On another occasion the Brigadier-General and Major Onslow, Major Suttor, Major Windeyer, Major Rutledge, Captain Miller and Captain Higgins were outside Colonel Arnott's dug-out, when three shells burst overhead. No one was hurt, though a fragment of shell landed in the midst of them. There is always so much more landscape to hit than man.
Such incidents can be multiplied by the score. Sergeant Christie Hayden—who was badly wounded in South Africa—emerged from his dug-out the other day, and a shell missed him by inches, and wrecked his little grey home. Sergeant Paddy Ryan, Sergeant Ken Alford, and Lieutenant Pearce were standing together on Holly Ridge a few days ago and a sniper's bullet perforated the hats of both the sergeants, and missed the officer by a fraction of an inch. I wonder did that sniper wait till he got the three in line, instead of making sure of one? Trooper Sandy Jacques showed his head over a parapet for a couple of seconds, and a sniper fired, but by a merciful dispensation of Providence, the bullet split just before reaching him. The nickel casing went to the right, and the leaden missile to the left. So Jacques got a slight wound on each side of the head, and was able to walk to the ambulance. Some wag has suggested that the bullet knew very well what to expect if it struck Sandy's head, so it took the line of least resistance; another said that Jacques was wounded by two different bullets from a machine-gun. Lieutenant Lang sent a man for water. As he walked away a high explosive shell passed right between his legs and then exploded. The soldier merely exclaimed "Strewth!"
Here's an example of good and bad luck following one upon the other's heels. The Turks bombarded our lines, and hurled half a dozen shells into our trench, smashing down parapets, wrecking rifles and gear, splathering bullets and splinters everywhere, and yet miraculously missing everybody. Later on a single stray bullet found its way through a loophole, ran off at an eccentric angle, and killed young Trooper Bellinger, one of the best lads in the Sixth.
I went down to Anzac Cove for a swim. About 500 soldiers were having a glorious time—better than Bondi. Half a dozen shells landed in the water, while the pellets splashed all round like hail. Most of the swimmers sought shelter; some took not the slightest notice. Not one man was hit! But they are not always as lucky as that. Sometimes they pay for their temerity. Trumpeter Newman and I stood outside the field hospital a week ago, and a big howitzer shell burst fairly in front of us, killing or wounding a dozen men. Neither of us suffered a scratch, but there was a ringing in my ears for hours afterwards.
Lieutenant Ferguson was out on Ryrie's Post, beyond the firing-line, for over an hour, while the Turkish artillery just dotted the whole area with shrapnel. Hardly a square yard missed getting something, yet he never stopped one. When Sergeant Shelley walked along Shell Green a shell burst, and we could hardly see him for the dust kicked up by the flying shrapnel bullets, yet he never got a scratch. Another shell just shaved an infantryman, who turned round, shook his fist at it, and swore loud and long. A second shell came after the first, so close that it almost took the soldier's breath away. He did not wait to swear again, but ran like a scared rabbit to his dug-out!
An infantry officer vouched for the accuracy of the following story:—Two "Jack Johnson" shells (probably fired from the Goeben) landed in quick succession in a trench occupied by half-a-dozen Australians. The first tore down the parapet and buried one of the soldiers. Before his mates could dig him out the second shell burst in and disentombed him.