and never will.
...Our regimental trench system is called Chatham’s Post. ... I wish there was not so much night work—the sleeplessness is cruel. ... A few evenings ago, some of the 6th Light Horse off duty were amusing themselves by playing Two-up behind the trenches. The Turks started shelling them, but the Two-up enthusiasts took no notice until presently a shrapnel bowled over three of them. So they picked up their wounded and retired casually into their dugouts, one of the wounded men arguing volubly that he had won the last toss.
7
August 31st—On outpost duty last night. The Turks were quiet. Our lively mascot far down on the black sea flashed a searchlight on to the Twin Trenches and Balkan Gun pits, blazed away with her snappy guns, then vanished into the night. ... Outpost work is a bit nervy, waiting for Turks to arise up out of the dark and jab you with bayonets. My blooming leg ached last night. ... Just had a delicious wash, the first for four days. I wish there was time to wash clothes, the lice are awful. I’m sick of cracking the rows of dirty white eggs along the seams of the trousers. Getting the water for our wash was humorous. To see Gus Gaunt running naked from the beach, trying not to spill a bucket of water while Turkish bullets hastened his feet, was really moving—likewise his language.
Evening—There has been desultory firing all day. Bursts of machine-gun bullets, odd shells coming with a roar, the usual bullets pinging and zipping around. The guns at present sound exactly like rumbling thunder. Johnny the Turk got two bullets fair into my loophole this morning, his shooting is improving. ... The taube is buzzing overhead.
September 1st—Last night the machine-gun and rifle fire roared as it rolled away down towards the left flank. Our little destroyer was exceptionally cocky.
All was quite dark when suddenly the Balkan Gun pits opposite were illuminated with ghastly clearness. From our shadowed trenches we distinctly saw the spurts of dust as our bullets struck the Turkish sandbags. A sharp bang! hang! bang! bang! slapped across the water. The Balkan Pits were struck by bursting stars of flame which flung sandbags, dust, and cloudy smoke into the air to drift away through the dazzling light. Then instant darkness, bringing a vengeful volley of rifle-fire with hundreds of bullets pinging into our parapet. But our heads were well below ground by then. It must be galling to Johnny Turk to have his parapets blown to dust while we joyously blaze at him and he dare not show up to fire back in return. Then, when all is “quiet” he has to work feverishly throughout the night to rebuild his parapet. And last night before dawn the destroyer came again and blew his new parapet to smithereens. His trench is now in ruins, and he daren’t rise to fire a shot.
...Another “stunt” to-night is rumoured. A “stunt” means a raid. A line of men with bombs dangling from their belts and armed otherwise with any lethal weapon they fancy, creep over the parapet and snake their way down the hill-slope, followed by more men with fixed bayonets. They creep ever closer towards the Turkish trenches and if they do not run into an enemy patrol or meet a sudden volley of machine-gun fire they get right to the parapet and hurl in their bombs. Following the explosives they and the bayonet men, with mad yells, jump down into the fume-filled trench and kill every Turk they can. They then rush back hell for leather to our own trench.
Our crowd have raided before, generally losing a few men. But now Johnny is awake to the joke and has all sorts of jokes of his own awaiting the raiding parties. So any man due for a raid, cannot help wondering whether he will see another dawn.
The “Old Bird” is a holy terror in these raids. He’s only an exceptionally small chap and no youth either, but he is about the most murderous old devil in the regiment. He leads these raids with a hell of a yell as he jumps down into the trench, blazing to right and left with a sawn-off shotgun. An ordinary service revolver is no good to him.
The big Heads confiscated his little toy though; he blew a Turk’s head clean off his shoulders and that wound put the show away. The Turkish Heads complained. It appears that through some international law or other a sawn-off shotgun is not allowed as a “weapon of war.” The major is bitterly peeved.
...Heavy gun-fire comes rolling over the sea from Cape Belles. To-day is simply routine. A shower of shrapnel for breakfast. Then Johnny Turk behind his loophole, we behind ours, shot for shot. Johnny got one of the new 11th Light Horsemen last night.
...Sometimes Johnny is daring and dangerously cunning. Out of our loopholes and through artillery telescopes two of us are now watching five little pieces of dried-up bush away out in No Man’s land. Telescopes are deadly aids. Behind that, oh so natural-looking, little bush is a “fox” hole which Johnny has dug in the night and painstakingly carried the tell-tale earth away. There are quite a number of these inconspicuous holes, artfully hidden by the bushes that cover the ground in front of his trench. Lying snug in the hole we are now watching is Johnny, his rifle poked through his bush. Thus, when he does fire, the momentary puff of smoke will be hidden. Ah, but we have patience—and our powerful telescopes show us even the wee black hole of his rifle-muzzle. I am putting the diary down now, for I am going to let the light in through my loophole and slowly pass a piece of bag behind it. Then, when Johnny fires at the supposed face, my mate—
...We have got Johnny.
September 2nd—Had a rest in the support trenches last night. It was great. Loused all my clothes. These woolly socks with a lot of fluff on them are favoured by the lice for laying eggs. But they like the seams of the trousers best. Warm, I suppose. A man is only a blooming incubator for them ... The stunt for last night was declared off. ... In a charge, the 1st Light Horse lost a lot of men. Their wounded lay in front of the trenches for days and could not be brought in. Two wounded men in particular were lying close to the Turkish parapet. Five of their mates went out to get them but were shot. One man managed to crawl back after two nights and a day, and told how the Turks had thrown biscuits and water-bottles out to them. The other man lay there for four days and wrote with charcoal on a board that he was hit by the cap of a shell and unable to move. But they could not get him. One morning he had disappeared. The Turks must have taken him into their trench. ... Desultory firing all along the line. Shrapnel has just killed one of the 6th Light Horse machine-gunners and wounded one of our own gunners. Several of the cruisers are roaring away down on the bay. Their heavy naval shells are surging overhead with the roar of an express train. Muffled thunder of many guns is continuous away down on the left flank. The Tommies down there are nearly all new hands, poor chaps. The bomb fighting is killing them.
Afternoon—Poor Bates is shot. Poor old Bates. He came over with me only a few days ago in the Huntsend. He had been wounded during the big stunt on the 28th of June. He was water-carrying this afternoon. The bullet smashed through the water-tins and pierced his stomach, I hope he will not die. It is uncannily strange, but all the men of our regiment who have been wounded and returned, have been shot again within a few days of their return. All the regiment is remarking on it. Bates is a real merry, decent little Australian.
Evening—Poor