The Irish troops were greatly harassed by the enemy's sharpshooters. These snipers assumed all sorts of disguises and occupied every conceivable hiding place—up in the dwarf oak trees, lying prone in the scrub thickets, down in the rocks of the gullies—so that it was very difficult to spot them. Among those discovered was a peasant woman—the wife of a Turkish soldier—who lived with her old mother and her child in a little house near the Irish lines. She was a fine shot, and apparently confined her attention to stragglers, whose bodies she rifled; for several identification discs and a large sum of money were found in her possession. The daring and resource of the sharpshooters made them a deadly peril. One man caught in a tree wore a head covering and cloak formed of leaves. Another was found in a khaki uniform, stripped from a dead British soldier. The most perplexing feature of the sniping was that shots often came from the scrub behind. One of the victims of these tactics was Lieutenant E.M. Harper, of the 7th Royal Munster Fusiliers, who, while advancing with his company on August 9th, fell from a rifle shot fired from the rear.
The men of all the Irish battalions suffered from this game of hide-and-seek with death as they lay in the trenches on Dublin Hill. Relief came to them in the early hours of the morning of Friday, August 13th. They left at 1.30, and marched seven miles to a rest camp in a gully of Karakol Dagh running down to the Gulf of Saros, which they reached at 4.30, and a footsore, sleepy, haggard, unkempt, bedraggled, hairy, unwashed, and unshaven crowd they were. They owed this bivouac to the success of the Munsters and Royal Irish Regiment in expelling the Turks from part of the ridge. When dismissed in the camp every man, officer and private alike, flung himself down in the open where he was and as he was, and had his first undisturbed sleep for a week. In the morning they had the luxurious experience of getting out of their clothes and plunging into the sea. How they revelled in it, after that awful week of forced marches, battle, flies, smoke, stench, and sweat! What laughter and splashing! The shouts and the merry jests and their accents made the scene just such a one as might be witnessed at home in a swimming pool under Howth or Bray Head.
Afterwards the chief desire of all was to write home. As the men lay almost naked on the warm sands, under the scorching sun, many a letter was written to loved ones in Ireland, each telling how he got safely through his baptism of fire—the best news he could possibly send—and what a grand name his battalion had made for itself. Words of comfort and cheer are freely used in such of the letters as have been made public. "I'm happier than ever I was; it's just the sort of life I like." "You can't realise what high spirits I am in when I'm fighting. I feel as if it were all one long exciting Rugger match." "Don't you fret, I'll get through it all right; and even if I fall, sure we'll all meet again in the next world after a few brief years."
To call the camp a "rest" camp is, perhaps, a misnomer. It certainly afforded no refuge from the flies. "There is a fellow near me doing nothing but killing them in millions," writes one of the Dublins. "I had ten in a mug of tea as soon as it was handed to me," says another. This place of shelter was not safe even from the Turkish guns. As many as twenty-five men were knocked out by a shell. But such as the camp was, the stay of the Irish in it was very brief indeed. On the morning of Sunday, August 15th, they were ordered to take up positions on the ridge above them, and wait for the word to go forward and attack. Though "burned like a red herring, and just as thin and thirsty," as one of the officers of the 7th Dublins said, describing himself and giving a comic picture of them all, they were again in good physical condition. And they had need to be. For they were now assigned a task that was to demand of them more fortitude and resolution and a bigger toll of life than even the taking of Dublin Hill.
It was fortunate, then, that on that very Sunday, August 15th, the great Irish Catholic festival of Our Lady's Day, the Catholic members of the forces were able to reinforce themselves with that sustaining power which the Mass and Holy Communion impart. The services were held by Father W. Murphy, one of the chaplains, under the sheltering hill, in the open air, not only within sound of the guns, but within sight of the bursting shells. It was a rudely improvised altar—a stone laid on trestles, a crucifix, and two candles—and the priest in his khaki service uniform under the vestments. Many of the men thought of the village chapel at home on that fine Sunday morning. They saw the congregation, all in their Sunday best, gathered outside, and while waiting for the bell to stop, exchanging gossip about the war, and inquiring of one another what was the latest from the Dardanelles, about Tom, and Mike, and Joe. The familiar scene was distinct to their mind's eye, and their beating hearts kept time to the measured tones of the chapel bell. After the Mass they were given the General Absolution. "It was very impressive," says Sergeant Losty, of the 6th Dublins, "to see Father Murphy standing out on the side of the hill, and all the battalions, with their helmets off and holding up their right hands, saying the Act of Contrition and he absolving them."
At this point it is appropriate that I should refer to the cordial and intimate relations which existed between the Protestant and Catholic chaplains of the 10th Division. An officer of the 30th Brigade, consisting of the 6th and 7th Dublins and the 6th and 7th Munsters, gives the following pleasant picture of Father W. Murphy, Catholic priest, and the Rev. Canon McClean, Church of Ireland minister:—
"This morning Father Murphy said Mass in the trenches, where bullets, etc., were falling like hailstones. Oh! he is a splendid man. The Canon, a dear, good Irishman from Limerick, holds his services side by side with Father Murphy. They put a great spirit into the men, who love them both; in fact, almost adore them. I personally think that nothing I know of is half good enough for those two noble gentlemen. Catholic and Protestant are hand-in-hand, all brought about by the gentleness and undaunted courage displayed by these two splendid soldiers of Christ. Never since the landing has the roar of battle, be it ever so ferocious (and God only knows it is bad here at times), prevented these clergymen from forcing their way into the firing line and attending to our gallant sons of Ireland. Canon McClean is over fifty years of age and Father Murphy is forty-eight. You can imagine them, even though of such an age, never off their feet, as they go to and fro daily to their duties."
Both have been mentioned in Sir Ian Hamilton's despatches. Brigadier-General Nicol, in command of the 30th Brigade, writes in the warmest appreciation of their services. "We of the 30th Brigade are never likely to forget your fearless devotion to your duty," he writes to Canon McClean. "With you and Father Murphy we were indeed fortunate; and it was so nice to see you two the best of friends working hand in hand for the common good. You both set us a fine example." Canon McClean is rector of Rathkeale, County Limerick.