NO. 3, TABLE TOP AND SUVLA BAY
The Regiment, stretched in close lines on the terraces, slept soundly. For many days ahead there would be little opportunity of resting, and for many there would be but one more sleep. They did not rouse till well after dawn, for there was nothing to do that day but fill in time. Mac again overhauled all his equipment, paying particular attention to his rifle, bayonet and ammunition, seeing that everything was accessible and that all ran smoothly. Then the section rigged a blanket between piled arms, and sat down in its shade for a game of cards. That palled after a time, and Mac drew from his knapsack a book, The Cloister and the Hearth, and was soon deep in its pages. Then came lunch, and in the afternoon orders were read, with inspiring messages from the Generals, and a few words from the C.O.
A few aeroplanes burred overhead, the exchange of firing followed its normal daily course, quieting rather in the heat of midday; but to the waiting troops the long hours dragged. That wonder of what the future held, that ominous quiet before the storm, the preparations for battle—all made the day long.
At last the sun sank behind the rugged islands in a glorious riot of colour, the high eastern hill-tops which should be British by dawn gradually grew black against the appearing stars. The Regiment, water-bottles filled and in final trim, stood leaning on their rifles. Occasionally some one gave a hitch to his gear, others talked in subdued tones, or gazed solemnly out to sea where the black outlines of Imbros and Samothrace stood against the last glow of departing day. At this glorious hour there drifted up from the darkness in the ravine below such a sound as went deep to Mac's heart. Rich in tone, perfect in key, unmarred by a single jarring note, and to the accompaniment of battle sounds above, came the music of the soul, and Mac was awed. It was the chanting of five hundred Maoris and their prayer before this, their first great trial in modern warfare. Upon the next few hours depended the reputation of their race. Would they be worthy of the glorious traditions of their old chiefs?
Then came the word to move, and the Regiment, in single line, filed down the slope and into the main sap to the north. It was already full of troops filing to the attack, but, after many halts and side-trackings, they reached the exit which led to the ravine. Here, at the parting of the ways, stood the fine old padre, and, with a "God bless you, my boy," he shook each by the hand as they passed out to battle.
The several troops of Mac's squadron divided for their various objectives. To his section fell the duty of going up the ravine to cut enemy communication trenches, leading across it to their strong outpost on the ridge above on the left. Magazines were empty, and the orders were that the night's work must be done with the bayonet. The forty silent figures crept up the sharp stony bottom for a short distance, and then halted to await the critical moment of the attack. Then, while they waited, the long white beam from a man-o'-war at sea settled along the ridge on the left and showed the strong wired entrenchments of the outpost. Whir-r-r went a shell overhead, and the first shot of the battle burst in an eruption of black smoke among the Turkish wire.
More followed in rapid succession; but the first shot had been the signal for the troop in the defile below to set off at a jog-trot up its murky, twisty depths. They trotted along for five minutes, machine-gun bullets from high above sometimes hitting up small spurts of sand as they doubled round corners. Then, as they suddenly rounded a sharp ridge, a dozen or so rifles burst on them from fifteen paces distant. Some men went down in front of Mac, a cloud of dust sprang up and he stumbled over one of the prone forms. Instantly they were in among them, the terrified Turks shrieked, a few odd shots rang out, Mac killed two with his revolver, and then, with bloody bayonets, shadowy figures emerged from the murky depths of the trench, and passed on to explore the ground beyond. They pushed up through the thick scrub to beneath the outpost where a battle now raged, for the purpose of catching fugitives and preventing reinforcements. But none came, and the troop sat quietly in the scrub awaiting developments. The sound of musketry echoed beautifully across the ravines in the clear stillness of the night.
The Turks were lighting fires in the stunted pine growth a short distance ahead, which lit with a red flickering light the overhanging clay cliffs of Table Top rising sharply at the farther side of the defile. Then the cold white glare of a searchlight settled on its flat top, and in a few minutes heavy howitzer, 18-pounder and naval shells, shrieked overhead and burst, flashing and roaring, on the crest. The overhanging crag, her summit rent by an inferno of shell fire, her inaccessible escarpment lit by the lurid glow of scrub fires, and the fantastic smoke clouds eerily revealed by the searchlight, made altogether a wild night battle scene of weird glory.
The bombardment ceased suddenly, the searchlight switched off, and part of the regiment, who had crawled through the scrub on the more accessible flank during the shelling, successfully rushed the Top. Mac and his mates returned to their first scene of action and continued to guard the communication sap. One or two Turks, who had hidden in the scrub during the mêlée, gave their presence away, yelled with terror and fell dead at the first shot. Poor old Joe, who had been severely wounded by the first fusillade, lay dying, and soon his moans ceased altogether. Others were dead, and some wounded.
About three in the morning they went on again to join the rest of the regiment on Table Top. Struggling up the trench-like bottom of the ravine, through the inky blackness of the thick scrub, they found themselves at length in a cul-de-sac, with clay cliffs on either side. The officer went on to reconnoitre, and then, to the great discomfiture of the forty fellows huddled together in the clay watercourse, a hundred or so Turks put in an appearance on the brink of the steep cliff on the left. Babbling excitedly they looked curiously down on the silent crouching troopers. Trapped, and entirely at the Turks' mercy, Mac momentarily expected annihilation, and wondered vaguely why it did not come. Retreat was hopeless, and he counselled scrambling up the steep bank and attacking them. A tense half hour passed. Then came a guarded whistle from high up on the right, and he heard the faint command from his officer, "Climb up to the right." Quitting the troop, he scrambled up the soft yielding cliff, slid back to the starting point several times, still puzzled why the Turks on the opposite brink did not shoot, and at last found his officer near the top, quite bewildered as to the whereabouts of his men. Mac, exhausted with his exertions, was sent to report the night's events to the Colonel, while his officer returned to guide the others up.